CHRIS COEN

After the hotel debacle, I finally was able to relax and focus on the show.  Of course, we had to eat first and hadn’t had much luck.  Turns out all that was off our exit was a gut wagon, two gas stations and yes, a Western Sizzlin.

I was actually impressed, between this and the Village Inn pizza I saw earlier, this trip was the land of lost restaurants.  If only Burger Chef would pop up, my life would be complete.  I ate the buffet and felt the years dropping off my life as brown gravy and watered down blue cheese dressing attacked my swollen arteries.  Nothing like a light meal before showtime.

I drove over to the show and walked in.  I was greeted with a message – “Groupon didn’t run the ad.  It’s probably going to be light tonight.”  Ah, more good news.  The club was pretty cool – it was a hipster joint, complete with a working NES in the corner and PBR on tap.  I just traveled to the deep South to wind up in a hipster bar?  This is ironic…just like a hipster!  WHOA!  In all seriousness, it was truly an eclectic joint.  I talked to a gay guy wearing dress shoes with no socks, a tank top (self cut) and micro shorts who told me Columbus, Ohio had a great gay scene.  Good to know.  I also conversed with a full blown cowboy type, complete with cowboy hat, boots, and the amazing ability to one-up every fucking thing I said.  I won’t bore you, but he had been to better places than me, earned more cash (that one’s not hard to believe), seen crazier things (now I know he’s full of shit) and met more interesting people.  Well, that one’s true also.  You’re talking to me and I’m talking to you.  You win.

I called my contact at the show again, and of course, no answer.  I drove to the club, it was closed.  Now I am righteously pissed off.  I called my booker, who is a solid dude, and after about 30 more minutes, another hotel was found.  Then my anger really took off.

I walked into hotel B and the lady said, “We don’t have no rooms.”  That’s fine, I have a reservation.  “Give me the name and your credit card.”  Name given…but you have a card on file.  You’ll charge mine if I give it to you.  “Sir, I need the card.”  Don’t you have one on file?  “Yes, but I need yours.”  No you don’t.  Not if you have one right there, in the computer.  “Sir, without giving me a card, I have to give your room reservation away.”  At this point, I really blew a gasket.  I announced a very loud “Motherfucker!” and stormed out.  After a series of messages back and forth, the club agreed to pay me for the room if I used my own funds.  Back into the hotel…

I’ll use my card, I just need a receipt.  “Sir, you’ll get your receipt no problem.  It will print in the morning.”  I need it now.  I have to leave tomorrow and drive 11 hours and the club is closed.  “Sir, they only print after midnight.”  So, you’re telling me you have NO ABILITY WHATSOEVER TO PRINT A RECEIPT?!  “Yes, sir.  I could print you a blank piece of paper if you want that.”  Then she cocked her head to the side and smirked.  I know what you’re doing…  At this point I said nothing and stared into her dead eyes.  I began breathing through my flared out nostrils like a bull about to charge.  I suddenly wanted to drag her across the counter and do very violent things to this person, who just ten minutes ago was a total stranger to me.

I finally hit a weird calm moment where if she said one more thing, I was going to blow.  “Well, ma’am.  How about you just tell me the total.  I’m sure that’s possible, right?”  She gave me the total, then printed up a paper for me to sign.  The total was right on it.  I looked at her and said, “I’ll be damned.  There’s the total.  On paper.”  She looked at me with hate, but I think she knew she had poked the bear enough.

Later on that night, a cowboy at the show was talking to me while I was enjoying a nice Montecristo.  “Can I ask you a question?”  Sure.  “How come every comedian I meet seems pissed off all the time?”  That was the first time I laughed all night.  Well, my rural friend, let me tell you a story…  As a side note, that is the funniest question that has ever been asked to me related to comedy.  Well done, Tex.

I went to Georgia for a comedy show last weekend.  In case you’re wondering, it’s about eleven hours.  Yes, I am quite moronic at times.  Of course, I forgot at the time I took the gig that Labor Day means gas prices jump through the roof, so that was a lovely bonus to my travel costs.  Hope I sell a lot of shirts or this is going nowhere!  My Dad wanted to go, so we grabbed some cigars and took off Friday night, seeing how far we could get before wrecking or passing out.

