cover me

My favorite radio station, WXPN in Philadelphia, just announced the theme for its annual "Countdown of the 885 Greatest..." whatever for this year. In the past, they have ranked albums, songs, artists over the course of a week or so in the early part of December. After opening up the voting to listeners via the station's website, the playback is subject to heated debates and angry disappointment by those who take countdowns and rating things waaaay too seriously. Countdowns (as well as halls of fame and awards shows) are meaningless. They are based on opinion and only opinion. However, people hold their opinions very dearly. Very dearly. Dearly enough that opinions have been known to cause fist fights and loss of friendship.

I rarely listen to WXPN's annual countdowns for any long period of time. Sometimes, I will tune in just for fodder for posting snarky comments on social media (something I am known to do) until I lose interest (something I am also known to do). Otherwise, I have no interest in knowing that Creedence Clearwater Revival's "Up Around the Bend" was voted the 432nd best song by a group comprised of a guy that hated his brother (Oasis' "Wonderwall" came in considerably higher.) I don't care to rank and rate music, so I never vote in the countdowns. I just want to listen to songs.

This year, the theme is The 885 Greatest Cover Songs (the station's signal comes in on 88.5, hence the randomness of the tallied amount of final entries). I love cover songs. I love to hear one artist's interpretation of another artist's composition, especially songs that are so-called "classics." I love to hear obscure versions of familiar songs. Conversely, I like to hear a familiar song, only to discover that the version everyone knows was previously recorded by someone else, but for some reason, just wasn't a hit. I like offbeat and unexpected takes on popular songs. Covers are cool and I just might listen to this year's countdown more than I did in years past.

Cover songs themselves can be broken down into subcategories of their own. One of my favorites (and I'm sure this will be brought up in the course of XPN's playback this year) is songs that you didn't know were covers. For example, "The Gambler" by Kenny Rogers. Not only is that song a cover, but it's the third recording after the original version. The song was recorded by country singer Bobby Bare. It did not chart, so the song's composer Don Schlitz recorded it himself, with similar results. Johnny Cash included it on his 1978 album Gone Girl. Kenny Rogers took a shot with it the same year and scored a Number One hit on the Billboard Country chart. It reached Number 16 on Billboard's Hot 100. Another surprising cover is "Superstar," the eerie ballad that reached Number 2 on the Billboard chart for The Carpenters in 1971. It was originally recorded by folk-rock duo Delaney and Bonnie in 1969. Richard Carpenter saw Bette Midler sing the song on The Tonight Show late one night and thought it would be perfect for his sister's vocals. He was right. How about Barry Manilow's signature "I Write the Songs?" Yep. A Cover. It was originally recorded by pop husband-and-wife duo The Captain & Tennille in May 1975 and released as a non-charting single by teen idol David Cassidy before Manilow reluctantly recorded it a few months later. It hit Number One for Manilow. The song's author, Beach Boy Bruce Johnston, included the tune on his own solo record and Frank Sinatra re-recorded it as "I Sing The Songs," entirely missing the song's meaning.

Other songs like Blondie's "Hanging on the Telephone," "I Love Rock 'N' Roll" by Joan Jett and The Blackhearts and even Chubby Checker's "The Twist" are all covers. Yes sir... this year's countdown is going to be a wild ride.

The voting opened just a few days ago and runs until the end of October. Voters are limited to a list of ten songs. I have been compiling my list since the theme was announced. My list, of course, will not represent the best cover songs, because that is merely opinion. There is no "best." I will just submit a list of some of my favorite cover songs. I suppose songs will be ranked by how many people vote for the same song. If that's the case, none of my selections will even make the list. But that's okay. I can listen to them anytime I want.

And at this point, my list of ten songs has been whittled down to twenty. But, I have plenty of time to vote.

I know my list will include THIS GEM. It's my favorite cover song of all time.

You can vote in WXPN's Countdown HERE.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

life in the fast lane

A few days ago, I went to my son's house after work. Although I live in Pennsylvania, I work in New Jersey. As a matter of fact, my last three jobs have been in the Garden State. Many people who live in Philadelphia and the immediate surrounding suburbs work in New Jersey. It's really not that far and there are several bridges that take an interstate traveler to essentially the same place. New Jersey is weird that way. (New Jersey is weird in other ways, but that's a subject for another blog post.)

This would have saved Sonny Corleone's life.

