Con Chapman's Open Salon Blog

I Enjoy Being a Goy

Thu, 31 May 2012 21:05:30 -0400

If you ask the rabbi his opinion
Whether I'm a guy who's pareve or trayfe
"Ten of you wouldn't make up a minyan,"
Is the sort of thing that he would likely say.

I'm a goy, and by me that's only great!
In the Catskills I'm a joked-about majority,
If you're not, well, we discriminate
And we used to have our very own sororities.

I’ve got a big jar of . . . ma-yo
That I keep in my fridge quite safe.
I’m a white Wonder Bread o-fay-o
I enjoy being a goy!

I don’t wait ‘til stuff goes . . . on sale
Out of fear folks will say I’m cheap.
I am happy to pay full re-tail
I enjoy being a goy!

When I go to the YM . . . H-A
Everyone’s circumcised but me,
I draw stares but don't care what they say,
I enjoy being a goy!

I keep all my feelings deep inside me--
I don’t wear my heart upon my sleeve--
I just drink another gin and tonic
And eat scallops wrapped in bacon ‘til I heave.

My gal likes to wear Ralph Lauren,
She is prepped to the max you see--
Doesn’t know that his real name’s Lifshitz
She enjoys being a girl having a goy . . . like . . . me!

With deeply insincere apologies to Rodgers & Hammerstein

Deep Space Telescope Reveals Stanley Cup Finals Underway

Thu, 31 May 2012 13:05:49 -0400

DELAWARE, Ohio. Scientists at Ohio Wesleyan University, home of "The Big Ear" radio telescope, reported today that they have detected signals from a distant galaxy indicating that the National Hockey League's Stanley Cup finals are underway, with teams from the states of California and New Jersey competing.

The Big Ear radio telescope

"We were channel-surfing and stopped at the Fishing Channel while we went out for a six-pack of Old Milwaukee," said astrophysicist Emile Nugent. "When we got back from the liquor store the Bass Master 100 Challenge was over and there were a bunch of people skating around, without sequins."

"Hockey's legal in California!"

The Stanley Cup is the championship trophy of the National Hockey League, a professional sports league that was determined to be irrelevant following a 310-day labor dispute in 2004-05. Since it resumed play, the league has struggled to attract fans and viewers, often falling behind curling, bass fishing tournaments and "strong woman" competitions in ratings.

"I could break Sidney Crosby in two and beat Zdeno Chara with the bloody stumps!"

The astronomers reported that teams involved in this year's playoffs include the Los Angeles Kings and the New Jersey Devils, a claim that was met with skepticism by veteran sports reporters. "The Kings are from southern California, so that can't be true," said ESPN 2 anchorman Trey Wingo. "And New Jersey is not located in Canada."

The signals bearing the Stanley Cup broadcast are believed to originate in the THX 1138 spiral galaxy, where broadcast time is cheaper than on American cable channels.

Transmission difficulty: Do not adjust your television set.

"We make most of our money on infomercials and religious programming," said station manager Glorp "Buddy" X21173. "It's nice to have something besides the Ab Blaster and Holy Rollers to watch on the monitors."

Available in Kindle format on amazon.com as part of the collection "Space is the Place."

As Chintz Spreads, More Husbands Go Feral

Thu, 31 May 2012 08:05:07 -0400

TURTLE CREEK, Indiana. Three months ago, Beth Ovashinsky had everything going for her; a new home, her loving husband Larry, and 8-year-old twin daughters Belinda and Melinda. "I guess I didn't know how good I had it," she says now. "Larry had a real good year selling life insurance, and when that bonus check came in I decided to redecorate."

Chintz overdose

There followed a chintz-fueled blitzkreig as Beth furnished their 2,500 square foot home in this suburb of Indianapolis in time for the Super Bowl. "If I hadn't been so busy picking out fabric and wallpaper, I might have noticed he was gone," she says now. "But he just slank--slunk?--off, and I haven't seen him since."

Pottery Barn pass defense: If you break him, he's yours.

Larry Ovashinksy is part of the growing phenomenon of "feral" husbands who return to nature after being driven from their homes by excessive chintz and other interior decorating flourishes. "If you don't catch them before they get to a sports bar or a Bass Pro Rod 'n Reel shop, you're too late," says Dr. Oliver Walmstead, a veterinarian at St. Jude's Memorial Animal Hospital in Muncie, Indiana. "They begin to forage on beer nuts and beef jerky, and they'll never put the seat down again."

"Is there somewhere in there I'm allowed to sleep?"

Beth tried unsuccessfully to lure Larry back onto their 1.5 acre lot here by leaving offerings of smoked cheddar cheese and beer at the suggestion of a local bait and tackle store owner. "I got him a subscription to Sports Illustrated with the commemorative Super Bowl DVD," she says, as she wipes her nose, reddened by a half-hour crying jag. "I'd go out into the back yard and yell 'You can wear your stupid-looking leather throwback helmet around the house--just please come home!'"

