walk, don't run

I had a day off from work and absolutely no plans. But things have a way of just... happening.

I woke up, had breakfast and was watching television. Midway through an episode of Leave It to Beaver that I had seen a zillion times, I decided to go out and visit a couple of nearby cemeteries that I have been meaning to check off of my list. (If you are new to the world of Josh Pincus, visiting cemeteries where famous people are buried has been a hobby of mine for many years.) Usually, I make a lot of preparation before a trip to a cemetery, but this time, I decided to wing it. I would just use the GPS coordinates posted on findagrave.com and hope to find the graves I was looking for.

I filled my trusty water bottle, grabbed a granola bar from the pantry and I was off. I said "goodbye" to Mrs. P as I closed the front door behind me. 

I drove through the entrance of Montefiore Cemetery, which is just a few blocks from my house. I navigated to the internet on my cellphone and clicked on the first grave on my list. I eased my car to the far end of the cemetery to Section 17. I parked, opened the door, got out and surveyed my surroundings.

And my phone rang.

I answered. It was Mrs. Pincus with an exasperated tone in her voice. I asked what was upsetting her. She told me that when she got in her car, the "flat tire" light was glowing brightly on the dashboard. I offered to take the car to a tire place the next morning (Saturday), as I already had plans for the day. She said that would okay, but she did have other errands to run later in the day. She finally agreed to my proposal and she'd make other errand-running arrangements. I continued to seek out the graves on my list. After a little frustration and little more searching, I found the first one. The second grave was closer to the cemetery entrance. After some wandering in and out of similar looking grave markers, I located the second — and final — grave of my morning quest. (A full report can be found here.)

I decided to forgo a trip to another cemetery. Instead, I went to take care of Mrs. Pincus's automotive issue. I drove over to my in-law's house where Mrs. P's office is located in a building on the property, but separate from the house. I parked my car on the street and walked up my in-law's long, steep driveway. I quickly ducked in to the office to tell my wife of the change in plans and then headed back out to her car. 

The mechanic that we've been taking our cars to for many years is located, coincidentally, just past the cemetery that I had explored earlier. I pulled my wife's car into his lot, which — to my surprise — was packed with cars. I could see through the glass of the pulled-down garage doors that each of his three bays had a car parked in it. I found a parking space, shut off the engine and went inside to the small office. When Dennis, our mechanic, saw me, he came out of the work area and took a place behind the tall office counter. I explained my dilemma about the flat tire light. I injected a little pathetic tone into my voice and boldly asked if he could take a look at it today.

"Sure," he said, then he added, "I'm kind of busy now, can you bring it back around noon?" I checked the clock on my cellphone and it read 10:40. I expressed my gratitude for squeezing me in and handed over the key fob for Mrs. P's car, explaining that I would just leave the car now and call my wife for a ride home. Then, I called Mrs. Pincus to report on the situation. She was very happy to hear and thanked me for taking care of things. She also said she'd be right over to pick me up, then she'd have to go back to work. I ended the call and waited.

And waited.

And waited.

Then, my phone rang. It was my wife. She explained that she was going to come over in my father-in-law's car, but it wouldn't start. I told her that my car was there and she countered by telling me that she didn't have the key fob to start my car. I exhaled loudly.

"I'll walk.," I said. "I'll just walk home.

My house is 2.7 miles from the mechanic's shop. I take this trip often, because the garage is directly across the street from the Domino's Pizza that we order from several times a month. However, when I go to pick up a pizza, I usually drive. No. I take that back. I always drive. Always.

Now, I am 64 years old and, recently, I have found myself huffing and puffing after climbing the stairs in my house. I have had some difficulty extracting myself from the sofa after an evening of intense television watching. I've heard some strange popping and cracking when I straighten my legs or back or other body parts that seem to feel better in a bent or curved or stretched state. Plus, it has been quite sometime since I have done any sort of walking that didn't end with a visit to a restaurant. In other words, I am in no shape to walk nearly three miles. But, I am stubborn. I don't share a lot of personality traits with my father (although some people will tell you differently), but I did inherit his sense of "I'd rather do it myself." So after, dismissing my wife's suggestions of taking a bus ore calling for an Uber, I set out on my 2.7 mile journey home.