When I first started working in New Jersey, I immediately purchased an EZ Pass. This ingenious little invention mounts conveniently on my car's windshield and allows easy (or, in this case EZ) access to special lanes on toll bridges. There is some sort of electronic reader mounted high above the EZ Pass lane that scans a car's EZ Pass and deducts the toll amount from the users' account. Or (in my case) charges a credit card that's on file in the EZ Pass system. It's quick, convenient and avoids any contact with a human being — three selling points that make me very happy. The EZ Pass system has pretty much eliminated the job of "toll taker" on the Pennsylvania Turnpike. There are also no toll takers on the Tacony-Palmyra Bridge, the one I take to and from work almost every day. My alternate route — The Betsy Ross Bridge — still has a few booths manned by real, live human beings for those commuters without an EZ Pass and a car ashtray filled with loose change. Actually, spare change is useless on a bridge, as the toll is up to six bucks on most of the bridges between Pennsylvania and New Jersey. The Tacony-Palmyra Bridge and the Betsy Ross Bridge also feature technology that reads a car's license plate and will bill the driver by mail. So, you really don't need cash.

Unless you're crossing the Walt Whitman Bridge and you're not paying attention.

Like me.

Job security

Every so often, I go to my son's house in South Philadelphia after work. Sometimes it's to feed his cat if he is working late. Sometimes, it's to feed his cat if he's away on vacation. Sometimes, it's to pick him up for a concert that — most often — does not involve his cat. That was the reason for my most recent trip. A concert. The most convenient bridge from my job to my son's house is the Walt Whitman. The Walt Whitman Bridge boasts a whopping fifteen toll booths to accommodate the volume of traffic that regularly use the thruway. The far left end of the bank of toll booths are clearly marked "EZ PASS ONLY." The next few are labeled "CASH ONLY" and the far end offer more EZ Pass options. Scattered among the toll booths are several that are labeled "LANE CLOSED" with a bright red light and a large gate blocking any access to the lane. Despite my unfounded and totally irrational fear of bridges, I try to navigate my car across four lanes of converging traffic to position myself in one of the EZ Pass lanes. On this particular day, I was not paying attention. Or perhaps the late afternoon sun was obscuring the identifying signs. Or maybe my glasses were smudged. Whatever the true reason, I apparently drove into a "CASH ONLY" lane. Now on other bridges, the Cash Only lanes are also equipped with EZ Pass readers. Not on the Walt Whitman Bridge, though. No sir. The Walt Whitman Bridge is still staffed by a skeleton crew of day-glo vest wearing, car-exhaust smelling cranks who haven't smiled since the Kennedy administration. They are like postal workers or DMV employees, except with less skills.

Take your pick, but choose wisely.

So there I was, behind the wheel of my car, waiting for the non-existent EZ Pass reader to register six bucks from the transponder on my windshield, thereby raising the gate that stood between me and the shores of the Delaware River. I leaned forward to see if... well, I don't know what I was trying to see. Just then, Mr. "I Hate My Job" Toll Booth Worker barked out at me. "Six dollars please!" The "please" at the end of his request didn't sound the least bit friendly or pleasing. "I have an EZ Pass., " I explained as I pointed to the little white box of electronics clinging to the inside of my windshield. "This is the cash lane. Six dollars please.," the toll guy repeated, as he moved closer to my car. He stunk like the inside of an auto body shop — a stale combination of rubber, gasoline, carbon monoxide and sweat. "I don't have any cash.," I persisted. Toll Guy frowned. "Don't back up!," he warned, "I'll have to call your license plate in and fill out a form. He sounded as though he would have rather had a limb amputated than call in my license plate and fill out a form. In my rear-view mirror, I could see him scribbling on a pad of paper and then return to his little protective sanctuary to call whoever he had to call. In a minute of so, he pulled the top sheet off his little pad and stuck it in my face. "Write your EZ Pass account number on this and mail it in within ten days.," he announced. Then he reluctantly pressed a button to raise the gate. I was on my way.

When I got home, I copied the account number off of the front of the EZ Pass transponder on my windshield. I filled in the other required information and mailed the form off.

A few days later, I had to make a stop at my son's house again after work. This time — and for all future times — I paid close close attention.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

man on the moon

Much like the moon, the internet is a vast wasteland. And the "wastiest" of wastelands on the internet is Facebook.

Beats me, Ethel.

If you are a friend or follower of Josh Pincus... well, I question your judgement. Aside from that, you know that every morning, I post a smattering of celebrity death anniversaries. You know this... unless you have me muted, which I certainly understand and I don't blame you. If I were a friend of Josh Pincus, I'd probably mute him.... er, me, too. Just after I eat breakfast and before I leave for work, I scan the good old internet and post a series of photos of famous — and not-so-famous — folks to commemorate the anniversary of their passing. I have been doing this for years. Years, I tell you! I usually get a handful of "likes" or "cares" from the regular group of loyal, death-obsessed Facebook friends that are also awake at the ungodly hour of 5 AM. But, every so often, one post — right out of nowhere, for no discernible reason — gets a ridiculous amount of "likes" from people with whom I am not connected. Now, I have no idea how Facebook's algorithms work. I'm not even sure if I spelled "algorithm" correctly. But, these extra, added "likes" just baffle me. A few weeks ago. a post honoring the "death-aversary" of Lucille Ball's dependable co-star Vivian Vance racked up 27 responses, most of which were from people I don't know.

