CHRIS COEN

I debated doing a blog about this for a while, but I am annoyed enough to proceed.  As I have pointed out before, I’m no authority on anything but drinking beer and being a dick.  I’m not the final word on comedy, but as someone that does it, I have had my fill of comedians acting like bastions of free speech, then sobbing that their feelings get hurt on social media.  I’ll explain.

The freedom of speech issue is huge to me.  I have watched comics do a lot of really unfunny “shock” material to be cool, apparently.  I sat in a show and had to listen to guy talk about how America deserved 9/11.  I honestly wanted to drag him outside and beat him with a barstool.  I despise comedians that hide behind freedom of speech and then do garbage material.  It’s a cop out and lazy – I could walk in front of strangers, talk about dead babies or rape, then jump on a soapbox and act like I’m Thomas Paine, but I wouldn’t be.  I’d be an untalented tool.  That said, the only way to find good comedy is to go unique and original, so I wouldn’t dare tell someone what to say.

Now to the other side.  I read an article from a comic that talked about how tough it was to hear punchlines about their particular group.  This comic, ironically, fully embraced the stereotype they were bitching about and was actually touring the country and doing television spots.  You have got to be kidding me.

The thing that really burns my buns with this is the fact if anyone is to be open to artistic freedom and creativity, or at least listening to things they’re not comfortable with, it should be people that speak into a microphone to strangers.  I’ve had aftershow confrontations that weren’t good.  I had a mom call me an asshole because I talked about a retarded guy pulling his penis out and shaking it at me.  It was hilarious and was really odd, thus I talked about the fact that he probably doesn’t find the word retarded offensive…since he pulled out said weiner in public.  Apparently, I can’t talk about that, it’s insulting to even bring it up.  I had a Japanese girl get offended by a World War 2 reference, which was weird, because I was talking about how offensive it was to say the slur “Japs.”  I was offended she was stupid enough to be offended when I was defending her ethnicity.

Long story short, I think the problem stems from the fact that our society loves to be in groups.  My race is ______.  I’m from this geographic region, so I like _____.   I like to have sex with _____.  How about you’re an individual?  Try that.  I know a lot of white people I hate.  I know more men who are douchebags than women.  I honestly don’t give a red shit about anyone’s choices in my government sanctioned group, I’m a person.  In other words, shove your crying and quit putting yourself in a category that is supposed to be outraged.  Be a person.  That said, if you’re comic, you really should be open-minded.  If you want to be a crusader, be that, just don’t snipe people as a comedian, then cry that jokes about sex or ham sandwiches or politics or fill in the blank are too far and you’re not going to take it!  Yuck.  Oh, and if some other comic pisses you off, find a way to be funnier and show them up onstage, not in a boo hoo post, blog or tweet.  Or take some Prozac or whiskey, the original Prozac.  On a side note, I realize the irony of bitching about blog bitching in a blog.  Shut up.  I have to take my Prozac, and by Prozac, I mean whiskey.  Where are my pants and why is everyone in this Starbucks acting weird?

I hate golf.  I would honestly rather be kicked in crotch with tap shoes than golf 18 holes.  That said, I realize I am in the minority, thus I can’t escape it.  I had a golf outing yesterday.  The early problem before I even started was getting dressed.  Collared shirt?  Any sport that makes me wear business casual is annoying before I even get going.  Do I play softball in slacks?  No.  You stink, golf.

I got there and was paired with two ladies and a buddy.  Most guys would say, “Oh great, two ladies.  I have to carry the team.”  I said, “Oh great, I’m going to be shown up by two ladies.”  And I was.  One even yelled at me for using a range ball to hit.  Do you know how much golf balls are, Imelda Marcos?  Back off my range ball – I stole this fair and square when no one was looking.

My team got last, mostly my fault, but the good news?  Door prizes for everyone!  Yay!  I drew my ticket and got…wait for it…drum roll…A FIVE PACK OF SCISSORS!!!  This actually wasn’t bad, I cut my toenails with scissors and my toenails are nasty.  Probably because I cut my toenails with scissors.  Plus if I win golf related stuff, it’s a waste, I golf like a paraplegic.  Additional bonus, I can cut the sleeves off this damn collared shirt.

 

Before a wedding, the most important part of planning is, well, whatever the lady says is most important that day, which changes often.  I have had some input on things, none on others, but one task I got into recently was the registry.  Stop one was this past week as we went to Bed, Bath and Beyond.  Then the storm clouds rolled in.

I am not saying the employee wasn’t helpful.  He was too helpful.  We went to the pots and pans.  If you told me two years ago that there was variation among pots other than some are metal and some aren’t, I would have said, “I’ll be dipped in shit!” or “Who gives a shit?”  I learned, though, that apparently there are about 7200 differences.  That was the first section.

