CHRIS COEN

My pal Camp came back into town this week and with his jam packed schedule, we only had one night to tear it up.  The dilemma was that he and his wife (yes, I shoehorned that in) were going to a drag show.  Not my ideal Saturday night, but I knew I could milk some comedy from that tit.

The show was at a gay bar (strange, I know).  This not being my usual hangout, I noticed some funny differences.  Instead of Miller Lite girls, they had Miller Lite guys.  The consistent part, though, is that the guys had distributed little handouts like Miller Lite LGBT lip gloss and rainbow wristbands.  LGBT lip gloss seems like pandering since last I checked, lip gloss works with equal effectiveness on gay and straight people and I already had tons of rainbow Miller Lite wristbands, so I didn’t bring home any trinkets.

Two men were applying makeup with their backs to room and the stage was adorned with wigs and women’s clothes – loud, abrasive colors and a lot of sequins.  I pulled the classic straight guy in a gay bar move of trying to put off as straight a vibe as possible.  Then I looked around and realized if any guys hit on me, they have the worst gaydar ever and I wouldn’t turn down a free drink.

Then the show started…(tune in tomorrow for the exciting conclusion!)

In times of old, seers and soothsayers would examine dreams and predict the future.  People were very dumb in days of old.  I had a dream recently, perhaps influenced by my joke about how I could never be Justin Bieber, despite my sister requesting me to sing some Bieber songs at my niece’s birthday party…or I am secretly a teen queen.  In my vision/alcohol hallucination dream, I was in a basement of a VFW hall type place in my hometown of Zanesville.  I opened my set with my Bieber joke, but the crowd didn’t like it and the mike cut off.  I flew into a rage and spiked the mike on the ground and walked off the stage.  This part is probably not far from reality.

The mike replaced, I ditched the joke and then had a great set.  I walked around the corner and Justin Bieber was singing on another stage…in a VFW basement…in Zanesville, Ohio.  I then turned around and Selena Gomez said I was funny and asked if I wanted to hang out with them and my girlfriend after the show.  I declined, then realized I could get some nice connections and Twitter followers and went back to accept, only to wake up.

Whatever promoter got the Biebs to Zanesville should be my agent.  Also, whatever security guard let Selena Gomez hang out alone at the venue should be executed.  There is also the point, what person or persons says, my target audience is teenage girls and surly drunk rednecks, preferably foul mouths with a hint of sexism…Got it!  Chris Coen and Justin Bieber, together, onstage, one night only!  And to think, in days of old, someone would have told me this was a solid basis for the rest of my life plan or executed me in some horrific way due to the prophecy of lore foretelling that when the mike broke, the famine started.  Dreams suck.

– Guys that say bro.  I went to get more beer and this guy was mopping the floor while a kid, about 16, was filming him on a phone.  “This is how we do, bro.  You know bro?”  It was bizarre and I wanted to set fire to his phone for several reasons, but mostly the bro thing.  Stop.  He’s not your bro.  He’s a future convict that has a Youtube account.

– People who have multiple tattoos in multiple foreign languages.  Ohh, that means peace in Sanskrit?  Ah, yes, that one means flatulence in Arabic.  Umm, yes, they all mean I’m a self-serving douche in English.  Stick to one foreign language on the tattys, you’re not diverse due to your ink.  I saw a girl that had Chinese, Hebrew, and something else weird, plus English on her person.  If I wanted to read foreign bullshit, I would have called Rosetta Stone.  You’re not mysterious, dum dum.

– People that say “fuck” seventy times in Facebook posts.  Example: “I told this bitch fuck you, I work for a living, you fucking bitch”…and so on.  You’re white trash.  You shouldn’t even be on the internet.

– Lindsay Lohan.  First off, why did your parents spell your name with an a?  Second off, you’re not a sex symbol, you’re a drug slut.  Third, if you dated a chick for three years, you’re a lesbian.  That’s fine.  Quit playing a whore in movies.  I know you like the chicas, the veil is lifted.

– People that don’t pop their whiteheads.  It’s 2012, America.  Squeeze that damn thing before it turns yellow or stay in momma’s basement, pizzaface.

That felt better.  The voices in my head are quiet again…for now.

Watching all these genealogy commercials that offer to track your past reminded me of researching my family’s past in grade school.  I did my research (interviewing my grandparents) and was proud to find out my heritage.  Then I went to class.

I grew up in southeastern Ohio, but amazingly, all my fellow students were related to 1)Abe Lincoln, even though he had one child that made it to adulthood and the line died out in 1985; 2)Daniel Boone, even though he didn’t really live in Ohio; and 3)Some random British royalty, even though every student was German or Scot-Irish like 90% of the white kids in Southeastern Ohio.  In summation, everyone in my third grade class’s dear old Grandpappy was apparently the direct heir of Sir Bullshit, Earl of Lies or Bob Lincoln, a horse thief who stole Lincoln’s last name to evade a posse.  Amazingly, I remember one particular bore was actually claiming all three.  Who’s your ancestors, Jenny?  “Jesus, Batman, and the planet Mars.  Oh and Abe Lincoln.”  Good job, Jenny, you get a kick in the ass to help you get back to reality.

I was at the mall last week and I saw a Michael Jackson t-shirt.  Then another store with another Michael Jackson shirt.  Dead singers on shirts – normal.  The support for Michael Jackson – strange.  This blog may about ten years too late, but he went to trial twice for pedophile stuff.  I’m pretty sure scumbags frame people all the time for money because in general most people are awful, but hmm…look past that and then you realize he had kids, but still did drugs…rearranged his face so much he looked like an alien…didn’t have a good song since the 80’s (maybe the 90’s if you are a fan)…and made his kids wear masks as he held one over a balcony.

His music is the stuff of legend and most musicians are weird or assholes.  That said, I generally stick to the rule of not wearing shirts with accussed pedarests proudly stamped the front.  Now excuse me, I have to put on my Michael Vick/Ben Roethlisberger jersey and go to BW’s.

I did a show this weekend in Michigan.  I couldn’t have asked for a better show, other than the fact it was a super long drive.  I had to bust out the history podcasts and some of those are just awful.  Everyone has their soulless NPR monotones as they talk about antebellum American history or whatever the flavor of the day is.  I love history stuff though, plus I found a station on XM that plays replays of murder trials, so that was nice.

At the show, I did very well and the headliner, B.T., was a great guy I have worked with before – very funny and probably the only black NASCAR fan north of Kentucky.  I hung out to watch the UFC fight at the bar, but cut myself off, due to the fact Ohio plates and drinking is probably not a great combo in Michigan, the state that collectively hates Ohio’s guts.

One of the guys at the show offered to buy me a shot.  No thanks, I have to drive.  “C’mon, your hotel is right down the road.”  Good point, but I shouldn’t.  “I’ll drop you off.”  No, you don’t have to, I’m fine.  “OK, I’ll get you a pussy shot.”  OK…wait a minute…  He walked up to the bar and brought back the dreaded pussy shot.  Some sweet tasting 4 proof Pucker garbage.  I wasn’t turning down the actual shot aspect for the taste – I drink Scotch and Bourbon on the rocks, I turned it down to avoid spending a week in Middle of Nowhere County jail.  Oh well, I’m a vagina boy to this guy now…might as well drink my Pantyhose Pounder or whatever in the hell he bought me and walk to the hotel with what limited manhood I have left.