strangers stopping strangers, just to shake their hand

I am very disappointed. Not surprised, but disappointed.

June has been designated as Pride Month — unofficially — since 1970, when four US cities held pride marches to commemorate the one-year anniversary of the riots (and subsequent victory for gay rights by the gay community) at the Stonewall Inn in New York City. In 1999 — more than a quarter of a century ago — President Bill Clinton issued a proclamation naming June "Gay and Lesbian Pride Month." In 2011, President Obama expanded the recognition to include the entire LGBTQ+ community. Since then, Pride Month has been recognized and celebrated by individuals — both gay and straight. Corporate America jumped on the potentially lucrative bandwagon, incorporating the ubiquitous rainbow flag into their logos and product labels, in hopes it would A. display their support for the gay community and B. put them in line for a quick boom in business. Whatever ulterior motives big companies had, their hearts (if corporations have hearts?) seemed to be in the right place.

Lately, there seems to be a wave of unprovoked and unfounded hate washing over our country. I'm not saying that hate disappeared and then suddenly reappeared. The hate has always been there. It just appears that people have become more brazen, more vocal and more venomous in the age of the internet and social media. Behind the anonymity of a Facebook account or an X handle, folks spew the most vile, narrow-minded, fear-induced rhetoric without concern for possible repercussions. I've seen social media posts (and comments on posts) that reveal the most backward-thinking, prejudiced sentiment that I mistakenly thought was on its way out as my parents' generation dies off. I am really shocked (and disappointed) that people of my age — or younger — still maintain the bigoted ideals of a shameful time in our country's history. I really hoped we were headed in a better direction.

There was one group I thought was exempt from this parochial mindset. Deadheads. Turns out.... I was wrong.

The Grateful Dead has not existed for thirty years. (Don't count The Other Ones, Dead & Company, Furthur, the Rhythm Devils, Phil Lesh and Friends, RatDog, Billy & the Kids or any other offshoot assembly of former and fringe members of the original band.) The fans of the Grateful Dead — Deadheads — have always presented themselves as free-spirits. They promoted love, kindness, peace, cosmic consciousness and all that other hippie philosophy — long after the first generation of hippies started wearing suits and ties and working in the corporate world. Hoards of fans — too young to have experienced the psychedelic "love-in" vibes of the band first hand — have proliferated the message of brotherhood (and sisterhood) for decades after the demise of Jerry Garcia and his colleagues, through bands like Phish, Umphrey's McGee and other "Grateful Dead"-ish bands. Still, thirty years later, they sport joyful tie-dye clothing and flash the peace signs in photos splashed across Instagram, Facebook, TikTok, Snapchat (is that still a thing?) and other internet platforms with which I'm unfamiliar.

And just like Pride Month, several companies have jumped on the Grateful Dead's monetary bandwagon to capitalize on the band's popularity, legacy and image. Grateful Dead merchandise is still a hot commodity. Whoever controls the band's interest has licensed the familiar iconography for inclusion on t-shirts, stickers and hundreds of other items. (As KISS's Gene Simmons once said "Anything that can have KISS on it, should have KISS on it." Obviously, the marketing department of Grateful Dead Enterprises have sat up and taken notice.) I'm not knocking this practice. Oh no! Anywhere there's a buck to be made — have at it, I say. I'm just stating a fact.

One of the many licensees of Grateful Dead merchandise is a small company called Grateful Fred. Grateful Fred started in 2020 as a way for its founder to display his love of the Grateful Dead on his electric car. Soon, his company was producing well-crafted metal badges in a variety of Grateful Dead symbols that could be permanently adhered to your vehicle just above the manufacturer's factory-applied badge, where it would seamlessly and subtly integrate.

Like this....

Pretty clever, huh?

In its short existence, Grateful Fred has extended their line to include stickers, barware, badges for water bottles and cellphone cases and keyrings. They have evidently garnered a pretty large customer base, likely comprised of holdover Deadheads now in possession of expendable income, thanks to pensions as they reach the age of retirement and their dependents have moved out on their own. The badges are not cheap — running between ten and thirty dollars apiece. Just this year — this month, as a matter of fact — Grateful Fred introduced ten products in their "Pride Collection," including the iconic "Steal Your Face" logo with a bold rainbow background. Measuring almost two-and-a-half inches in diameter at a cost of thirty bucks, this little metal badge can easily be mounted on your Volkswagen microbus to let the world know you are a proud dual member of the Grateful Dead and LGBTQ+ communities — or an ally thereof. Pretty sweet, if I say so myself. And something that would surely be welcomed among the loving, inclusive Grateful Dead fold.

