Month: August 2012

December 2007 was a big event for me.  I had been doing comedy about six months and got w/ my pal Camp to put on our own show for the first time ever at the Zanesville Elks Lodge.  As fate had it, there was a stupid ice storm so bad one of the comedians on the show wrecked and couldn’t make it.  We still had over 100 show up, including my Grandma.  My act is not exactly family friendly now, but back then I only did jokes where the punchline was about bodily fluids or sex.  After the show, she handed me a prayer devotional book – “You need this.”  You know I’m not going to read it, Grandma.  “Just take it, I’ll feel better.”  So I took it (I never did read it).

Despite this, I got a little less offensive and Grandma kept coming out to my shows in Muskingum County.  (Saying I am less offensive is kind of like saying getting shot with a Glock 9mm is WAY better than a shotgun blast to the gut)  She was hard to miss – white hair, big purse and every single time – a Chris Coen comedy t-shirt saying “Blah Blah Blah – chriscoencomedy.com” right in the front row.

I remember two shows a lot, I was doing a real shitdive with Iannarino and Uncle Larry – my best joke of the night to the crowd was when I called a guy a pussy for only having one DUI.  They were a little too excited…but I digress.  Larry decided to grind on my Grandma while playing the guitar and she didn’t blink, but did find time to insult him after the show, much to the enjoyment of all (including Larry).

Memory #2 was recently when my buddy Golak did a joke about heaven.  The premise was how your idea of heaven might be Grandma’s apple pie, but hers might be hooking up w/ Clark Gable.  As fate would have it, she is from Clark Gable’s hometown.  My mom pointed this out, to which Golak replied, “Well, apparently Coen’s Grandma hooked up with Clark Gable.”  She then retorted, “I ain’t saying nothing.”  She has better timing than I do, damnit.

A couple weeks ago she had a minor heart attack, gambling of course, but still told all the nurses at the hospital to check out chriscoencomedy (she couldn’t remember the .com), which is amazing considering she wouldn’t let us give her a free computer.  Why?  She heard that if you had a computer, people could get in your house and steal your identity.  Never mind the fact she didn’t have the internet…details, details.

Well, due to that heart problem, she passed away unexpectedly last week and it has not been a fun couple of days.  Somewhere, a third world country’s economy is about to collapse over the lack of cheap, noise making toys that will never be bought by one Eunice Donaldson.  I just hope the family burns her self-titled diary “The Old Desperate Housewife” because I read three pages and she ripped the shit out of half the earth.  I find this hilarious, but then again, God knows what she had in store for my stupid ass.  If you go back to the first show she attended, there may be a “Judas Priest!  My grandson is filthy, filthy!”  (She loved to say things twice)  For some reason, she was proud of me and I’m sure she is in heaven now, cooking way too much food and letting people (Clark Gable and God knows who else) know what she really thinks about them.  Love you Grandma and put in a good word for me, I am going to need it.  The good news is that no one can stand a guilt trip from Grandma, so I think I’ll be OK.

http://www.thisweeknews.com/content/stories/canalwinchester/news/2012/07/30/comics-use-everyday-observations-in-routines.html

Enjoy – show is Tuesday.

If I have a bar someday, I’m putting karaoke and beach volleyball in first day.  I did a show at a bar last week on a Saturday – 15 people showed up to benefit our military.  I went to the same bar – 250 people on a Thursday after 10 pm.  Amazing, and kind of sad.  My comedy act isn’t that bad, am I right?  Ha ha!  (Punch self in face)

I didn’t want to play, but I showed up.  Out of six, two others made it.  Great.  We got two strangers to play and it was on.  I am above average in volleyball, but you can’t really hold a beer and play, so it’s not my favorite.  Luckily, our sixth teammate rolled in about 1/3 of the way through the first game.  Thanks for being punctual!  Of course, none of the guys said anything, because she was pretty, which meant when she stood and watched as the ball bounced right in front of her, all she got from the single guys was “It’s OK!  You were close!”  Yuck.  I wanted to spike it at my own team after about three of those.

We lost, which didn’t bother me since I was subbing anyway, but on the way home some idiot was texting while driving and careened into the concrete wall.  Normally, not an issue, except thanks to the fourteen year highway project going on, I was stopped three miles from my house for almost a full hour since everything is single lane.  No worries, in thirteen more years when I’m 46, I won’t have to worry about that at all!  Hopefully, we’ll have flying cars, but knowing how fucking stupid people are, someone will be playing Dance Dance Revolution and flying their space car into a median, holding me up for three days when the plutonium leaks out.

Softball playoffs last night meant one thing – a chance to put a cheap, shitty trophy in our watering hole.  Since 2003, we have been the recipients of one second place and two third place kind of cheap, fake gold awards.  What would our chances boil down to?  Like every week – how bad was the other team playing that night?

We won the first game in dramatic fashion and our one fan/teammate’s girlfriend seemed almost as excited as us (not very).  We had a chance for it all and prepared vigorously by drinking beer in the parking lot.  Upon returning, an observation was made.  First, the worst team in the playoffs was up 17 runs after four innings.  Strange…it seems some of their players aren’t wearing jerseys or team shirts…  Ringers!  Although against the rules, teams always load up for the post-season and enforcement works about as well border patrol in this country would if we gave our agents unicycles.

Well, there was no drama.  We got our asses kicked, which means no magic 1st place obelisk will stand in the dark corner behind the pool table…but a smaller and almost as useless second place one will!  I then forgot about the team photo in my rush to get to the bar ahead of everyone, so no record exists of me being on this legendary crew of softball heroes.  Oh well, at least I can take away one important thing from this season.  I didn’t tear my hamstring, and that’s all that really matters.

I hadn’t been to the state fair since 1992, so I thought what the hell, let’s give it the ol’ college try.  God, I am stupid sometimes.  At the gate, it was $10.  $10, to walk in and…walk around.  A person.  As in each.  Oh well, let’s take it all in!  I, being a history buff (why is only history the one with buffs?  No one calls me an alcohol buff) was excited to see the Civil War camp recreation.  Then I walked up and realized it was eight pup tents and some old guns with big cards that said things like, “Union troops were called Billy Yank, Confederates were Johnny Rebs.”  Wow, insightful.  So insightful that some bearded hippie crawled into the last tent and fell asleep.  In the tent.  At the fairgrounds.

I debated what horrible treat to eat, but finally settled for a gyro, which was indeed horrible, both for me and in taste.  That’s not cucumber sauce, carnie, that’s no label sour cream – and did you step on the pita beard?  It tastes like shoes.  My lady got a lemon shake up from a rather, shall I say, non-gym rat looking chick that another carny was trying to hit on while washing his boots with a hose.  Her beverage tasted like a lemon shake up, but mixed with a gallon of old dishwater.

We then walked to the sports exhibit, which after a half mile, realized was not open.  Neither was the snake exhibit.  Or the other building.  Oh look, the heritage arts is open! (Read: dumb country stuff like candles, candle holders, wood cut outs of candles, oh and those “funny” signs like “Get out of Grandma’s kitchen!” and “This property protected by an Alpaca!”)

I also hate carnival rides.  When I was four or five, some kids got killed on one, so I have an inate distrust of them, which is not helped by the shifty appearance of the rat-like carnies.  How can someone eat nothing but turkey legs and deep fried Marlboros and survive?  Answer: More Marlboros, apparently.  If I have kids, I think I’ll show them pictures of POW camps from third world countries and tell them that’s what the fair is like, but instead of imprisonment, people pay to go to the fair.