Con Chapman's Open Salon Blog

New Treatment Offers Hope to Joe Cocker Imitators

Tue, 21 May 2013 09:05:16 -0400

DOWNER’S GROVE, Illinois. Marian Busby was thinking the dinner in a private room at L’Endive, a new restaurant in this suburb of Chicago, was going swimmingly until tragedy struck. “I was basically being interviewed for a seat on the board of Ballet Chicago,” she recalls ruefully. “The chairwoman and her husband were there along with three other members and their spouses.”

But then the strains of “Love Lifts Us Up Where We Belong,” the monster Joe Cocker-Jennifer Warnes hit and perennial wedding reception favorite, began to issue softly from speakers concealed in the room’s crown molding, and her husband’s face began twitching and his right arm shot out straight from his shoulder as if in salute, causing others at the table to react with alarm.

“No–not that song!”

“Is he having a heart attack?” asked Nigel Scott, a balletomane investment banker as Jim Busby’s face contorted into a look of pain.

“No, he’s fine, he just needs some fresh air–it’s stuffy in here, isn’t it?” his wife replied as she stood him up and started to push him towards the door, but it was too late.

“Where the eagles cry,” Jim screamed in a guttural voice that recalled an animal caught in a leg trap. “On a mountain high!”

Just like the real thing!

Once outside in the hall Busby could only groan at her missed chance as a straw poll taken in her absence resolved to invite her to become a “Friend” of the ballet, but nothing more for fear that a similarly embarrassing outburst would mar a high-toned fundraiser or opening night.

Jim Busby suffers from Joe Cocker Imitation Syndrome, an ailment that afflicts approximately 4 out of every hundred American men between the ages of 55 and 70. “JCIS is characterized by spastic gestures, unintelligible singing and wild arm-flailing,” says Dr. Peter Girardin of the Massachusetts Home for Aging Baby-Boomers. “The search for a pharmaceutical cure has been unsuccessful, largely because the syndrome itself is the product of excessive drug and alcohol use.”

The full Cocker

Victims of the disease typically first exhibit symptoms in early post-adolescence, performing imitations of uninhibited British rock singer Joe Cocker in private settings or at bars. Triggering influences such as a strobe light, bad acid or light beer can cause the affected condition to become permanent, the way your mother used to warn you if you made an ugly face it might stay that way.

There are few support groups or dedicated medical assistance available to Cocker imitators, unlike the broad acceptance that Elvis Presley imitators have achieved through a campaign of annoying appearances at shopping malls and other public venues. “As millions of male rock fans become senile, we as a society need to come to terms with this dreaded disease,” says Girardin as he looks at a brain scan taken during a patient’s rendition of “Delta Lady.” “Do we want these guys breaking into raspy singing in public places, or will we allow them to age gracefully in secure facilities where they won't bother anybody?”

Get More Protein From Your Music

Mon, 20 May 2013 21:05:52 -0400

The week before Memorial Day; summer’s almost here and you can see people opening up to the season, like flowers. And then there’s my partner, the Old Curmudgeon, who makes do with his usual all-weather grumpy demeanor.

“Hey there, Bink,” I call to him as he approaches the elevator bank. He has a look of exasperation on his face. “Looking forward to summer?”

Bink

“No,” Bink snaps. “The damn kids just got home from college. Sarah’s become a vegan and Todd listens to that damn ‘rap’ music all the time.”

“Kids,” I say, commiserating with him. “You can’t live with ‘em, but you can live without ‘em.”

Sarah, the vegan convert.

“You know, some of those rap songs are disgusting,” Bink grumbles. “I think I heard one of those guys say mother-you-know-what.”

“Sort of like classical Greek tragedy.”

“What?”

“Oedipus Rex–by Sophocles.”

“Hmph. I took mostly business courses. Anyway, I’m worried about ‘em both. Sarah’s thin as a rail, and Todd says he wants to be a ‘DJ’–whatever that is.”