You would think

The post announcing the Pride Collection on Grateful Fred's Facebook presence was flooded — flooded! — with a plethora of comments expressing anger, disdain, and — most surprisingly — homophobia. Comment after comment showed unabashed hatred for Pride Month, gays and, now, Grateful Fred. Many declared they would never purchase another item from the company. Others dismissed the LGBTQ+ community as "bullshit," "sad," "mentally ill," and a variety of equally misguided, uninformed and repugnant labels. A few said "Go woke and go broke!" as they, once again, totally miss the point of what "woke" actually means. Others wondered when "Straight White Male Month" will be celebrated, turning a blind eye to the fact that straight, white males are celebrated everyfuckingwhere you look! Still others questioned why someone's sexuality should be celebrated, as they continually post photos of themselves hugging their wives and kissing their girlfriends. What are straight people so afraid of? They've been in charge for like.... ever!

I have seen similar posts on other company websites and Facebook pages regarding their support for Pride Month or the gay community in general. But.... from Deadheads? Really? A group that allegedly prides (no pun intended) itself on love and loving and spreading love. I suppose hate is just everywhere and nothing is immune from its infestation.

I am disappointed. Not surprised, just disappointed.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

you're no good

My son and went to our first Phillies game of the 2025 season. I love going to beautiful Citizens Bank Park. It's a great facility. It's easy to get to and (relatively) easy to get out of the parking lot when the game is over. In between, there's a lot to see, a lot to eat and a lot to do, besides the baseball game, which — for most attendees — is the main attraction.

This particular Saturday afternoon game began with Photo Day, an annual event during which fans get a face-to-face encounter with their hometown favorite players, coaches, broadcasters, mascots (the renowned Phillie Phanatic and his mom, Phoebe) and even the ball girls — Megan, Ashely, Ashely, Ashely, Caitlyn, Ashely, Megan, Ashely, Caitlyn, Meagan and,,,, who am I forgetting?... oh right! ....Ashely. Several hours before the scheduled first pitch, fans are invited down the the playing field to stand on cordoned-off plastic platforms (so as not to scuff up the pristinely-trimmed grass), while the team representatives mingle within the safe confines of a thin rope barricade, waving, fist-bumping and even posing for individual pictures to the delight of the faithful. My son and I ventured down with the crowd and — all in all — it was a fun experience. We met some players (who all look like kids), got some pictures and just had a lot of fun.

Then, as the skies darkened with the threat of rain, we found our seats — on the second level Section 243, right in front of the giant scoreboard — and waited for the game to start. 

We should have hoped harder for rain. Right off the bat (no pun intended), the Milwaukee Brewers scored four runs, thanks, in part, to former Phillie Rhys Hoskins. It was all downhill from there. The Phillies lost 17-7, a dubious feat not achieved by the Phils since 1947. It was a brutal, ugly affair and, as a 60+ year Phillies fan who has seen his share of Phillies disappointments, it was still hard to watch.

In the eighth inning, with a good portion of the seats in Citizens Bank Park now vacated, a fellow staggered down the aisle that divided Sections 242 and 243. He teetered back and forth as he leaned precariously over the edge of the balcony and screamed, "YOU SUCK!" in a strained yelp that stretched the range of his vocal cords. The object of his succinct derision was Milwaukee left fielder Isaac Collins, who was patrolling the grassy area right in front of us, but on the lower ground level. For the entire inning, for as long as it took Phillies offense to rack up three outs, this guy screamed and hollered and shrieked and wailed some of the meanest and degrading insults at Collins. He yelled about his fielding ability (or lack thereof). He yelled about not belonging in the big leagues, adding that he wasn't even good enough for a Triple A minor league squad. He even yelled when Collins took his cap off to wipe his forehead, advising him to "PUT YOUR CAP BACK ON! IT ISN'T HELPING!"... whatever that meant. When Trea Turner popped out for the final Phillies' out of the eighth inning, the yelling guy ambled back up the steps, gripping a can of Surfside in one hand and fumbling with the bannister with the other. He muttered, "Collins is a BIG NERD!" to no one in particular and he navigated the steep stairs. Once he disappeared from sight, the few folks who remained in our once-packed section, looked around to silently acknowledge the absurdly of this guy and his relentless heckling. I broke the ice, commenting aloud (as one does at a ballgame) that this guy was yelling at a player several hundred feet away, in a outdoor stadium filled with ambient noise and loud music... not to mention that the home team was down by fifteen runs. 