I don't know if you are aware, but 2.7 miles is far! For a good portion of my little trek, there were no paved sidewalks. In a few places, I had to walk across the edges of a few house's front lawns, lest I put myself dangerously close to the surprising amount of traffic that transverses the outer reaches of Elkins Park. Along the way, I walked through the outer reaches of a Ukrainian cemetery, one that I have passed countless times on my way to get a pizza. Now, I was able to get a close-up look at the head stones, elaborately engraved with religious iconography and Cyrillic characters. Eventually, I found a wide and welcoming paved sidewalk that ran along the perimeter of an elementary school. Soon, though, the sidewalk inexplicably ended at the driveway of a corner house.

I crossed the street at a traffic light and decided to continue my route through a residential street. Elkins Park boasts an interesting variety of large and spacious mansions and small, compact houses. Around the late 19th century, the area was the location of the summer homes of some of Philadelphia's wealthiest citizens. Folks like Peter Widener and William Elkins retreated to huge, multiroom estates north of the bustling city Surrounding these impressive structures were smaller, more modest accommodations built specifically to house the servants of the rich. (Guess which one I live in?) I passed a few large homes, some still used as private residences, while others have been converted to apartment buildings or, in one case, a school. Nearby, on the same street, were several blocks of smaller homes that were dwarfed by the giant properties.

Boy, did my feet hurt!

Nearly an hour after I left my wife's car in the care of our mechanic, I arrived at my wife's office. I trudged up the long, steep driveway that runs the lengths of my in-law's property. I startled Mrs. P when I burst through the door and collapsed in the big swivel chair that sits by her desk.

My wife looked at me as I breathed heavily and slurped a healthy slug of rejuvenating water from her water bottle. "You're crazy.," she said.

"No," I corrected her, "'Crazy' is going to four different supermarkets in the same day." I reminded her of her activities from the previous day. She was fulfilling a long shopping list for her octogenarian parents who insist on getting specific items from specific supermarkets and will not settle for substitutions. Convenience be damned. The mini bagels must come from Giant's bakery while the salmon must be purchased from Aldi. No exceptions.

"That's 'crazy'", I clarified. "What I did was 'admirable.'" Okay, maybe it was a little crazy.

And I can guarantee, the next time I order a pizza, I am not walking over to pick it up.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

no milk today

When I was a kid, I guess I drank a lot of milk. There was always milk in the refrigerator. It was usually a big gallon jug, as there were four people in my family, including two growing boys. My brother and I would have cereal nearly every morning and cereal required milk. Sometimes, after school or on a weekend afternoon, I'd pour a small glass of milk for myself, grab a few (or more than a few) Oreos from a package in the kitchen cupboard and have myself a quick, typically kid-friendly snack. However, if I think about it, most of the milk in our house was consumed by my father.

My father was a creature of habit. Once he did something, he would always have to do it. I suppose that started back in World War II, when, as a young seaman in the US Navy, he tried his first cigarette — and he never looked back. Cigarettes became a part of his daily routine right up until the day he died. He also always put his shoes and socks on first when he got dressed and then struggled to get his pant legs over his fully-clad feet. I don't know why he dressed in this order, but he did. He always did. My father also had a giant glass of chocolate milk and a Tastykake Chocolate Junior every night before he went to bed. It was as though he could not get to sleep without those two components. My father insisted that our kitchen was always stocked with milk, Hershey's Instant chocolate milk powder and a box of Tastykake Chocolate Juniors. The Tastykakes were usually hidden by my father so they would always be available for him and him alone. If, by chance, my brother or I would eat one, it had better not be the last one or we would suffer the wrath of one Harold Pincus deprived of his daily, late-night, pre-bedtime ritual. We were permitted to mix a spoonful of Hershey's Instant into our milk as long as enough remained for my father's milk, but if there were no Tastykake Chocolate Juniors around when my dad was ready to hit the sack — well, let's just say there better have been at least one. We seemed to go through a lot of Hershey's Instant in the Pincus house. Between my father, my brother and me, a one pound can never seemed to last very long. I remember the lid of the metal container had to be removed with the help of a crowbar, but a metal spoon handle would often suffice. The recommended two "heaping" teaspoons never delivered enough chocolate flavor for my liking and I would usually add a little bit more to my milk. I think I caught my father dropping up to three spoons worth of Hershey's Instant into his milk. His rationale being "I'm paying for the goddamn stuff. I'll use however much I goddamn please." My mom, who was in charge of keeping our kitchen's food inventory maintained, never allowed the Pincus house to be without Hershey's Instant.