The elevator door opened, and we got on along with a crowd of others. As so often happens, the close confinement of the car acted as a stimulus to my brain, like the isolation booths on ’50′s game shows.

“You know, I think you could kill two birds with one stone if you just got more protein out of your music,” I say to Bink. He looks at me as if I’m daft–and I’m not going to argue with him.

“What do you mean?” he asks with a quizzical look on his face, his head cocked to one side like a parakeet.

“Well, maybe if you played songs with a little meat in them, Todd would abandon the monotony of rap and Sarah would come back to the carnivore fold.”

“I don’t know any songs about meat,” Bink says.

“Well, there’s ‘Hey Pete, Let’s Eat More Meat’ by Dizzy Gillespie,” I say. “Probably converted more vegans than any other song in the history of Western Civilization, but I don’t know if it’s raunchy enough for Todd.”

Diz Lives!

“Yes, the boy’s obsessed with,” here Bink stops to look around at the other passengers, then continues in a softer voice, “booty.”

“Well, there’s ‘It Ain’t the Meat It’s the Motion’ by The Swallows,” I suggest helpfully.

The Swallows

“Maria Muldaur recorded it too,” a frizzy-haired fifty-something woman behind us says.

“Righto,” I say, “but The Swallows were first.”

“Sounds rather–risque,” Bink says. He once found a set of French postcards in his father’s underwear drawer, and ever since has assumed that all Frenchmen are hopeless debauchees.

“Well, it’s the sort of song that can bring a family together,” I say. “Mom, dad, sis, junior–everyone gets a kick out of it.”

“But those songs are expressions of men’s fantasies,” the frizzy-haired woman says. “How about ‘I Want a Hot Dog for My Roll’?”

“By Butterbeans & Susie?” a bike messenger with stringy hair asks. I’m gratified to see that I’ve enhanced Boston’s often cramped sense of civic engagement by inspiring such a lively discussion among total strangers, except for me and Bink, who are each strange in our own way.

Butterbeans & Susie

“Yes,” the woman replies.

“I don’t know,” Bink says. “All these songs sound vaguely–disreputable.”

I catch his drift. Jazz, R&B, black novelty acts–it’s all music from the ”wrong side of the tracks.”

“You’re right, Bink,” I say. “What you need is music that’s so well-established and esteemed it’s approved by the federal government of the U-S of A.”

Ferdinand “Jelly Roll” Morton

“Yes,” Bink says, his gaze fixed on a point in the middle distance. “I want something that’s as safe as a U.S. Treasury bill–like John Philip Sousa.”

“So I suggest the unexpurgated version of ’Winin’ Boy’ by Jelly Roll Morton,” I say. ”It’s on a Library of Congress recording!”

“How’s that go?” Bink asks.

“Like this,” I reply. A young man in the back takes the iPod buds out of his ears as I begin to sing.

A nickel’s worth of beefsteak, a dime’s worth of lard.
A nickel’s worth of beefsteak, a dime’s worth of lard.
I’m gonna salivate your pussy ’til my peter gets hard.

The car is quiet. We have those little silent TV screens in our elevators, so I figure everyone’s looking at the Red Sox score.

Library of Congress

“That’s really in the Library of Congress?” Bink asks, incredulous.

“Yep–your tax dollars at work. When you think of all the crap that our taxes pay for, it’s good to know that every now and then we get some value for our money.”

The car glides to a stop at Bink’s floor, and he steps off into the lobby.

“Well, uh, thanks for the suggestions,” he says. “You know, whenever we have these little talks I always end up feeling . . . “

“Better?” I say as he hesitates.

“No–depressed.”

Students of Today Demand More Relevant Commencement Awards

Mon, 20 May 2013 11:05:43 -0400

http://www.cronknews.com/2013/05/20/students-of-today-demand-more-relevant-commencement-awards/

A Day in Court at the Bureau of Erotic Dancing Disputes

Sun, 19 May 2013 20:05:19 -0400

Two strippers have sued the club where they work for improperly classifying them as independent contractors instead of employees.

