CHRIS COEN

I love crime shows, whether real or fake.  There are full channels of them now and I even found a satellite radio station of murder trials.  I just watched one, though, called Disappeared.  After an hour, I realized they never found the family that disappeared.  I just spent an hour of my life watching a cop say, “We thought it was a drug deal.”  Then they spend 8 minutes speculating about that…only to say they weren’t on drugs.  Then they said the wife was on meds and talked about that for 8 minutes…only to have every person say the wife didn’t do anything.  This bullshit went on and on and I watched the whole thing – they didn’t answer any questions and I wasted my time.  I was so angry I turned the channel and found out Law and Order: SVU was on a marathon on USA.  There goes my afternoon/evening.  That show is exactly the same every episode, but I have to watch, much like a Van Damme movie.

The other thing I hate about crime shows is when everyone says the same thing about the victim – “They were so outgoing and nice.”  Do any dickheads get killed?  “Steve was a real piece of shit, oh…you need a compliment?  Well…he kept a nice lawn…um…oh and he didn’t punch any children recently.”

The heat wave has its first casualty this year – my beard.  I almost made it, but the sweating, ingrown hairs/hidden acne, and the always fun beard hair caught in the cell phone finally made me hit my limit.  I think every man has a special fondness for or abject hatred of his facial hair.

First, facial hair is generational.  I defy you to find a man, 50-65, that didn’t have a stand alone mustache at some point in his life, if not still rocking it today.  I caught the end of the 90210 sideburns, which gave way to the dirty chin grunge goatee.  Now the hipster beard is running its course like a wildfire, which is better than the emo “my face is smoother than a girl’s, now help me with my eye shadow” phase I noticed trying to take root a couple years back (not with me, obviously – still rocking the burns).

Every guy tries to grow facial hair too early, thus the “16 hair special”, my name for a middle school mustache where you can literally count every single individual upper lip hair.  I had a nice chinstrap beard, but couldn’t connect my stache in college.  It was a lovely look, the Abe Lincoln w/ floating mustache island, which quickly became the Abe only.

Ironically, my girlfriend is the most upset by the no beard, which is strange, because 90% of women I have met, dated or even talked to, act like facial hair contact is the equal to being held down and scrubbed to the bone with a rusty Brillo pad.  Then again, I haven’t made out with too many dudes lately…well, not ones with beards!  (Cue rimshot!)  Goodbye, beard – see you next camping trip/extended unemployment stint!

I went ziplining this weekend, which is basically hanging from a cable and “zipping” from tree to tree on a pulley.  It was fun, but the trip was not perfect.  Why?  One annoying woman brought everything to a screeching halt.

I knew she was going to be a problem when she asked the tour guide, “How many people have died doing this?”  First, we’re 10-20 feet off the ground for half of this experience.  You would have to deliberately dive headfirst into the ground.  Then, you may get hurt.  Second, there a two safety cables at all times – he showed us and hung from them – keeping you connected.  Third, shouldn’t you check that out before you start the course?  I doubt right before starting the guide is going to say, “Oh man, 12 last week!  We had to run the incinerator two shifts!”

Well, of course, her man jumped to the front of the line, which meant my whole group was doomed to being stuck behind her, adding three to five minutes to each station.  As was fitting, it started raining at the end, which wouldn’t have been a problem…had this moron not held us up.  Even worse, she was very vocal – “Oh God!  I’m not going to make it!”  THEN GET OFF THE COURSE OR SHUT THE HELL UP!!!  Why do people do things they are terrified of?  Everyone has been on a ride that shuts down because some little brat is screaming bloody murder.  I don’t care for the ocean.  Guess what?  I don’t scuba dive in shark infested water.  Oooooo…there’s a novel idea.  No, according to stupid, I should go and put the whole group on edge and ruin everyone’s good time.  That’s it!

I talked about this and other things in a new podcast – check it out, also on iTunes.  http://jakeiannarino.com/2012/03/how-to-bs-your-way-to-a-first-class-seat-upgrade-with-chris-coen/

I finally got a smartphone and realized my life is now infinitely better.  I was able to tweet about white trash at the bowling alley, map directions, and find low gas prices in under five minutes.  I, however, found that they have apps for EVERYTHING.

