CHRIS COEN

Yet another open mike last night.  There is a workshop beforehand where newbies ply their material to make sure they’re not going to rip their pants off and do cartwheels.  Yet, they find a way to entertain me endlessly.  I watched a brand newb go up pre-show and do a bit.  “I don’t drink, b/c I hate to puke.  Plus, I can crank one out (he acted out the “crank out”) and sit in it.”  He went on, but my brain shut off.

My good pal Dan, a professional comic, opined afterwards.  “You lost me.  How does not drinking relate to what followed?”  To my endless enjoyment, he explained – “Well, see…I don’t drink…b/c I love to “crank one out” (he then paused to make sure it sunk in and once again did the jerk off hand motion) then sit in it.”  At this point, I was taking a pull of my delicious beer and I ejaculated a laugh that made me gag on the Bud Select.  I began to choke, when the manager of the open mike, laughing, slapped me on the back – “Are you OK?”  Yes, just enjoying the detailed breakdown by dumbass.  Dan’s point wasn’t what is the order of the lines, it was how the blue hell do you bring up not drinking and wind up sitting in your spooge?  The fact that he didn’t get that and broke it down made my Wednesday.  See what you miss behind the scenes?

I took my woman to a casino last weekend and it was nice.  Instead of a non-smoking room, they gave us a smoking room, but at least they compensated me by giving me a 0% discount.  Oh wait, that’s not compensation at all.  I, of course, won almost $200 because I am a man that operates with great skill on the periphery of society’s morality and rules.  I was downing beers like my throat was on fire, winning money, and engaging in general debauchery – it was great.

The next morning I decided we should enjoy a sit down meal right there at the casino.  My stomach was stretched from the previous night’s alcohol to the size of a waterbed, so I was starving.  As I sat down, a little hungover, my eyes drifted to the perfect treat – the Cajun Meatloaf Tower.  Spicy for the hangover, the gravy soaked meat and mashed potatoes beckoned me like a Siren’s song.  Oh the joy!  I went after the treat like a drowning man goes for a breath of air.  About 2/3 of the way through (the nacho appetizer didn’t help), I realized the Faustian deal was souring and the devil was about to collect.

I was full, but functional for about three hours.  Then the Cajun Meatloaf Tower overran my digestive system like the Huns storming the gates of Rome.  Painful cramps nearly brought me to my knees as I prayed for my girlfriend to suddenly have a desire to go for a walk or shop for the next two hours…or days at that point.  I held it all in until the skiing commenced, then finally achieved sweet release as I crop dusted snow boarding teens and old verterans of the slopes alike.  I am pretty sure any pregnant women in the area were induced into labor by the invasive, creeping fog and small mammals curled up and died instantly.  It was so bad, I had a hard time drinking, because my stomach would resist any more calories until the evil and merciless meatloaf tower had its way raping and pillaging my bowels.

It has been days, but I still can feel the pain.  The screams still echo of the mountain sides in Pennsylvania.  Remember this children, when you kneel down to pray at night – ask God to bless your family, forgive your sins, and keep you from the temptation of the soulless Cajun Meatloaf Tower.  Amen.

Every comedian bombs at some point.  One of my favorite stories was a show involving huge names I heard on XM involving Ray Romano, Colin Quinn, and a host of other comics (I forget who all was on the show) taking turns eating it at a show.  Each one thought they would be the one to win the crowd over, but it never happened, much to the delight of each previous comedian.  That happened to guys with extensive TV credits who sell out clubs and theaters – imagine the crap I’ve seen.

I did a show called the Comedy Revolver and a last minute emergency caused the emcee to have to cancel, so I jumped in to host the show.  I stupidly asked who liked sports to a crowd of skinny, scruffy hipsters, who stared at me as though I asked them who liked paper cuts and drinking Windex.  Dead silence.  I then blamed myself (good move) and then them (not good).  Even more silence.  It took a couple jokes, but the format was for the others to bash me and Bob and Zac jumped all over my nuts, like they should have.

That is an interesting dynamic of comedy – show confidence, use sarcasm, be in control…but God forbid you insult the crowd or they turn on you like Judas Iscariot.  It’s hard to utilize the “compliment sandwich” (praise, critique, then praise) when your natural instinct is the “insult salad” (bash, criticize, demean, top with venom and force feed).  So let me practice.  You don’t watch sports?  That must mean you’re really cultured and don’t waste time on them.  Did I mention your jeans are so tight I can see your manhood or lack thereof?  I like your sweater.  There, that was better!  Learning is fun.