The Boston Globe

The plaintiff

Contrary to what a lot of people think, it’s not easy being an administrative judge at the Bureau of Erotic Dance Disputes (“BEDD”). That’s a lawyer thing, putting stuff in quotes inside parentheses.

There are the threats of potential violence by disgruntled tippers. There are the, uh, “boyfriends”, hanging around for their cut of any big verdict. And there are the owners, a lower class of animal life than which you won’t find anywhere outside of the silverfish under your kitchen sink. Sorry for the “Throw your mother off the train a kiss” syntax; we judges can get convoluted when we get worked up.

But the girls–let me tell you–they’ll break your heart. They’re working so hard to put themselves through school, or to move to a better neighborhood, or to get a breast augmentation. I’ll admit it–I’m an activist judge, and if I can find any reason to rule in favor of the parade of Tiffany Ambers, Chastity Foxxes and Amber Tiffanys that passes through my courtroom day every day, I’ll jump on it like a duck on a June bug.

I put on my robe and my clerk checks my hair after my head passes through the neck hole.

“Looks okay, boss,” he says, and we’re ready to start another day meting out blind justice on behalf of women you can’t take your eyes off of.

“Oyez, oyez, oyez,” my clerk yells as I walk into the court room. I don’t know what the hell “oyez” means–I think it’s some kind of shellfish–but he has to say it. “All rise–the court of the Honorable J. Willington Ballard”–that’s me–”is now in session.”

“Be seated,” I say. “Clerk, call the first case.”

“Crystal Goblet vs. Gentlemen’s VIP Lounge II,” my clerk bawls out.

“Are the parties and their counsel present?” I ask.

“Anthony Vigliano on behalf of Gentlemen’s VIP Lounge II, your honor.”

“Counsellor, can I ask you something?”

“Shoot.”

“Is there ever a Gentlemen’s VIP Lounge I, or do you just start with Roman numeral II?”

“Your honor, under adult entertainment signage regulations, you are prohibited from using a single Roman numeral I–you got to straight to II or even III.”

“And why is that?”

“I dunno–a single ‘I’ might confuse people, make ‘em think you’re an optician or something.”

“Thank you for that clarification. And on behalf of the plaintiff?”

A sultry brunette rises from the table on the other side of the room. “Crystal Goblet, your honor,” she says with a voice that’s as warm and soft as a kitten’s belly. “I’ll be representing myself.”

It is at this point that I must warn any party who comes into my courtroom and proposes to appear pro se–that’s Latin for ‘by her own bodacious self’.

“Miss Goblet, may I remind you of the old adage–’An erotic dancer who represents herself has . . . ‘”–I hesitate for a moment, stunned by the combination of girl-next-door-freshness and tacky beauty that she presents to me–”‘one babelicious beauty for a client’?”

“I don’t know that adage,” she says, batting her eyelashes like a hummingbird supping at a Smith & Hawken feeder. “Do you know the one about ‘The cat wanted fish but would not wet her feet?’” she asks demurely.

“Can’t say that I do,” I reply, looking up at the ceiling as I search my memory before opposing counsel interrupts my reverie.

“I object on the grounds it’s irrelevant.”

“Put a sock in it, counsellor,” I snap at him. “If I had to listen to relevant stuff all day I’d quit tomorrow.” I turn my attention back to the plaintiff: “Miss Goblet–is that your real name?”

“It’s as real as the two little girls you’re staring at under my low-cut blouse.”

“Close enough. You may present your case.”

She clears her throat, and lays out a compelling argument; how the defendant’s business was a tissue of lies, a web of deceit, and a diaphanous cheesecloth. How she and other dancers were charged to perform, subjected to late fees and required to participate in every dance routine, no matter how tawdry!

“Counsellor,” I say, turning towards the defendant’s lawyer, “you know that in Massachusetts we have a three-prong test–sort of like a salad fork–to determine whether an individual is an employee or an independent contractor, correct?”