One small step

On August 25, along with Senator Ted Kennedy, singer-actress Aaliyah, celebrated author Truman Capote and baseball footnote Archibald "Moonlight" Graham (yes, he was a real person and, yes,  he only had one Major League at-bat), I posted my early morning acknowledgment of the passing of astronaut Neil Armstrong on the thirteenth anniversary of the sad event. Then I went to work.

Through the course of the day, as I toiled over the inane changes several supermarket owners had to their store's advertisements (my day job), I marveled as the "likes" for the Neil Armstrong post increased at an astounding rate... astounding for me anyway. Between requests to make a picture of a pint of blueberries bigger and instruction to change the price of country-style spare ribs from $1.69 per pound to $1.67 per pound, I checked Facebook to see Spaceman Neil's "likes" approach the 100 "likes" mark. I checked the actual post to find that, in addition to all of these "likes," several people had made comments.

And, as they say, the comment did not disappoint. They puzzled me, but they didn't disappoint.

The first one kicked off my bewilderment. One guy named Ian questioned...

...and he was quickly joined by a few of his conspiracy-theory leaning cohorts. Traitor? Neil Armstrong? Really? Oh wait. Are we still subscribing to that "man never went to the moon" bullshit? Do we still entertain the belief that the whole moon landing was staged by NASA and a group of Hollywood filmmakers led by the notorious Stanley Kubrick. Are we still standing by the unproven postulate that Kubrick's The Shining was a veiled attempt at an apology for partaking in a hoax on the world, filling his film with hints and symbolism, revealing that, when the film is played backwards or in reverse or something, it clearly states that the moon landing was a fake. Y'know.... if you're a moron.

Moments later, this comment appeared, thanks to the insightful Randall... whoever that is.

Um.... what? What does this mean? What does this have to do with Neil Armstrong? Or the space program? Or... or... anything, for that matter?

Yes, my friends, the internet is the lawless Wild West, fraught with colorful characters, ornery outlaws, shifty townsfolk, angry gunslingers, town drunks, and a group of people who still believe the world is flat and the great sun god drags the morning sun up over a mountain and pulls it back down at the end of the day... possibly in a great golden chariot. Regardless, I will keep posting my silly, stupid. mindless, borderline funny (the jury is still out on that one) entries on Facebook for your amusement... but mostly for mine.

But one thing is for sure. Facebook, oh, Facebook, why can't I quit you?

***UPDATE*** As of today, 38 people, most of whom I do not know, nor have any connection to, reacted to my early September post commemorating Steve Irwin's death. Oh.... the internet.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

If you want it, here it is, come and get it

Last night, like most summer nights, Mrs. P and I settled down in front of our TV to watch a Phillies game. The Fightin' Phils were playing the beleaguered Miami Marlins in Miami, coming off a series win against the league leading Brewers up in Milwaukee. The always unpredictable Phillies kicked off the game with an early lead on a Bryce Harper RBI single. 

In the top of the fourth inning, hirsute outfielder Brandon Marsh cranked a two-run shot to right centerfield making the score 4-1 in favor of the Phillies. The next batter, newly-acquired centerfielder Harrison Bader, took a 1-1 pitch from Marlins reliever Lake Bachar and sent it 410 feet into the left field upper deck of LoanDepot Park. The Marlins, who have not been doing particularly well this season, only managed to draw a little over 15,000 spectators to a stadium that holds over 37,000. Needless to say, each section boasted more empty seats than ones with fans in them (if there are, indeed, any Marlins fans). But, as with any ball - fair or foul - that finds its way into the stands, a small crowd gathered quickly around the spot where the ball landed. There was a bit of a scramble as a knot of fans reached and grabbed — until one lucky fellow in a red Phillies t-shirt emerged from the melee with the homerun ball held tightly in his fist. He made his way back to his seat (one section over from "Ground Zero") and presented the ball to his son, also decked out in Phillies red and sporting a large baseball mitt on his left hand. A few other folks, seated on either side of the man and his son — also in Phillies colors — lauded the boy with congratulatory shoulder pats. Dad gave the boy a warm "father-son" hug. Everyone was happy for this kid.

Well, almost everyone.

