doing alright

In 1982, two great things happened. I met the woman who would eventually become the illustrious Mrs. Pincus, and Chipwich — the beloved chocolate chip cookie ice cream sandwich — was introduced to the world via vending carts on city streets.

I loved Chipwiches, from the very moment I purchased and gobbled one down. They were ingenious and I often wondered why no one thought up the concept prior to 1978. After all, ice cream had been around since the 17th century and, when Ruth Wakefield pulled that first batch of chocolate chip cookies out of her oven at the Toll House, why wasn't her immediate inclination to put a scoop of ice cream between two of 'em? Nevertheless, Richard LaMotta of Chappaqua, NY, inspired by his love of dunking chocolate chip cookies in milk, devised the Chipwich. His rag-tag squad of street vendors — clad in khakis and pith helmets — sold their frozen wares out daily... even at a then pricey $1.00 each. One of those vendors, with his retro-cool cart, stocked with Chipwiches, was a regular fixture on Philadelphia's famed South Street, a frequent haunt of the future Mrs. P and myself in our early, carefree dating days. Just into our official "adulthood," our lives were filled with movies and music and the pursuit of fun — all of which were readily available on South Street. And our pursuit always had room for a Chipwich.

On a sunny Saturday afternoon, (future) Mrs. P and I strolled up South Street. As we approached our favorite Chipwich vendor — a typical 80s kid with multiple earrings and bleached blond-and-pink hair trying to make a buck — I spotted a new addition to his mobile establishment. Suspended from the metal ribs of his Chipwich-logoed umbrella was a hand-written sign that read "Rock and Roll Trivia." My curiosity was instantly piqued. I fancied myself an aficionado of trivia, especially in topics with which I was very familiar and rock & roll were two of them. Plus, at a Chipwich cart, I could only imagine what the prize would be. I was game. And hungry. I asked our intrepid vendor "What's this?" as I poked an extended finger in the direction of his sign. He smiled and laid down the simple rules of his probably-unauthorized contest. "I'll ask you three questions about your favorite band. If you can answer all three right... dude... you get a free Chipwich. Simple as that! Wanna play?"

He had me at "free Chipwich."

"I get to pick the band, right?," I confirmed. He assured me that was the case. Without even any consideration, I chose Queen, a band I had loved since I heard "Killer Queen" wafting from my AM radio back when I was in 8th grade. The Chipwich vendor smiled and rubbed his palms together in a close approximation of a cartoon villain. I could almost visualize the wheels spinning in his head as he formed the first of my three questions.

"What was Brian May's first guitar made of?," he asked, and stared at me as he waited for — and anticipated — a wrong answer.

If you are a regular reader of this blog, you know that my feelings for Queen's guitarist have changed considerably since the passing of Freddie Mercury in 1991. With the flamboyant frontman out of the way, May has morphed from a silent maestro of the six-string into an outspoken, self-appointed and self-important mouthpiece of a (in my opinion) now-defunct band whose musical output is at the licensing beck-and-call of Brian May's monetarily-driven whims. But, in 1982, I was still on "Team Brian" and he was okay in my book. I made it my top priority to know everything there was to know about Queen — its germination, its members, its songs, everything! And — goddamn! — if I didn't know what Brian May's first guitar was made of!

I looked the Chipwich vendor right in the eye, puffed out my chest and proudly said, "Brian May built his first guitar from some wood from a fireplace mantle and parts of an old chair."

The Chipwich vendor's jaw dropped. "What?," he exclaimed, "No one knows that!" He reached into the frigid bowels of his cart and extracted a cellophane-sheathed Chipwich, its wrapper flecked with sparkly bits of ice. "I'm just gonna give you the Chipwich, man. I'm not even gonna bother with any more questions. No one knows that guitar one!"

I began to unwrap the frozen, chocolate chip-appointed spoils of my victory. As I reached for a napkin from the conveniently placed chrome dispenser, I casually asked the Chipwich vendor, "Just out of curiosity, what was the second question going to be?" The Chipwich vendor grabbed a rag and wiped up a few errant drips of ice that were now liquefied on the hot chrome lid of his cart. "I was going to ask 'How many synthesizers were played on Roger Taylor's first solo album?'" 

There was a long-running statement/inside joke included in the credits of every Queen album release. At the end of a long list of studio personnel and an enumeration of the various musical instruments and recording techniques employed by the band, they were adamant about letting the world know that not a single synthesizer was used to achieve any of the unusual sounds the listener heard. Sometimes varying in its wording — no synthesizers, nobody played synthesizer, no synths!  — the sentiment was always the same. Drummer Roger Taylor, the first member of Queen to release a solo album, included the smart-alecky line "P.P.S. 157 synthesizers" at the end of the liner notes of his "Fun In Space" debut in 1981. At the time, however, I did not own this album. Ergo, I did not know the answer to the second question.

I finished that Chipwich as fast as I could.

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