The top of ninth inning saw Phillies' utility man Weston Wilson try his hand at pitching, handily handing the Brew Crew three outs while only giving up a single along the way. When the Brewers' players took to the field to defend their lead and allow the home team one slim opportunity to even up the score, the yelling guy also retuned to his post at the foot of our section. Before play started, the yelling guy addressed my son and me. "You're gonna help me yell at Collins, right guys?," he asked, swigging his Surfside while he waited for an answer. "Sure, we will," we replied with a laugh. "I hate this fuckin' guy.," he said, "He stinks! He shouldn't even be in the Majors!" Without waiting for further comment from us, he turned his head toward the field and screamed, "YOU SUCK, IKE COLLINS!"  Considering how much Isaac Collins is, apparently, hated by the yelling guy, he has given him a palsy-walsy nickname that I cannot confirm has ever been previously applied to the 27-year old outfielder.

The Philles kicked off their half of the ninth inning with a promising flurry of hits and runs, although they came up a dozen runs too short. However, our yelling friend made up for it in spades. For the duration of the bottom of the ninth, the yelling guy's voice cracked repeatedly as he hurled insult after repeated insult at Isaac Collins. Collins, however, appeared unfettered — a reaction that only angered the yelling guy more. His voice grew hoarse, but his mission remained strong. The yelling guy's commentary noted every move Collins made — every shift of his weight, every scratch of his ass, every adjustment of his cap and of his cup, every tug on the laces of his glove. Nothing was spared. The yelling guy yelled and he wouldn't be done yelling until Isaac Collins was out of the Brewers' line-up and on a bus headed back to Maple Grove, Minnesota (population 70,000), never to darken the doors of a Major League Baseball dugout for the rest of the yelling guy's alcohol-sotted life.

With the disappointing final score displayed on multiple scoreboards around the perimeter of the ballpark, fans began gathering their belongings with plans to head for the exits. The yelling guy offered up an open palm for a celebratory "high five," which I uncharacteristically — and reluctantly — completed. As far as "celebratory," may I remind you that the Phillies lost by an embarrassing ten runs.

I never heard of Issac Collins before this game. Granted, have not been familiar with the Milwaukee Brewers roster since the days of Paul Molitor and Robin Yount. A little research showed that Issac Collins was drafted by the Colorado Rockies in 2019. He played in several levels of the Rockies' farm system. He spent the 2023 season in the Brewers' minor leagues, landing there in a Rule 5 draft (look it up, it's kind of complicated), eventually making the big league roster at the end of the 2024 season. From the look of his stats, he just an average back-up fielder and an average hitter at the plate. It seems his biggest accomplishment is raising the ire of a drunken fan on an overcast Saturday in Philadelphia.

And he probably doesn't even know he achieved that.

www.joshpicusiscrying.com

and we've got to get ourselves back to the garden

Mrs. P's cousins — Juniper and Veronica — came in for a visit. After a long drive, they finally arrived in Philadelphia and asked if we'd like to meet them for dinner. Of course we said we'd love to. They spotted an Olive Garden across the street from their hotel and decided we'd meet there.

Before I continue, let's get all of our Olive Garden jokes out of the way.

America is home to the strange phenomena of "casual dining chain restaurants." You know what I'm talking about. Places like Applebee's and Red Lobster (Seafood Applebee's), Outback Steakhouse (Australian Applebee's), On The Border (Mexican Applebee's), Texas Roadhouse (Barbecue Applebee's), Buffalo Wild Wings (Chicken Applebee's), Cracker Barrel (Redneck Applebee's with bonus hillbilly yard sale) and, of course, Olive Garden (Italian Applebee's).

In the early 2000s, E! Entertainment, the pop culture cable network, ran a reality series called The Girls Next Door that centered around then-79 year-old Playboy Magazine publisher Hugh Hefner and the bevy of cookie-cutter young ladies that shared his life and home — the notorious Playboy Mansion. I was not an avid viewer of the show, but, when there was nothing else on, I would sometimes stop on it while I perused my options up and down the dial. The show was always good for a laugh, mostly at the expense of  "the girls." Most (if not all) of the humor played on the young ladies' naivete and their perceived (whether scripted or not) lack of intelligence and self-awareness. One particular episode focused on a meeting in Las Vegas with Italian fashion designer Roberto Cavalli, who was contracted by Hefner to design a new take on the iconic Playboy Bunny costume. At a large table in a restaurant at the Palms Resort, Hefner introduced Cavalli to a few of the "girls" who had travelled to Sin City with him. When the "girls" found out that Cavalli was actually from Italy, they began to give him passionate recommendations for places to eat while in town. One of the girls — maybe Holly, maybe Kendra — gushed about Olive Garden. She told him "If you are looking for authentic Italian food that will make you feel like you are at home in Italy, you will love Olive Garden. The food and the atmosphere are just like being in Italy!" The Italian-born designer cocked his head to one side. All expression fell from his face and, I believe, his jaw nearly smacked the table. He said nothing. No response. Then turned his attention back to Hefner and his costume designs.

