CHRIS COEN

I played Laser Tag for the first time last weekend and no, I am not seven years old.  It was rather entertaining.  The place was clearly set up for kids, as the foul smell of cheap pizza hit me like a ton of bricks upon entering.  The first game was a six person free for all.  We were not to run or crouch, but rules are for the weak.  I ended winning and was drenched with sweat.  The fundamental flaw with this game became strikingly apparent, though.  You sneak up on someone, shoot them down, then they stare at you for four seconds until getting rebooted and murdering you (virtually).

Game two had about 34 participants, 24 of whom were about eight or younger.  We ran a nice sweeping operation to take a base, then found an eagle’s nest, where I laid waste to the young and feeble blue team.  My perch was shattered though, when a six year boy flanked me and shot me down.  The little cheater followed me around like a buzzard shooting me in the back for about four minutes until I yelled at him for cheating (rules are rules…OK, I’m a sore loser with a bad temper).  Some other kid started crying, clearly shell shocked at my group of assassins’ handiwork.  I racked up 90 kills (tags) to 50 deaths, most at the hands of the poorly raised ruffian I mentioned earlier.  I finished third, which was nice.  There is something sickly theraputic about shooting down rugrats, after being powerless to stop their misdeeds my whole life.  I remember a kid at Revco pulling things off shelves when I was 16, as his sloppy mother did nothing but curse at him and watch me pick up after him.  That kid is probably in jail now.  I also had to clean up puke after another one unloaded his chicken nuggets in aisle nine.  That’s not annoying when you make $4.35/hour.  Well, hooligans, this day was mine.  Now go eat your birthday cake and greasy, tasteless pizza while I dine upon the spoils of victory.

I did a show Saturday, last minute.  I had just got home from the day’s errands when my phone rang.  It was my pal, comedian Bob Cook.  He called me at 5:50 – the headliner for his show had just pulled out due to a death in the family.  Show was at eight, they needed me to sub in – 90 minutes away.  I showered and flew out the door, making it in at 7:30.  Pretty damn impressive, if I say so myself.  There was no one there.

Eventually, 12 people showed up and the manager was losing his mind, it was their first show ever.  A couple walked in when I was at the bar and he approached me, saying, “They’re thinking about watching the show…so can you…?”  Me: “Huh?”  Him: “You know, talk to them?”  This is going to be awkward…I told them Bob was great, dropped his credentials, and then stared at them with the “Aw, c’mon!” face.  They left.  (They came back later, the magic show across the street must have been less appealing).

Then I was asked to apologize that the headliner they came to see wasn’t there once I got up.  This is weird also.  “Sorry, everyone (all dozen of you), I’m not the guy.  Sorry to let you down with my mundane existence.”  Does a backup running back have to apologize if the starter gets hurt?  “Hey fanbase, I suck, but you’re stuck with my bag of shit skills.  Try to not kill yourselves.  Who’s excited for football?”

The show went well, all things considered, but these chicks asked me for free shirts after the show.  I was so defeated, I gave them shirts for beers if they promised to check out the site.  If they don’t, I wish a leprosy hex on them.  I must have been buzzing, b/c I will never do that again.  The balls on these broads…  Oh well, let’s hope the check clears or I may have get my conceal and carry next week.

I went to give blood Monday, less than five minutes after work.  It was a pain in the ass day, so my BP was a nice, low, workable 138/102.  Stage 2 Hypertension anyone?  So much for giving my super blood out.  I resolved to calm down, take it easy and give out a nice OMMMMMM for the week.

I volunteer (read: unpaid) as the Chairman of the Board of Governors for my beloved fraternity chapter.  This week, they are being removed from their house for $50,000 worth of repairs.  This is supposed to get my approval, but it didn’t.  They agreed to it.  I sent a nice, but concerned email to the college and received a venomous response saying if I cared/did more, this wouldn’t have happened.  Attack the guy who gives his free time!  OMMMMM!!!!  OMMMMMM!!!  Relax…

I then went to my unpaid volunteer position as president of my condo board.  I volunteered to do the newsletter two months ago, but didn’t complete it last time, b/c my computer doesn’t have Word.  I announced I had finished it (no one has done one for at least three years, btw) and two people made the “Holy shit, you actually did something!” face.  OMMMMMM!!!!!!!!!   OMMMMMM!!!!!!!!