Chintz plant, creeping towards suburban living room

Chintz is a noxious weed and forage crop introduced to America by Portugese and Dutch traders in the 1600's. Its use in the home has crowded out masculine decorating themes such as boxing and hunting prints, professional sports team memorabilia and dog poker paintings.

"Your wife said we were tacky?"

The National Association of Man Cave Dwellers has petitioned the U.S. Department of Agriculture to declare chintz a pest weed, fearing it will eventually invade the last male sanctuaries in U.S. homes. "I drew a line at the top of the basement steps," says Oren Dailey of Keokuk, Iowa. "I've got to have someplace to display my collection of dirt-track race car driver paintings."

The First Apartment: A Rite of Passage

Wed, 30 May 2012 21:05:35 -0400

Today, with the signing of a lease and payment of first and last month's rent, security deposit, key charges, broker's commission and the short-term national debt of Finland, my eldest son became a man. For there is no step that so clearly marks the crossing of the threshold from childhood to adulthood as that which confers upon you an interest--however temporary--in real estate. As Scarlett O'Hara's father said to her about Tara, the family plantation, in Gone With the Wind: "Land, Scarlett, land. It's the only thing worth living for, worth fighting for, worth dying for--not all of your crinoline dresses and gew-gaws and frippery."

Scarlett O'Hara and father: " . . . and remember to put a Post-It Note that says 'Scarlett's Soda!' on your Diet Cokes in the refrigerator."

As such, the move out of a college dorm and into an apartment comes freighted with heavy responsibilities, which it is a father's duty to discuss with his son. "Say," I said, although that part always goes without saying, "we should have a little 'chat' about the apartment."

He rolled his eyes, as he always does when I put quotation marks around the word "chat." He knows what's coming.

"This apartment you're moving into--it's a big step."

"I know, dad."

Folk dancing: For some reason, they're always short of men.

"It can be a wonderful thing. No more goofy flyers in the hall of your dorm urging you to join the Young Socialist League, or that more male dancers are needed for Friday night folk dancing. On the other hand, it's a place where you'll form friendships--and enemyships--that can last a lifetime."

He sat there glumly, suffering in silence. I guess he figured if he didn't speak it would be over sooner.

"An apartment comes with major responsibilities," I said. "You're not in a dorm anymore, so if your refrigerator breaks down--you're on your own."

That caught his attention. "We are?"

"Sure--if you want to keep your beer cold and your hot dogs from rotting, you've got to go to a used appliance store and pick up a cheap one. Your college isn't in loco parentis any more."

"What does loco parentis mean?"

"That your mother and I are crazy to be paying for this."

"So--we have to haul a refrigerator up three flights of steps?"

"Um-hmm."

"And what do we do with the old one?"

I looked at him with a disappointed surmise. "What in the hell are they teaching you kids in college these days?"

"I'm a double major--I don't get to take many electives."

"Still--I thought every red-blooded American boy would know what to do with a dead refrigerator in a third-floor apartment."

"What?"

I laughed a mirthless, condescending laugh--perhaps I was a member of the smartest generation in history, as Time magazine told me back in the 60s.

"Listen up, and listen good," I said, getting right up in his face to show him I meant it. "You throw the refrigerator off the back porch!"

He was stunned, silent, as he is always is when I reveal one of the elegant solutions of my misspent youth. It's true what they say--mathematicians, poets and madmen do their best work in their 20's.

"You threw a refrigerator off a porch?" he asked, incredulous. Maybe the old man wasn't such a dummy after all.

"Of course I did. Remember, I had a summer job installing appliances. I wasn't about to move a refrigerator down three flights of stairs for nothing!"

He was silent for a moment. "Did . . . you ever have any regrets about it?"

I sat down next to him and tousled his hair. "Of course I did, kiddo. Everybody else in my gang remembered to wear a Halloween costume when we did it. It never even occurred to me that a colorful mask--Bozo the Clown, Chewbacca--would lend an air of antic gaiety to the proceedings, as well as disguise my identity."

"Did you get caught?"

"Throwing refrigerators off apartment porches is really a victimless crime--unless you hit somebody," I said, drawing on the reservoirs of knowledge I've built up after 32 years, nine months and two days of my legal career, not that I'm counting or anything. "The cops in our student ghetto had their hands full with drugs."

He seemed to be "getting" it. "What else?" he asked.

I put my arm around him, the better to convey that while the advice I was about to give him was harsh, it was the product of paternal love. "I know you'll be tempted to get involved in . . . illicit activities now that you won't be under the watchful eye of your dweeby graduate student dorm monitor."

"That guy is such a turd!"

"I know--they all are. Anyway, the thing I want you to understand is that if you're going to bring in black lights and grow marijuana in the pantry, be sure you have shades on the windows."

"Why?"

I shook my head from side to side--kids! What do they know?

"Because that purple glow out the window is like putting a sign on the side of your apartment building that says 'Arrest me!'"

