CHRIS COEN

My daughter is really into books right now.  Well, sort of, she likes turning the pages while you’re trying to read to see the next picture.  She is my child, after all.  The other day she grabbed my reading glasses, so I took them off.  I realized I couldn’t read the words in the Elmo book, so I just improvised.

I inserted my own dialogue to spice it up.  Elmo: “Hey man, you want to hang out or something?”  Oscar: “Man you better get out of my face.”  E: “Whatever man, I’ll stuff you back in that trash can.” O: “Whatever is right, you best keep steppin’.”  E: “Yeah, I will because I want to, not because you told me to.”  O: “That’s what I thought!”  At this point Mom started paying attention to Dad’s story time.  “Dad’s story sounds awful.”  Whatever, Mom.

Elmo: “You two want to hang out or something?”  Bert: “Man, we got stuff to do.”  E: “Whatever man.  You can deal with your own problems.”  Bert: “Whatever man, you better mind your own business.”  E: “Yeah, you’re lucky I don’t have time for you fools.”  B: “Yeah, you’re lucky I’m busy cleaning up this crap.”  E: “Whatever, man!”  B: “Yeah, whatever is right!”  Mom chimed in again, “Dad isn’t allowed to make up anymore stories.”  I got this.

Elmo: “Hey, what’s up?”  Zoe: “Just blowing bubbles and stuff.  What’s it to you?”  E: “Whatever.”  Z: “Yeah, whatever.  You want to hang out and stuff?”  E: “Yeah, I guess or something.”  THE END.  By the end my daughter was whimpering, clearly moved by the beautiful story her father came up with all on his own.  In other news, my wife will be reading most of the books and also teaching her how to interact with other people.  Whatever.

One of the hardest things to do in comedy is read the crowd.  They don’t give you surveys before you get up there.  I did a show once booked by my pal Steve Sabo that had a list of the local mall, strip club, redneck town everyone there made fun of, etc.  It was nice, but I was probably too new and undisciplined to remember my own set, let alone add new info.  It would’ve been like when Al Bundy taught Kelly sports trivia on Married with Children.  Every fact she memorized pushed another nugget of info out of her mind like how to open doors or walk up stairs.

Add to that the fear factor.  I was so nervous and focused on not forgetting my material, I honestly don’t remember looking anyone in the eye for 3 years after I started.  Figuring out you can improvise or actually judge reactions was a nice bonus, especially because I recorded my sets on a 2004 tape recorder that sounded like someone was communicating with a kidnap victim in a trunk through a Rally’s drive thru mike.  I played a set for my buddy once on that five dollar recorder and I had to explain what I said after each line.  I’m sure he really enjoyed it.

Of course, sometimes there are external factors why the crowd isn’t digging your set (it’s probably your fault as a comic – 99% certainty).  Example: doing a show with 21 TV’s showing the opening round of the NCAA tourney?  Not smart.  I did that.  Didn’t go well.  The other big unknown – what is the makeup of the crowd?  My last show was for Art History graduate students.  My next show is for the Central Ohio Tractor Pullers.  (whispers loudly) I don’t think they will enjoy the same jokes!  Or my all time favorite reason – the emcee makes it tough.  I did a 50th wedding anniversary where right before the show started, the host mentioned a family member that lost a long and hard fight with cancer, wiped some tears away, then handed the mike to the first comic and said, “Go get ’em.”  I’ll give away the ending – the set didn’t go very smoothly.

Wrestlemania made me nostalgic.  Not really for wrestling, but for betting on it.  In college, my buddies and I used to toss $5 in a pool and pick the winners for pay per view events.  I won every time.  How?  I looked up online who won the week before and picked the opposite.  Thanks, Ross Report.  You bought me a lot of 30 packs.

Unfortunately, most gambling doesn’t go like that.  You usually get burned pretty good, so I thought I would share what not to do.

– Don’t eat pizza while playing Texas Hold ‘Em.  Once I played a guy who got sauce on the Ace of Clubs.  Every time I saw sauce, I folded.  Not exactly Wild Bill Hickok, but it worked…not for pizza fan.

– Don’t bet on pool when your partner is drunk.  I was in a game of pool for more money than I care to share.  I told my partner we had to take the game to get back to even – I really needed him to step up.  I looked over and he was leaning against the wall, head down on pool stick, eyes closed.  He did not step up.

– Don’t sit down at the cash game at the Sons of Italy with six Italian guys over 60.  I didn’t even know what game we were playing, but I know I lost it.  I should have ordered pizza for them first.

– When you look at the Blackjack dealer and say, “I’ve been playing perfect strategy all night!  What the hell?” and she agrees, you still don’t get your money back.  There is no participation ribbon at a casino.  Unless you count your ATM receipt.

– Don’t do drugs and play poker.  I went to a party once with a hold em game.  I was told as we sat down that everyone except me had done their best Rick James imitation.  I won all their money in about 20 minutes and got the hell out of there.  I probably should have checked the money first.

Of course, you can do everything right and lose your ass.  Actually, just buy a casino.  They never lose.  I’m sure they’re easy to open.  You’re welcome.