Now, where was I....?

I have only eaten in an Olive Garden three times. The first time was over thirty years ago and I can say there was nothing memorable about it. Aside from my wife, I don't remember who I was with or what the occasion was. (I'm sure we didn't "just decide" to go to Olive Garden. I don't remember what I ate, how it was, how much it cost... nothing. It was as though it never happened. The second time I ate in Olive Garden was maybe twenty years ago. The first time must have really made an impression on me to get me to return a decade later. Once again, my second visit was a completely forgettable experience. The third time I ate at an Olive Garden was last night. I'm pretty sure it was the same location as my first visit. According to the official Olive Garden website, the chain operates 956 restaurants. They all look nearly identical, so maybe it was a different location. Kind of like that clone episode of The Flintstones. So...who knows? And, honestly, what difference does it make? It's a chain restaurant and they strive to be all the same.

Juniper and Veronica were already inside, waiting for their names to be announced as the next to be seated for dinner. Considering it was 7:30 in the evening, the place was still fairly crowded. Mrs. P chatted with her cousins and I sat quietly. Actually, I assessed my surroundings and secretly hoped for an incident or other out-of-the-ordinary experience to get  the basis for a good blog post. If I couldn't get that, I would settle for horrible food, a surly waiter, a wrong order or something along those lines. Anything along those lines!

Everyone knows about Olive Garden's reputation. Everyone except for those who frequent Olive Garden regularly and rank it high on their list of "fine dining establishments." ("Olive Garden? Oh, we only go there for special occasions! We took Grandma there for her 101st birthday!") Everyone knows that Olive Garden's offerings of Italian cuisine are akin to a native Mexican not being able to identify a single entry on the Taco Bell menu. But for some people — a lot of people, as a matter of fact — Olive Garden is a nice place to get a close approximation of Italian food for a reasonable price. Educated palates, be damned! My palate wants all-you-can-eat breadsticks and endless salad. Oh, and it also wants the waiter to grind a fresh block of Kraft parmesan cheese on my pisghettis.

Olive Garden's menu includes everything you'd expect a chain Italian restaurant to serve. Everything is in English. Everything is familiar. Most every sauce is red, except for that exotic Alfredo sauce.... whoever he is! There is plenty of "fill-in-the-blank" Parmesan and lots and lots of pasta. The menu features enticing "beauty shots" of prepared dishes that bear no resemblance to anything you will be served. After minutes of scanning the menu, I decided on spaghetti with marinara sauce for twelve bucks, topped with broccoli for an additional $2.99. Mrs. Pincus ordered one of the "fill-in-the-blank" Parmesans, with the "blank," in this case, being substituted for eggplant. The cousin sisters opted to split a single order of chicken parmesan over fettucine Alfredo instead of the standard spaghetti. This deviation from the norm momentarily confused our waiter. He nearly brought out a full order of chicken parm and a full order of Alfredo until Veronica politely — but sternly — rephrased the order.

Our waiter brought out a big bowl of salad and a big basket of breadsticks — which are actually just mini loaves of bread. The salad was okay. Not great. Not awful. Just okay. It had too much dressing on it, but it was okay. The breadsticks were okay, as well. My spaghetti, sauce and broccoli was okay. Not great. Not awful. Just okay. The eggplant parmesan, as reported by Mrs. Pincus, also fell into the realm of satisfaction within the "just okay" bracket. Actually, she did not care for the blandness of the spaghetti that formed the bed for the eggplant and she spooned it onto my plate. That, too. was "just okay."

At the end of our meal, Veronica asked our waiter for a few of the Olive Garden's famous after-dinner mints. Evidently, Mrs. P's cousins are way more familiar with the ways and means of Olive Garden. In their defense, they live in Virginia Beach. a municipality that boasts more shopping centers and chain restaurants than anywhere I've ever seen. There are seven Olive Gardens in the Virginia Beach-Norfolk-Hampton Roads geographic area. As Mrs. P paid the check at the little on-table kiosk, our waiter returned with a take-out container stuffed with foil-wrapped, Olive Garden-logoed mints. They were "okay."

In hindsight, I think Olive Garden gets a bad rap. It's not horrible. It's not terrible. It's not the worst place I've ever eaten. It's a place to get food. Not great food, but food food.

I'll let you know if anything changes when I go back... in another ten years.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com