I got a last second call for a cancer benefit show recently.  I walked in and realized of the 35 or so attendees, about 9 were children ranging from newborn to age 9.  I planned a “clean” set, as you are supposed to do at benefit shows.  My brain started working, though, and I realized my version of clean isn’t necessarily good enough with six year olds listening.

First, it’s hard to be funny for kids.  Am I going to do all my school lunch humor?  Perhaps a well thought out bit on recess?  Of course not.  That is why kids aren’t allowed to most shows.  Second, I have clean jokes that reference drinking…those are out.  How about my thoughts on race or sexual orientation that are clean…probably should cut those also.  At least I have family jokes, like my grandma material…oh wait, it’s about her cursing.  Long story short, I did three minutes of jokes and felt like I had a straight jacket on.  Maybe for next time, I’ll learn some magic tricks.  Or just never do comedy with kids in the room.  That sounds better.

I was pretty damn tired by week’s end, since the 40 hour weeks and 8 shows in six nights don’t always mesh that well.  Nevertheless, I plugged on and got to wrap up the week with a very solid show (not as good as the two on Saturday…funny how you seem to do better in front of sold out crowds…).  The staff was great to me, dozens of people of all ages, races, etc. told me I was funny and yes, a flaming gay man told me I was “One hot bitch.”  Well, that’s a first, but if someday I make a gay bucket list, that can be crossed off.

The only killer part about working a club is the down time.  Most people get up, work, then unwind.  In comedy, you get up, piss around for eight hours, then do one to three shows way after the sun is down.  Plus the boredom is overwhelming if you don’t have back up plans – luckily, I have a few of these weekends in my pocket, so I had podcasts to listen to, blogs to write, and Homeland was on demand.  I spent the drive back to Columbus wondering/obsessing about what the comment cards said, knowing most people that laughed didn’t say “I liked the surly white guy!”, but most people that hated me (yes, I saw a few – these mid-20’s white guys Sunday hated my guts for some reason) probably wrote dissertations about how shitty my act was.  Oh well.  It went very well and I got to feature in Cincy at two clubs in less than a year.  Suck it, guys almost exactly in my demographic!

I actually felt comfortable enough to strike up a conversation with John Witherspoon by Saturday.  We exchanged some stories, his interesting, mine not.  He told me about working in Vegas with Tom Jones, the singer, also with George Wallace.  We both agreed Vegas is full of “ho’s” or whores as I call them, because I’m too white to pull off “ho’s.”

It was pretty cool talking shop.  He assumed I was some traveling comic and marveled at the fact I have 103,ooo miles on my car in less than 3 1/2 years.  (He flies.)  I didn’t want to be a douche, so I let him talk, mostly.  He told me about bounced checks, bad gigs, and old road stories for a few minutes, then the show started and I got out of his hair so he could focus on his act.

After the second show, some girls approached my merchandise table.  “Umm, we’re hot chicks, so we should get free shirts.”  Me:  I don’t give free shirts out, but I’ll knock $5 off if you want one.  (I was still in nice, please buy my t-shirt mode at that point)  “Umm, I don’t think you heard us, we’re hot and her name is Saxon, isn’t that unique?  Oh and it’s her birthday.”  Me:  That’s cool, good for you.  I don’t give out free stuff.  Someone stole a shirt off me once and anyone that wants something free can go to hell.  (Amazingly, I was still calm because no one buys a shirt off an angry man yelling at girls)  “Yeah, but we’re hot.”  Me:  OK, if you say so.  $10.  (That’s enough out of you, you entitled nuisance)  “You’re an asshole.  SEE YA!!!”  I’m a dick because some slut wanted something free?  One, you’re not hot.  You’re a slumpbuster on a good night, toots.  Two, do some research – usually, a woman offers a boob flash.  Not that I would’ve given a shirt at that point, but demanding shit off me so you can tell your dumb friends you “seduced” me?  Fuck you.  Also, I HATE self-proclaimed “hot chicks.”  You’re a six with the personality of a girl on “My Super Sweet Sixteen.”  I wouldn’t give you the lint I pull out of the top of my ass in the shower, you rancid skank.