We made decent time and I realized I could actually relax before the show with a nice early check-in.  I realized my old man is a great driver, unless someone is in the left lane going slower than 75 mph.  Then he turns into Dale Earnhardt and practically bump drafts, alternating between tapping the brakes and smashing the accelerator.  Needless to say, no sleeping in the car for this guy!

We did stop at J.R.’s, a huge cigar shop.  I also saw this – the coolest wine bottle holder ever made.

Then I realized it was a trick!  No real American man drinks wine!  Where’s the double deuce holder?  Nice try, you commie bastards.

Ironically, I told my dad on the way that my only pet peeve was when the hotel reservations were messed up.  Not to worry, though, I called the room and left a message telling them if nothing changed off the itinerary, we were good to go.  I walked into the hotel and told them my name.  The mousy chick behind the desk clickety-clacked away with her face twisting harder and harder into confusion and negativity.  I saw it coming.  “I’m sorry, sir, we have no room for you.”  I immediately slammed my fist into the counter and let out a string of curse words.  I love comedy.  Don’t worry, it gets worse…

 

I was at BW3’s last night and realized that another season of college football had begun.  Apparently, though, screaming baby and hyper undisciplined white trash child season was still in full effect.  I need to learn how to use a blowgun.  Oh look, you did make a ketchup pool on my table!  (Dart to neck)  That’s it, take a nap.

I love college football Saturdays.  The weather recedes, which is good because I instantly sweat at anything over 77 degrees.  Me and the boys go to the bar (our hangout closed down, evidently it is illegal to operate without a valid liquor license – currently free agents at the moment) and pound some beers screaming at the TV.  The routine is quite solid.  If Ohio State is winning, we order the crappy promotional shots and high five more aggressively with each shot.  If losing, we scream obscenities and leave early…and drink angrily at home.  No matter what, I have enough to convince myself $14 is a reasonable amount to spend at Taco Bell and get the shit sweats 30 minutes later as I debate whether I can make it home in time or do the ol’ bar bathroom hover method.  After $14 worth of tacos, the hover method usually wins.

No, I’m not talking about my ween.   That works just fine.  I decided to off the cuff it last night and hot damn, it was OK.  Irony of an open mike is that when newbies come, they bring people, but usually blow.  When they don’t, the show is better, but no one comes.  Mostly because your friends think you have a new set every 14 minutes.  When you don’t, they quit coming out.  Can’t blame em, come to the door deal shows, please!

Living in a swing state, I have been batting around doing a political joke and I found one deep in the recesses of my huge brain.  Problem?  There were under 40 people at the show.  Hmmm.  Why not?  “The problem with living in a swing state is that you get the ads from both sides.  Mitt Romney’s going to end Medicare and kill your Grandma.  Barack Obama is going to set Jesus on fire.  Shit.  Who do I vote for?  I like Grandma AND Jesus.”  It was totally organic and it got a laugh.  Problem is that once this election is over, that joke is toast.  Much like burning Jesus.  Thanks for nothing, Obama!  Oh well, now to work on that Hurricane Isaac joke that will last four more days!

I saw two things this week.  One was at a family pool.  It was a man, strutting around in front of children.  No, not what you’re thinking – speedos are bad, but he was wearing full women’s bikini bottoms.  They even had the tie on the side.  That’s not strange at all – oh wait, this isn’t Key West, it’s a public pool.  Kids are everywhere!  Seriously, save the drag show for Saturday night weirdo.  Now excuse me while I take a swig from my hidden flask and snarl at kids.

Then I got home.  There is a teen, let’s just say, a little strange.  He’s been wearing the same outfit for two days and is running around the parking lot with a full walkie talkie headset on having a full conversation (or not, maybe just himself).  I said hello and he looked horrified and slid between two cars.  OK, that actually is normal.  Then I opened the door and he ducked past me into my condo’s common hallway.  How long has this kid been out there?  I don’t know whether to call the authorities or leave a sandwich in the hall.  No, you’re right.  If I feed him, he’ll come back.  Don’t disturb the nest.  However, turn in momma bird for keeping her young’uns in the parking lot for hours.