Indoor pot farm (not mine).

"Oh," he said. He sounded embarrassed that I had exposed his ignorance in this very vital area of apartment living. "So you . . . grew marijuana in your apartment?"

"Of course not. No one ever grows marijuana in their apartment. When the cops come, you say it was left there from the guys who rented the place the year before."

"The TV's busted. Should we throw it off the front porch or the back porch?"

"What if the cops came the year before?"

"Those plants were there from time immemorial. For all you know, Moses sneaked them out of Egypt through the Red Sea."

He seemed to understand. "Did you take the marijuana with you when you left?"

"No, I was pretty much done with pot by then. I'd smoked enough so that the THC in my system was making me paranoid. It happened to Stevie Wonder, too."

"Who's Stevie Wonder?"

"Just the guy who created some of the greatest pot-smoking music of all time. Anyway, your lease says you have to leave the apartment 'broom clean'--it's a legal term. I was the last one to leave, so I had to move about forty crates of dark, rich soil out of the place."

"How did you do it?"

"I may have smoked a lot of pot, but it looks like my short-term memory is better than yours," I said smugly.

"What do you mean?"

"I threw it off a porch!" I screamed. I didn't mean to, but I was growing exasperated.

"Oh, right--sorry," he said.

"Maybe you should be taking notes," I said, and I wasn't kidding.

He took a pad of paper out of his backpack, and started to write: "Throw . . . pot . . . plants . . . off . . . back . . . porch."

"Gimme that," I snapped as I grabbed the pad and pen from him. I drew a thick line through the word 'back' and wrote 'front' over it."

"You throw the pot off the front porch?" he asked.

"Sure--you already threw the refrigerator off the back porch. People will start to complain."

"Like who?"

"Like the old lady who lives on the floor beneath you, with the divorced daughter who comes over every Sunday with her annoying kids."

Look out below!

"Why does she complain?"

"Because she was sitting on her front porch, and I hit her with the dirt when I threw it off our front porch."

"Oh," he said as I handed the pad back to him. "Makes sense."

"One last thing," I said, as I held out our copy of the short-form apartment lease. "Signing this document carries a great many legal responsibilities with it. This is your introduction to the real world--for the first time, you're on the hook, understand?"

"I guess."

"I don't think so. The landlord's got the security deposit--if you mess the place up, he can keep it."

"What if I disagree, or I didn't do it?" he asked. I had to admire his spunk, but at the same time I had to give him a practical lesson in the slow workings of the American legal system too.

"The landlord's got you over a barrel--he's got your money, and it will take you at least two years to get into court to get it back. By that time, you and your roommates will be scattered across the country. You won't want to come back for a lousy $300 each."

"So what do we do?"

"You do like my friends Rick and Carl. Rick went on to a third-rate medical school in the Caribbean when none of the U.S. schools would have him, and Carl turned into a sadistic U.S. Marshall. Two very savvy guys."

"What was their solution?"

"They got a couple of packs of Jimmy Dean's Pure Pork Sausage, and stuffed it into every nook and cranny in the apartment before they left."

Passed Over for Dylan, ? Asks "Where's My Medal of Freedom?"

Wed, 30 May 2012 13:05:17 -0400

WASHINGTON, D.C. Bob Dylan, an enigmatic and sometimes obscure singer-songwriter who gave voice to a generation that wanted to seem intellectual while sitting around listening to music, was awarded the Medal of Freedom, the nation's highest civilian award, last night, a move that drew criticism from an unexpected quarter; other sixties musicians.

"The DEA wants to talk to you about that 'Everybody must get stoned' line."

"We're just as enigmatic and obscure as Dylan, and we had a #1 hit," said ?, a punctuation mark who escaped from the ghetto of English grammar books to front his pioneer garage band The Mysterians. "If he gets a medal, we deserve one."

?, at left.

"The President does not comment on his choices in music or punctuation," White House press secretary Robert Gibbs snapped at pool reporters who peppered him with questions to determine whether Dylan was available to autograph their frayed copies of "Blonde on Blonde." "There was no political dimension to this award, even though Dylan fans were polling low on voter enthusiasm, or enthusiasm of any kind for that matter."

"??--please. I can't stand '96 Tears.'"

Dylan's identity has been traced to Robert Zimmerman of Hibbing, Minnesota, where he is ranked the second-most famous musician to call the town home after Gary Puckett, a 60's hit machine with his band The Union Gap. The identity of "?" has never been revealed, although he is believed to be either Rudy Martinez, Lee Harvey Oswald or Judge Crater, a New York jurist who disappeared in 1930.

Chicks dig ?!

? is said to be frustrated that his contributions to American music have not received the same recognition as artists who rose to fame after his trail-blazing hit "96 Tears." "It had everything going for it," says rock critic Nils Berwang of Screw magazine. "A cheesy organ riff, a haunting bridge in a minor key, and an obscure allusion to oral sex."