Just as Dad was basking in a moment of satisfying familial bonding, this angry woman from one section over came to voice her outrage. Apparently, she was one of the people in hot pursuit of the Harrison Bader homerun ball. (She can be spotted and identified by her distinctive hairdo in the crowd photo above.) She shrilly interrupted a serene "father-son" moment with harsh words, flailing arms and a vindictive attitude. (I'm guessing a Delco transplant or just in South Florida for a visit.) She startled the man and evoked a look of horror from the boy. Even without sound, her little game of "Outraged Charades" could be clearly understood. She was obviously of the belief that the ball was rightfully hers. After all, she held a ticket for a seat in Section 135, entitling her (if she interpreted the agreement printed on the back of her ticket correctly) to "all baseballs that land anywhere in a fifteen foot radius of her seat." The woman pressed closer to the man, scowling and pointing to accentuate her case. Exasperated and defeated (and just wanting this woman to leave), he relented. He pulled the ball out of his son's protective glove and handed it over to the woman. She snapped it out of his hand and she stomped away. Her exit was accompanied by a rousing chorus of "boos" from the surrounding crowd.

Now, I don't know if you've ever been to a baseball game and I don't know if you've ever had a ball land near you, but there are a few things you should know. First, a hit baseball comes off a player's bat as though it was fired out of a cannon. If you feel that you are in the ball's trajectory, your first inclination is to duck or otherwise get out of the way for fear it may — very well — take your head off. Second, there are unwritten rules among fans regarding any ball that finds its way into the seating area. And those rules are... there are no rules. It's every man (or woman) for themselves. No matter who grabbed or touched or saw the ball first. No matter where your seat is in proximity to the ball's landing point. No matter how many games you've been to or how long you've been a baseball fan. Whoever walks away from those reaching for the ball... gets the ball. The end. No further discussion. One exception, as per the same unwritten baseball etiquette, is: if you are an adult, give the ball to a kid, for chrissakes!

Did you understand all that? Because Two-Tone Tessie sure as hell didn't get the memo. Her relentless badgering of this poor man was... was... embarrassing, uncomfortable and went against everything baseball and human decency has taught us. For the remainder of the game, she sat in her seat, gripping the five-ounce, leather-covered, 216 red-stitched hunk of cork, and got "booed" and jeered and heckled by everyone within earshot. At one point, she even stood up and gave the crowd "the finger" with the same hand in which she held the spoils of her triumph.

Meanwhile, someone in the Marlins organization got wind of the situation. They sent a team representative up to the boy's seat and presented him with a big bag filled with baseball and Marlins promotional merchandise. The elation on his face when the team rep handed over the bag revealed the return of a good mood to the boy and his family.

But, things didn't end there. The broadcasters rarely acknowledge anything of this nature during a game, but Ruben Amaro Jr, a former Phillies player turned broadcaster, expressed his displeasure with the whole affair — live on the air — in between his non-stop (and usually irritating) analysis of the game in progress. The immediacy of social media was instantly ablaze with viral video and acerbic commentary, along with on-the-spot video of the incident  shot from different vantage points. Commenters on various social media platforms weighed in (as commenters do), saying that the dad should have never given up the ball. Others said they would have tossed the ball back on to the field and told the woman: 'You want the ball? Go get it." Some clever internet user even referred to her as "Cruella De Phil."

The entire situation found its way to the Phillies. After the game — a gratifying 9-3 whupping of the Marlins — arrangements were made for the boy (later identified as "Lincoln" and just a few days shy of his birthday) and his family to meet Phillies centerfielder Harrison Bader. Bader, a recent acquisition from the Minnesota Twins, has already endeared himself to Philadelphia baseball fans with his infectious energy, quirky "crabwalk" when positioning himself under fly balls and his blond curls poking out from under his cap. Bader, still in his game uniform, met Lincoln and his clan in the cement depths of the stadium. He shook the boy's hand and inscribed a bat for him, saying, "Sorry you didn't get a ball, but I have a signed bat for you. Is that okay?" Lincoln's smile let Bader know it was more than okay. (Later commenters speculated that the woman would lay claim to the bat as well.) With the revolving door that has been the Phillies offense in centerfield, I think Harrison Bader may have just landed that permanent position. 

© Philly Goat

As for the woman who finally got her ball? Well, social media has promised to find out her name and make her famous in a way she would rather not gain fame. Local Philadelphia news outlets have flooded the internet with the sordid tale. National media like Newsweek and TMZ have also spread the story. And local t-shirt studio Philly Goat has already immortalized her and the incident has already taken its rightful place in Philadelphia sports history...  alongside throwing snowballs at Santa Claus and making death threats to Mitch Williams.

Go Phils. Go Birds. Yo.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com