As I got older, I did not follow in my father's footsteps. My taste for milk did not carry over into my teen or adult years. I have never poured myself a glass of milk to drink anywhere past the age of ten. I still eat cereal every morning, but I pour a  minimal amount over my Honey Nut Cheerios A few years ago, my son asked if I am still drinking cow's milk. He went on to explain that I should cut down on my dairy intake and suggested that I switch to almond milk for my cereal. At first, I balked. Then —  very much unlike my father —  I took my son's advice. I bought a carton of almond milk. I tasted no difference between almond milk and cow's milk. I've been buying almond milk ever since.

My wife told her father about my switch and he said he'd like to try almond milk. My father-in-law is not the most flexible or receptive-to-change person I have ever met. He (much like my own father) is very much set in his ways. My wife bought a carton of almond milk for my father-in-law. Allegedly, his highly sophisticated taste buds detected a "taste" in the complex flavor profile of almond milk and he rejected this little non-dairy, "I don't like anything new" experiment. The remainder of the carton was sent to our house. (This has happened several more times since as he half-expected to like almond milk on subsequent samplings. He did not.) While I do not fancy myself a food connoisseur in any respect, I cannot detect the remotest "almond" flavor in almond milk.

I still have no desire to pour and drink a glass of milk. As a matter of fact, the thought of it is a little nauseating. I'll happily drink the few drops left at the bottom of my empty cereal bowl, but that's it. No big glasses of milk for me.

I will, however, eat a Tastykake Chocolate Junior if one is available. You know.... in honor of my dad. Yeah... that's it.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

I'm dreaming of a white christmas

"I'm dreaming of a white Christmas/Just like the ones I used to know"

Are you? Are you really? Before the early 1940s, nobody was really dreaming of a white Christmas. Sure, folks thought about Christmas and all the things that came along with the Christmas season. Presents, family gatherings, sending Christmas cards, a visit from St. Nicholas... well starting in 1823 when that poem was first published. But the concept of a "white Christmas" didn't become "a thing" until a Jewish immigrant named Irving Berlin wrote a song called "White Christmas." Before that, Christmas songs were mostly religious in nature. "White Christmas." made its public debut on Christmas Day 1941, just a few weeks after the infamous attack on Pearl Harbor. Popular singer Bing Crosby sang the song on his radio show. He recorded it the following May for inclusion on an album released ahead of the holiday-themed motion picture Holiday Inn, which debuted, inexplicably, on August 4, 1942. The song performed poorly in its initial release. Bing Crosby wasn't especially thrilled by the tune, commenting during the recording session: "I have no problems with that one." But as Christmas 1942 approached and Holiday Inn gained traction, it topped the charts and became an international hit. It went on to sell fifty million copies, becoming one of the best selling singles of all time.

But, how many folks in later generations, even know why they want a white Christmas? They certainly don't want a white Christmas in Australia, where it's summer in December. So, a white Christmas is purely a Northern Hemisphere thing. Before Irving Berlin penned that beloved Christmas song, the concept of a white Christmas was barely a thing. It was alluded to in Charles Dickens' classic novella A Christmas Carol. Snow and wintery weather was described, but it was not the main focus of the story. It merely offered a setting in which the action took place.

I used to work with a couple of women who were very nice, very sweet, but not too bright as far as where their holiday traditions originated. First of all, they marveled at the fact that I was Jewish. They had never known anyone — anyone! — who didn't celebrate Christmas. They questioned me about holidays that they had never heard of, as though I was the Jewish equivalent of the Pope. (By the way, there is no Jewish equivalent of the Pope and if there were, it sure wouldn't be me.) When Christmas time would roll around, the questions were brought up again. It became tradition. "You don't have a Christmas tree?," they'd ask, as though they were asking how I was able to breathe without lungs. I'd explain that, of course, I had a tree, but I just keep it in the backyard, growing in the ground with the other trees. Being the sarcastic jerk that I am, I would often return the questioning, with a little bit of Josh Pincus attitude. "Why do you want a 'White Christmas'?," I'd innocently ask. "There wasn't any snow in the desert when Jesus was born." The two women would exchange blank looks and then look at me. They'd frown and furrow their collective brows, hoping that would force a convincing answer the front of their brains. Finally, one of them replied. "Well, you know..... it's nice for the kids." 