When I was in college, my frat volunteered to help freshmen move in and this twat in the Career Services department just stood there and told me to pick up more heavy shit with her shrill commands.  She lifted nothing.  All day.  OMMMMMM!!!!  OOOh fuck this, I’m going to go beat up some Hare Krishnas ala Grand Theft Auto I.  All hail capitalism.  I am one more bad volunteer experience away from robbing the autism jar at the Sunoco checkout down the street.

#1 – Granted, I have had a lot of FB likes and comments, but I finally hit 100 comments off my blog.  I noticed, though, that my spam filter has blocked 1,700 spam comments.  Sigh.

#2 – I am in five fantasy football leagues.  Four I have a losing record.  See the beginning of this paragraph for the depressing part.  I am the sports equivalent of comic book guy.

#3 – I talked to a headliner that used to get paid $800/week to feature (that means the middle guy).  He has quit comedy and does random shows to pay the bills.  If you knew what I made in an average month, you would stuff a dollar in my empty coffee cup and give that look, “I know you’re trying, man, I know.”

That said, I have beer, Toaster Strudels for breakfast, and Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim comes out soon.  Life is good…unless you’re a necromancer in Skyrim!  Then I will run ye through with me blade of cleaving!  Have at thee!

At the local comedy club they have a workshop pre-show at the open mike.  It is my favorite/most detestable thing in comedy.  New comics (and old pros working on new stuff) get up in front of 10-20 comics and try out their new stuff.  It sucks ass, but the golden moments are worth it.

My pal Dan Swartwout has been doing comedy for well over a decade, traveled the US, and achieved about as much success as anyone that’s came through there.  Once, he had some ideas on a sheet of paper and a newb that had never done comedy before raised their hand and said, “You shouldn’t read jokes off paper.”  The amicable Dan’s face turned into a tempest of hate and rage as he suffered this insult.  It was great.  It’s the comedy equivalent of a senior QB dropping back in practice and a freshman D-lineman telling him his footwork sucks.

Two hilariously awkward situations – one, the guy who does a joke SO bad, no one can offer an assemblance of advice.  Easy advice is “shorten the intro” or “add this line.”  When no one says a word and everyone is staring at the floor, it makes me uncomfortable.  Two, when an newbie makes such a huge mistake and argues w/ good advice.  Once, an older hyper guy said this: “So my friend got out of rehab, right?  He can eat more than anyone I’ve ever met.”  I chimed in, “What about the rehab?  You should talk about that.”  Him: “No, that’s not the point.”  Me:  “Then why bring it up?”  Him: “It’s important to the joke.”  Me:  “Do it your way, then, forget I said anything.”  He bombed so bad that night, I’m pretty sure he lives under an assumed name.  I no longer workshop or give advice.  Give me blog material, puppets!

I hate poetry.  Other than Edgar Allan Poe, whom I love, poets are douchebags.  I’m all hurty inside, blah blah blah, a tree and snow, blah blah blah, more feelings.  Shut the fuck up.  Rousseau used to cry in a boat and write stuff, not necessarily poems, but that’s what I picture most poets doing.  He inspired some of the mood of the French Revolution where they murdered a ton of people off their irrational feelings.  Good job, crybaby.

That said, I had to write a poem in seventh grade English in Frankfort, IN.  It had to be about nature.  Here’s what I wrote.

“The Sun” – by Chris Coen.

People laughing, in the sun.  They’re all dancing, having fun.  The Sun shifts orbit, the people fry.  The Sun explodes, the people die.

I got pulled aside by Mrs. Bradley and berated.  She gave me a low grade and sent me to the guidance counselor.  Obviously, not a poetry fan.  She made me redo it, so I wrote this.

“The Flood” – by Chris Coen

We need more rain, to make the crops grow.  The skies open up, we’ll have food, I know!  The rain never stops, the rivers start to swell.  The flood now drags us all, into a watery hell.

She didn’t like that either, but gave me a B- to avoid a third horrible poem.  I am an artist.