My favorite new app?  Period tracker.  It’s free!  I’m sure it was invented for women, but this is the greatest app ever created.  Co-worker acting a little bitchy?  Now you have proof.  Girlfriend being extra needy?  One click and you know whether it’s time to apologize or mother nature’s flow is ruining her day…and yours.  I once dated a girl who went on an angry tirade – “I hate when guys assume it’s my period whenever I am angry!  It really pisses me off!”  Me: “Is it your time?”  Her: “Yes.”  Me: “Hmmm.  Wonder why guys would ever say that?”  (We broke up)

Ah, nice weather.  Thanks to no one paying attention to Al Gore’s self-serving rants or dumb luck, the country is enjoying a wave of 70 degree goodness.  I live in Ohio – Aqua Net for all!  I love when the weather turns nice after a brutal winter.  “I’m going to do stuff!”  All I do is smoke a cigar to break in the year or stare out my window and say, “That looks nice out!  Time for another beer!”  Outdoor stuff sucks.  We have A/C and heat, heathens.

I remember my ol’ roommate (the one that ditched me in yesterday’s blog) and I were cruising around looking for a patio in his Jeep.  A car full of hot chicks pulled up and were waving and laughing.  Either making fun or potential victims…I mean ladyfriends…  We waved them over to a bar and pulled off.  A young blonde yelled, “Hey!  What are you guys doing?”  Me: “About to hit up a bar, you should join us!”  Her:  “I’m in high school!  We have a curfew!”  Me:  “OK, see ya!  (Internally – I am a creep.)  Well, that didn’t work.  Back to middle-aged, overweight white trash to converse with as we play darts and cornhole!  At least I got the satisfaction of knowing at 23 I still was unrepulsive enough to have high school chicks hit on me.  Fortunately, that time is over, am I right?  (Tears and sobbing)

I just realized last weekend was the decade anniversary of living in Columbus, Ohio.  I celebrated by doing nothing.  The story of my first couple weeks here is funny, so that’s what you get today.  I had just got a job after searching for a couple months, so needless to say, I was poor.  I was talked into going to a St. Patty’s party with thousands of people present, which was a horrible idea because I had a whopping $27 to last me until Friday (it was Sunday).  I drank until I ran out of all but $5, then went to take a leak.

The lines were long, but when I got back to my spot, I didn’t see my ride.  After six calls, he answered (I could barely hear, also).  “You took too long, I left.”  I don’t have a ride.  “Get a taxi.  I’m almost home.”  You asshole, I have $5 and my credit card is maxed out!  “Hit on some chicks and get a ride.”  Click.

This was not good, as my game, especially back then, was to drink a lot and sidle up to some semi-attractive lush of girl and hoped she had no morals.  I knew I would have to use all my powers this day, or risk missing work on the sixth day of employment.  I was macking on this dame (I told you I have no game) and we started making out aggressively.  She talked her portly pal into giving me a ride late night.  Of course, the big girl wanted to stop for a steak, probably to compensate for the no men with her that night.  This was even worse, since I had no money and hadn’t eaten since before noon.  I remember just hoping she would throw a roll at me, but the rolls were hoarded like Scrooge’s gold that evening.  Coming off a buzz and staving, I finally got home around midnight and told my roommate I would piss on his grave.

I called the young lady once and she did not return my call, which was fine with me, since I got a 15 mile taxi ride out of the brief and torrid affair, which was better than most of my relationships.  I was at a bar about three months later and this chick approached me.  As she said hi, I realized it was St. Patty’s girl.  “Can we talk?”  Sure, I said.  “I think we should just be friends.”  Me – We’re not even acquaintences.  Are you nuts?  Her – “I’m glad you agree.  Cool!”  Then she walked out of my life forever…and probably into a pysch ward.  I always miss, you, drunken makeout taxi girl, whatever your name is.  You, and your surly fat friend too.  Can I at least have a saltine packet next time we dine?