What? What does that mean? How did that attempt to answer my question? How does that explain your tradition? Jeez! I went on and on and on about Judah Maccabee and his ragtag band of soldiers fighting off the Greco-Roman Assyrian army (or whoever they fought) and how the oil in the temple lasted for eight days instead of just one and why we eat fried food to commemorate the "oil" aspect of the Chanukah story. Okay, okay... I fudged on some of the details, but at least I was far more convincing than "It's nice for the kids." That made as much sense as yelling English into the face of someone who doesn't understand English to get them to understand.

I get frustrated by "traditions" that are blindly followed by people who don't even know the reason why they are doing what they are doing. There are so many Christmas "traditions" that are dragged out every year that have absolutely nothing to do with the birth of Jesus. A lot of them were borrowed from other cultures. There is nothing wrong with that. But if you don't understand why you are doing these things, you kind of look like a dope. Even an excuse of "Well, my parents did this, so I'm doing this" is better than "Uh... I don't know." I had another coworker at another job who would talk about all of her cherished family traditions as though these rituals were handed down from generation to generation... only to discover that her "traditions" were read about in a magazine during her train commute into work that day.

If you are "dreaming of a white Christmas," good for you. If you like snow, that's fine. If it's because a songwriter told you to over eight decades ago, that's fine. If it's because "Uh... I don't know." Well, as they say in the South: "Bless your heart."

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

shticks of one and half a dozen of the other

When I was little, I had a bunch of kids from my block over to my house for a birthday party. My mom arranged for a bunch of games for my guests to play, like pin the tail on the donkey and musical chairs. For our version of musical chairs, I selected the record that my mom would play and stop during the course of the game. I selected "The Let's All Call Up A.T.&T. and Protest to the President March" from Allan Sherman's second album My Son, The Celebrity. I knew every word to that song. (As a matter of fact, I knew every word to every song on the five Allan Sherman albums that my parents had in their modest record collection.) The kids who came to my party had never heard this song before. You see, in a few years, these kids — the same ones who were jockeying for that last chair in my living room and stuffing themselves with birthday cake — would be made aware of the fact that the Pincus family were Jews and Jews killed Jesus. And, in their naïve eyes, that crime would be pinned squarely on me. But for now, they just listened to the silly song that played on our record player and eyed up the chair that they hoped to snag when the music stopped. The song — as far as they were concerned — was just an upbeat march. They were oblivious to the other tracks on the album. Tracks like "Al n' Yetta," "Harvey and Sheila," "When I Was a Lad" and other titles with a decidedly Jewish slant. None of these kids' parents owned any Allan Sherman albums. Nor would they ever.

My mom introduced me to the songs and humor of Allan Sherman. I thought the songs were funny, even if I didn't get all the references and jokes. I was six years old, for goodness sake! I had no idea who Benjamin Disraeli or Billie Sol Estes were. I had no clue that the tunes to which Allan sang his silly lyrics were actual songs. But, for some reason, these songs — these albums — struck a chord with me. I just loved them.

When  I got a little older, I discovered the Dr. Demento radio show. Along with such novelty classics as "Fish Heads" and "The Cockroach That Ate Cincinnati," Dr. D often played a number of Allan Sherman tunes that I recognized from my youth. I still knew all the words, only now, I was finally getting more of the jokes. I finally was able to appreciate the clever wordplay Allan Sherman put into his parody lyrics. It was like I had unlocked a secret door and I was permitted to enjoy these songs — that were beloved to me anyway — in a whole new light. I was always intrigued by the definite Jewish appeal of Allan Sherman's music. It's kind of like Seinfeld or Mel Brooks movies. You don't have to be Jewish to enjoy and appreciate it, but if you happen to have been born and raised in a Jewish family, there are definitely a bunch of additional jokes you are privy to.

Allan Sherman's debut album was the fastest selling album at the time... and that time was 1962. That means two things. One - I am 64. I am at the tail end of Allan Sherman's first wave of fans. The original buyers of Allan Sherman's albums are dying off and their children, who enjoyed the songs secondhand, are also approaching the twilight of their twilight years. Most people in their 20s, 30s and 40s are not especially familiar with Allan's musical output. And two - Allan's efforts were soon eclipsed by four mop-top youngsters from Liverpool, England, whose infectious songs had far more impact on modern music than that chubby little guy's daffy little ditties. 