It was going OK, despite that, until we got into kitchen stuff.  He went through almost every single one, one at a time, as our eyes began to roll back into our heads.  I thought about sneaking away to buy a water or candy bar before I passed out, but I feared at that moment I was being monitored by cameras and tower guards.  I was suffering until my lady turned to me and said, “I can’t take this much longer.”  He broke a bride to be – that is powerful voodoo indeed.

The breaking point was when we got to the shower curtains.  He stopped, “This is a shower curtain liner.  They go inside the shower to keep the water from splashing out.”  OK, asshole.  I didn’t walk in with a bearskin wrapped around me, dragging my fiancee by the hair.  “What is shower?  GRRRR!!!  Chris no like fire light in sky!!!  Fire scare Chris!!!  RAWR!!!”  I got the shower liner, pal.  I don’t know what a carafe versus a colander is, but shower curtain, I got it.  (I honestly had to look up how to spell carafe and colander.  Maybe he was right.)

After the comedy show, I got to relax and enjoy the coolness of having backstage access at a rock concert.  Yes, if you’re wondering, I am milking this topic, it was cool.  I got to see the stage from right behind it and hang out in the artist tent.  I had to tinkle, so someone told me to go around the corner to the trailer.  I nearly opened the door when I looked down.

I nearly opened up Wolfmother’s trailer to wee.  Oops.  I found the restroom and came out to see Kid Rock getting a police escort in.  I wandered back to the common area and was stopped by the staff.  “Sir, I’m going to need you to go in the tent.”  “It’s OK, I have an artist pass!”  “Go in the tent, sir.”  It became obvious that even though I had a pass, it was no match for the headlining musician.  Oh well, back to the booze tent!

Kid Rock got a police escort.  I got a ride from my lady to Lowe’s, then walked over.  Pretty much the same.  I ended up meeting the guys from Gojira.  They don’t speak English well, so we talked about the weather in Ohio.  I can bore people no matter where they are from.  I finally called it a night, but I think I should never expect this green room ever again, unless I find some talent lying around somewhere.

I walked to the comedy tent and was pleasantly surprised to see the tent was jam packed with a couple hundred metal fans.  There were so many, they were sitting on the ground.  I realized one of the following had happened: Free beer (not so, it was a concert.  Beers were $8/a human hand), people heard I was there (and thought I was someone else, perhaps Chris Cornell), or they did a good job marketing.  Probably the last one.

I got to meet Jim Florentine, a really great comic and host of That Metal Show on VH1.  We shot the shit about metal for a while.  In other words, he was nice enough to put up with me talking about Iron Maiden until he went up to start the show.  The show went very well, although people were yelling out randoms at me.  I couldn’t understand the mass yelling, probably thanks to years of metal damaging my ear drums…or years of training myself to ignore drunk people screaming.

Afterwards, I got to meet Jim Breuer, who was headlining the show.  He said I had a good set, which was cool, but I am realistic enough to realize he probably would have said that if I smacked my own ass for fifteen minutes.  That may be better than my normal act some days.  I had to get a picture, but I feel like a tool asking, so I missed Florentine.  Luckily, I was able to ask Breuer and he didn’t have security attack me.  I am a tool.

Most of my shows are at bars, some in theaters, a few in clubs and others in unique settings.  Sunday, I got to do the comedy tent at Rock on the Range, a three day hard rock/heavy metal concert in Columbus.  I was apprehensive because it’s hard to get people geared to go to a concert, yell, drink, mosh and generally be animals, then sit quietly while I talk my bullshit.  I know because I went to Ozzfest for four years straight.  I got into the mosh pit for Pantera in 1997 and promptly got elbowed in the mouth and chipped a tooth.  I sure wasn’t going to casually take in nuanced jokes after that.

I walked in the wrong gate, right past two strippers, turned near the free snuff tent, bought a 16 oz. PBR and then rounded the black skull t-shirts.  Take that, One Direction concert vendors!  I got there early and no one knew where I was to go.  I found my way to the media tent, which was full of miserable looking media.  They looked tired, unhealthy and angry, like most beat writers.  I was a little disappointed, but my pal Darrell walked out and pointed to the back.  I walked back and saw the coolest green room ever.

 

There was a full bar, white leather couches, pinball, pool, and even Matt Pinfield was there, interviewing bands.  I stood out like the proverbial turd in the punch bowl.  I was the only one without a camera, long metal hair, tattoo sleeves and lobe stretchers.  There were a few groupies and hangers on that found their way in – the looks of disappointment nearly burned through me as it was clear to everyone I wasn’t in a band.  I cared not, as I had drink tokens!  I’m someone!  I’m an artist!  (I got Bud Light.  I like to think I stayed true to my roots when I hit the big time.)  I suddenly remembered that I had to go onstage.  I’ll see you later, people in bands that won’t make eye contact with me.