Month: July 2013

My phone is maybe the highest potential, lowest productivity piece of shit that has ever existed.  I remember I had a Razr that had Jerky Boys ringtones and I thought that was the most amazing thing ever.  Now my phone can get online…sometimes.  Usually I have to restart it at least once.  That’s convenient.

I can pay bills online, but I can’t make a phone call in my own basement in the 15th largest city in the United States.  I have unlimited texting, which is great because my phone likes to send the same texts more than once, occassionally four or more times.  Of course, it didn’t send me a text from my buddy congratulating me on my engagement, (I verified he sent it, I showed him how I didn’t get it) so he thought I was an asshole for a month.  My personal favorite was one night when I was sent the same text every hour on the hour eight times.

I realized I probably should set fire to my phone, mail anthrax to whomever plans cell towers for my stellar service, since I drop calls three miles outside Columbus, and just give up and go back to a rotary phone.  Then teenagers will prank me, since I would be the only one in America without caller ID.  I think it’s worth not getting texted 32 times a day “Hey bro, where you at?”  Yes, my refrigerator is running and no, I don’t have Prince Albert in a can.  Get your skateboards off my lawn, you punks!

I went to my annual golf experience at the Quincy Conner Foundation’s Qfest last weekend.  (Check it out thequincyconnerfoundation.com)  A lot of money was raised for a great cause in the memory of my friend Q.  Also, I got my once a year golf experience out of the way.  I suck to a level unknown.

I lost 15 balls, never had one tee shot that my team of four used, and even realized I use my clubs so little, I found a Natural Light can in my bag with a born on date of April 2, 2004.  I didn’t drink it, in case you wondering.  Of course, it doesn’t help my game when we drink a beer every three to four holes.  That, and the fact that when I got a bottle of water, I got ridiculed like I ordered a Zima with a Jolly Rancher in it.  How dare I prevent cramping at four in the morning, what a pussy I am.

I have found better ways to enjoy golf since I stink.  1) Always run over an opposing team’s ball with your cart.  2) Be sure to flip the cart into reverse during your opponent’s backswing, it makes a lovely distracting alarm buzz.  3) The foot wedge is the most important club you can use.  4) Cheat.  Everyone else will.  5) If the outing is for charity, you get unlimited putts.  6)  Drink until you don’t care about the game, quit after eight holes and go to the bar.  Now you can enjoy golf too.

I strolled into the fairgrounds for my last night and the place was abuzz.  Clearly they are ready for Chris Coen!  Then I met my contact and he told me the show might be tough – we were up against bullridin’ (I left the g off for effect…think Sam Elliot on a horse…or me, hell I could do that western Marlboro Man voice.  Maybe I’ll quit comedy and do Longhorn Steakhouse commercials.  Sorry, back to the tale.)

We went over to scout out the competition and saw a multitude rivaling anything Union County had ever seen.  A middle aged rodeo clown was slingshotting free shirts and water balloons into the masses.  Damnit!  Free t-shirts?  WT’s love free T-shirts!  I’ll have to bring it tonight.  I don’t really know what bringing it means, but I better do it.

About 20 minutes before the show, an white bearded man with a radio velcroed to his wrist wearing swimming trunks and a t-shirt from several pounds ago sizewise came up to me.  “Excuse me, who’s the comedians?”  Actually, I’m one.  “Where’s Kenny?”  He’s the headliner, he’s over there.  “What about Jimmy?”  I’m Chris, there’s no Jimmy.  I’m the other comic.  “What?”  Over there, on the flyer.  That’s me.  He shuffled over to the flyer, looked at it, looked back at me and said, “CLEAN!  KEEP IT CLEAN TONIGHT!”  He knows my act!  Excellent!

Tonight I will performing at the Union County Fair.  This could be my most challenging show in quite a while, perhaps on the level of the 50th wedding anniversary show I did where the brother burst into tears about their deceased sister, then handed the mike off for a fun ol’ time.  That’s a hard transition, in case you were curious.

It should be good, I know the crowds will be big, I just hope and pray children aren’t milling around.  One, I don’t exactly cater to kids.  They never fill the two drink minimum at clubs.  Two, even I did, I would have to do magic or juggle and I have zero talent.  That’s why I do comedy.  If I was any less talented, I would have to guess people’s weight to earn my paycheck.  Follow your dreams, kids, follow your dreams.

I tagged along with my lady to Victoria’s Secret last weekend.  File it under, “Sounds great!  Wait, this isn’t cool at all!”  I realized they are good at overwhelming all your senses.  That apparently sells more bras.  Videos of underwear models are drowned out by dance music, which is forgotten about when the wafting scents of overpriced perfumes invade your nostrils.  Thankfully, because the music is awful.  It’s the music you expect in a nightclub in a bad 80’s action movie, but made this year.

I got to hold her purse, which was actually nice, since while she was trying on things, I realized without the purse, I looked like a bearded perv just hanging out at the underwear store.  “Hey lady, that’s a sexy thong you got there!”  My mind was blown, however, right before we left.  I saw a Muslim woman, full head wrap and all, buying some lingerie.  I’m pretty sure a sultry bare ankle will do – let’s not overload his senses.  Then again, if you have to be covered all the time, maybe that’s all you wear when you’re home.  Of course, that would have meant my dad was Muslim, because he hung out in his underwear a lot when I was growing up.  Maybe I should brush up on my cultural studies.

 

I did a show last night with several fine local comics, which means when the show started 45 minutes late, we had exchanged several stories about the trials and tribulations of entertainment.  I recalled one really shitbird show, so I will share it with you.

I had been doing comedy for less than six months (read: awful) when I got booked for a show in a town of about seventeen people.  There were 10 people there, plus me and three other comics.  One had done exactly one paid show, the other none.  In fairness, I had done two.  As I approached the stage, the owner told me he had booked…wait for it…a magician.  And he was late.  So I had keep the show going, with two comedians who had exactly thirteen minutes of comedy.  Great.  (I had 30 minutes, only 9 of which were tolerable.)

After suffering onstage in three shifts for 40 minutes, the asshole magic boy showed up and I was eternally grateful that I would not suffer anymore.  He then announced he had to do “hand exercises” and loosen up first.  So I had to die onstage a little more until this fucking clown got done with his BS.  He sucked…for an hour.

After the show, the booker approached me.  “Hey, good job!”  Then he handed me $5.  $5.  That’s right, $5.  I was pissed, but broken.  Then the bartender brought his tab.  “$10, sir.”  “I don’t have any money!  Can I borrow $1o?”  So I gave him the five, plus my five.  I did over 40 minutes of comedy in front of a shit crowd, mixed in with a magician I wanted to punch…for negative five dollars.  Then I kept doing comedy.  I am insane.