CHRIS COEN

After the wedding I went to, which used so much incense I thought I was at a Phish concert, we had some down time.  I went to a bar with two of the bridesmaids’ husbands.  Turns out, they were both motorcycle enthusiasts, which is great because I used to own a motorcycle.  Of course, I rode it twice and wrecked it twice.  I think my longest run without an accident was 97 feet.  I began to drift out of the conversation and flashed back to getting cinders scraped out of my arm in an emergency room with a wire brush.  I don’t ride motorcycles anymore.

The reception was a lot of fun.  Actually, I didn’t really notice because they had a open bar and family style mashed potatoes.  I’m pretty easy to please.  At one point, they did the Cleveland Shuffle, which is some kind of localized line dance, much like the Cha Cha Slide, but more depressing because it’s Cleveland.  The Cha Cha Slide has more lasting power than any other song, thanks to weddings.  Take that, Personal Jesus and Macarena.  I personally don’t care what song is playing, I’m not dancing until my combination of beers and shots hits double digits.  Then about three or four after that, I’m Michael Flatley.  With an untucked shirt.  And beer stains on my exposed wife beater.  Maybe I should avoid weddings.

It wasn’t my Serbian wedding, I’m not Serbian or married yet, but I heard that title all weekend.  I never saw the Greek wedding movie actually, mostly because I’m not Greek and have testicles, thus the not seeing it.  I knew nothing about Serbian culture before my trip, now I know they drink plum brandy/whiskey.  Holy shit does that burn like fire.  I still drank it, because I’m a trooper (alkie) and I respect other cultures (not really, just an alkie).

The wedding ceremony I attended was performed by a fresh off the boat Serbian Orthodox priest.  A lot of chanting, and “sensors” which is what incense sounds like when pronounced by a fresh off the boat Serbian priest.  My favorite moment was when he said, “At theeese moment these two beavers become one beaver.”  I was trying trying to figure out what in the hell beavers had to do with matrimony.  The beaver is rather industrious…resourceful…but it’s a damn beaver, what in hell is he talking about?  Then I realized he said “reeevers” which is actually rivers.  That makes more sense.

The close ties to their homeland and tradition have inspired me to harken back to my traditional roots.  Not Germany, England, Scotland or even my 1/32 Native American roots (every white person acts like they’re part Native American despite the fact there are about seven Native Americans in the Midwest.  Indians either banged everyone’s great grandma or white guilt is pretty strong around here).  No, I have decided to have an all-American wedding.  I will eschew the tux for a hand sewn Uncle Sam or Captain America suit, replace the flowers with sparklers stuck in empty Budweiser bottles, and get a Hummer limo with bald eagle decals.  Now if only I can get another fiancee when mine leaves after finding out I want a white trash ‘Merica wedding.

Last week, I went out of town for a wedding that my lady was the maid of honor in.  I knew it would be an interesting visit, as we were staying with the bride and groom.  About a week before we showed up, the “rules” were posted on Facebook for all to see, like what towels we could use… our hostess, in turns out, has rather intense OCD.

I arrived and was immediately shown the fridge, which was full of beer.  Not like a case, completely full to the gills.  The freezer was stocked with liquor.  I began to do a happy dance in my head and suddenly all was right with the world.  Soon after, however, I took my bag inside.  I was told which trash can I wasn’t allowed to use (the one was for decoration, the other was hidden away for actual use – decorative trash cans?  You put TRASH in them), the rules of footwear and even instructed not to use bleach.  In no scenario ever could I envision ever using bleach as a guest at someone’s house, unless perhaps I was held at gunpoint and told to clean or got the desire to lighten the color of my balloon knot.

I was expecting by week’s end to have to crap with one leg extended or sit on the floor in front of the couch because someone spilled a sippy cup on it once, but then I remembered the magic fridge of beer.  I also realized, thanks to the nearly unlimited supply of booze, I was less likely to care about the dictates issued to me.  Was this deal with the devil worth the price of my soul?  Yes, yes it was.  Now excuse me, I have to shop for customized towels…I couldn’t find the toilet paper.

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!