“I know,” Vigliano says. “Under Attorney General Advisory 2008/1, the three prongs are referred to as prongs one, two and three, or as prongs A, B and C.”

He’s done his homework. “And how do you respond?”

Sort of like this.

“Okay,” he says as he wipes flop sweat off his brow and begins. “Prong number one is freedom from control. Gentlemen’s VIP Lounge II never told Ms. Goblet how to dance. She’s free to shake her booty anyway she wants.”

The plaintiff rises, seething with anger. “That’s not true!” she fairly shouts. “On Thanksgiving I had to strip out of a Puritan costume–it was sick!”

“The whipped cream isn’t just for the pumpkin pie!”

“I’ll defer judgment on that point,” I say. “Continue, Mr. Vigliano.”

“Prong number two is that the service in question must be performed outside the usual course of business of the employer,” he says.

“And how do you square that with a club whose sole purpose–whose very raison d’etre . . .”

“We don’t serve raisins,” he says, “but we are primarily in the business of serving food. We are not–repeat not . . .”

“Not . . .”

“You don’t have to repeat it, I did–we are not in the dancing business.”

I turn to the plaintiff. “Ms. Goblet?”

“Your honor,” she says, one eyebrow raised to express her skepticism, “do you call microwave-stuffed quahogs food?”

I consider this question for a moment.

“Recall what Oliver Wendell Holmes, Jr. said,” she adds. ”‘The life of the law has not been logic, but experience.’”

Holmes: “I seem to have flecks of quahog in my mustache.”

“Your honor,” Vigliano interjects, “he also said ‘Three generations of imbeciles is enough.’”

“I thought that was Yogi Berra,” I reply. “Anyway, let me hear about the third prong.”

“Well,” Vigliano begins, “prong three is whether the individual is customarily engaged in an independently established trade, occupation, profession or business. If so, she’s an independent contractor. And as we all know, being an exotic dancer is thisclose to being a member of the world’s oldest profession.”

“Your honor, I object,” Goblet exclaims. “I am a performing artist who works hard to perfect her craft. My expenses for practice poles alone last year totalled . . .”

“Sustained as prejudicial,” I say. “This doesn’t strike me as a difficult case,” I continue, “so I’m going to rule from the bench.”

You could hear a pin drop in the courtroom as plaintiff and defendant’s counsel hold their breath.

“Bailiff, please remove the woman in the back row who dropped the pin,” I say. “Given the facts and circumstances of the case, I rule that the plaintiff was an employee and therefore entitled to overtime, health insurance, Social Security and unemployment.”

“Is there a consolation prize?” defendant’s counsel asks, crestfallen.

“Counsellor, your crest has fallen,” I advise him under my voice.

“Oh, thanks,” he says as he zips himself up.

“For the loser in today’s match we have the home version of ‘A Day in Court at the Bureau of Erotic Dance Disputes’, a 44-piece jumbo pack of Mrs. Paul’s Crunchy-Style Fish Sticks, and a year’s supply of modeling clay.”

“Oh, judge,” Crystal says, growing misty-eyed. “I don’t know how I’ll ever repay you.”

I choke back my own tears, which tend to flow like a lawn sprinkler whenever I see that justice has been done. After a moment, I’m able to speak.

“We’ll think of something.”

Available in Kindle and print format on amazon.com as part of the collection “Boston Baroques.”

Trochees and Spondees, A-Live, A-Live Oh

Sun, 19 May 2013 11:05:06 -0400

In Boston’s fair city, where girls are so pretty
I first heard the poems of sweet Molly Malone.
She wheeled a wheel-barrow,
through streets broad and narrow
Crying: trochees and spondees, a-live, a-live oh.

Some editors’d greet her, but none who liked meter
And so with rejections she wandered alone.
They weighed down her barrow,
and cut like a harrow
Crying: trochees and spondees, a-live, a-live oh.

She died so despondent, for each correspondent
Replied that he liked his verse blankish and free.
Now her ghost wheels her barrow,
and its cry chills the marrow
Crying: trochees and spondees, a-live, a-live oh.