A few weeks ago, my son — a DJ on a local radio station — told me of an upcoming Allan Sherman tribute show planned for right here in Philadelphia. Thanks to our combined love of Allan Sherman, my wife and I made sure that our son was well versed in the celebrated satirist's music. The show, entitled Glory Glory Allan Sherman, a play on a play of Allan's Semetic-tinged take on the "Battle Hymn of the Republic" is sort of a preview of a proposed traveling revue with planned performances in other cities. The show would also honor the late music impresario Hal Willner and would be presented in Hal's eclectic and inimitable style. Tickets were secured and we counted the days.

The night of the performance arrived and the audience was just as I had imagined — comprised of collection of folks around my age, some older, not many younger. To be honest, if the event had taken place closer to September, one would have mistaken the entire assembly for Rosh Hashanah services. The roster of scheduled performers were recognizable names from Philadelphia and New York musical circles. After a few brief announcements (hmm... maybe it was Rosh Hashanah services?) the evening kicked off with an uneven and somewhat clunky take on Allan's best known song "Hello Muddah, Hello Faddah." Led by NRBQ's Terry Adams on piano, the otherwise silly song about a sad camper's lament was punctuated by an otherworldly interlude by 101-year old avant-garde saxophonist Marshall Allen of the legendary Sun Ra Arkestra. (Allen has made his home in Philadelphia since 1968.) While Allen's contribution was indeed mesmerizing, Terry Adams' out-of-kilter cadence of the lyrics was a bit disorienting and a lot confounding. A few low discontented grumbles made their way through the audience until the song's conclusion.

 

The show was put back on track and went full-speed ahead when Eric Bazilian, founding member of hometown rock heroes The Hooters, took the stage to offer an inspired interpretation of "Seltzer Boy" from Allan's My Son, The Folk Singer, complete with jarring percussion and Bazilian's soaring, plaintive vocals. One by one, Allan Sherman's joy was brought to fresh life by a stable of talented singers and musicians. The audience clapped, and in some cases, sang along to unforgettable bits of comedy like "One Hippopotami," "Sara Jackman," "Harvey and Shelia" and a slew of others.

A dapper Wesley Stace (the former John Wesley Harding), clad in a slick tuxedo, stirred up his British roots with a hilarious reading of "Won't You Come Home, Disraeli." The always unpredictable Rodney Anonymous (of esteemed Philly anarchists The Dead Milkmen) prowled the stage as he offered up a raucous assault with "A Waste of Money." (Rodney told me later that he really wanted to do "Pop Hates The Beatles," as he shares the same "distaste" for a certain Beatle drummer with me.) Low Cut Connie's piano-pounding Adam Weiner rendered an eloquent recitation of "You Need An Analyst" following an hysterical commentary about how half the audience were seeing therapists and the other half are therapists. Eric Bazilian then returned to the stage and strummed out the pseudo-Western "The Streets of Miami" while delivering the tale in a spot-on Old World Yiddish accent. (Perhaps, some day, he'll give us an "All You Zombies" with the same inflection.) The highlight of the evening was the incomparable Robert Smigel stealthily operating the endearing but vicious Triumph the Insult Dog as he "barked out" Allan's familial sing-along "Shake Hands with Your Uncle Max," replete with an endless supply of reappearing cigars. 

The whole cast appeared for the finale, "The Ballad of Harry Lewis," a tale of a brave garment worker would "went down with the ship" and the source of the show's title, followed by a few rousing choruses of "Don't Buy The Liverwurst." Afterwards, the entire cast happily mingled with guests, exchanging stories and anecdotes and precious memories. Everyone was there — whether on the stage or in the seats — to celebrate their shared love of Allan Sherman.

Eric Bazilian, Rodney Anonymous, Adam Weiner, Wesley Stace — all love Allan Sherman

And celebrate they did.

* * * * * * 

BONUS! Here is Wesley Stace, Eric Bazilian and Rodney Anonymous onstage together — something you will never ever see again. Allan Sherman's music is capable of magical things.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com