I was scrolling down my Facebook feed when I saw “THIS CHANGES EVERYTHING!”  I noticed that I had seen this post title at least four times in the last few days.  Hate to tell everyone – it didn’t change everything.  Or anything…except the likelihood I’ll click on any link that says “THIS CHANGES EVERYTHING!”

Other ones I could do without – “Everyone needs to read this.”  No they don’t.  You think they do, but they don’t and they won’t.

I had someone say to me – “I’m feeling just ducky.”  You feel like shitting all over the sidewalk?  That’s bizarre.

“Cool beans.”  I still don’t know what that one means.  Yes, I can look it up online, but I have zero desire to learn what that means.

“You working hard or hardly working?”  I had a guy ask me that at work every day for four years.  I finally said, “Hardly working, I’m talking to a real jackass right now.”

This last one isn’t a phrase, but a personal request.  If you’re talking to me, you can say my name back to me.  Once.  If we are having a conversation and you say my name 20 times, I may kill you.  I don’t know what salesman book you read, but we’re not making a personal connection, you’re annoying the hell out of me.  “Chris, can I call you Chris?  Great Chris.  Have you thought about your credit card Chris?”  No, not at all.  “Well, Chris, the one thing I tell people Chris, is that it really is important Chris…”  (Muffled sound coming from intense chokehold…then silence)  That’s better.

 

The Easter bunny is a strange tradition.  “Here kids, sit on the lap of this six foot tall rabbit that doesn’t blink.  I’m sure you’ll love it.”  I was waiting in line with my family and we saw kid after kid going up and either being miserable or terrified.  Side note to parents: if your kid is five feet tall, it’s time to give up the Easter bunny pics.  One boy up there looked old enough to buy smokes.

Gracie got up there, looked at the rodent monster and grabbed his glasses that were sewn tightly into his face.  She pulled so hard, the unblinking nursery nightmare known as the Easter bunny began waving his arms frantically, calling to the staff for help.  A blonde lady ran up and had to hold her arms down.  I know it’s hard to believe, but the two other girls with rhinestone iPhone cases were more apathetic.  The rabbit-man then leaned as far as he could from my little peanut, the Hercules of babies.  Now if I can just teach her to snake his pocketwatch or wallet while he is distracted, I’ll be really parenting like a boss.

I heard about this story on the radio.  It made me sad.  https://www.washingtonpost.com/news/grade-point/wp/2016/03/24/someone-wrote-trump-2016-on-emorys-campus-in-chalk-some-students-said-they-no-longer-feel-safe/ Very sad, not sad like these pathetic douchebags, but real sad.

Let me dive in.  I personally don’t like Trump.  If you’re liberal, you won’t like him no matter what – he fills a lot of the “ism” categories – his comments and tweets are at worst sexist, insensitive, etc.  At best, they’re combative and unpresidential.  If you’re conservative, he’s contributed to major Democratic campaigns (including Clinton’s), he supports private level eminent domain actions (archetypical of libertarian values), and he’s been pro-partial birth abortion among other changing opinions.  Yet, he’s popular with many – why?  He’s not a politician and America is pretty damn sick of career politicians, especially now.  He tosses the PC narrative in the shitter and is running a very populist campaign on immigration and trade issues, plus the media has milked him for every ratings point possible, giving him free air time unlike any other candidate.

I read the article.   Ultimately, this isn’t about Trump or any politician in particular, it’s about the un-American lack of resolve.  If you’re a college student, you have more free time than any damn person on earth.  Rather than turtle into your mother’s womb, weeping like you got your toys taken away, how about this – write your candidate’s name in chalk instead.  Change the Trump to Dump or Rump or Flump (I don’t know what Flump is, sounds dirty).  Pee your Natty Lights on the chalk until it goes away (my personal fave, because you get to pound beers to accomplish your activism).  Or something more radical – GO ON WITH YOUR LIFE, IT’S FUCKING CHALK.  It’s not a message, a threat or even a symbol – it’s a last name written on stairs.

In World War II, our soldiers in the Pacific stumbled upon their fellow soldiers that had been ambushed and found them with their genitals removed and sewn onto their faces.  They didn’t go to their “safe zones.”  They did the same right back.  They were the same age as you weak-minded slugs and they didn’t have a non-offensive theme party kegger that weekend.  In Belgium, ISIS inspired terrorists killed dozens.  They’re dealing with the deaths of loved ones who won’t be back at the next family birthday or holiday gathering.  You’re playing the victim over a name written on your campus and disrespecting the free speech that our society stands for in the name of “Ooooohhh, I is hurting.  My fweelings is hurt.  Change my diaper, daddy college president.”  If it rains overnight, problem solved.

Ironically, Trump aside, it was recently the anniversary of Patrick Henry’s speech of American lore.  For standing against the crown, he put his life on the line speaking out for the right of the colonists to govern themselves.  He famously orated the line, “Give me Liberty or give me death.”  Today’s young minds full of mush at Emory University whine, “Give me safety from ideas (or just a last name/word) I disagree with or put me in a bubble from reality.”  Gross.  Grow some stones and learn how to wipe your own ass, you’re an adult – in theory.  Now excuse me, I hear a person knocking on my door.  I have to hide under my bed; they might be a political type and say the word Trump or Bernie or pepper jack cheese out loud and there’s no one here to protect me.