the impression that I get

I have told this story many times, so I'll tell it here...

Many years ago (probably in the middle 1980s), My wife and I were in Atlantic City with our friend Randi. (You remember Randi...) We were at Caesars Casino on the famous Atlantic City Boardwalk. Atlantic City, New Jersey is a little over an hour away from Philadelphia, so it was not unusual to drive to the famed shore resort for a day trip. We would often go for dinner, a stroll on "the boards" and then into one of the casinos to try our luck at instant riches. That third one never quite came out the way we had hoped, despite our most courageous efforts.

As the evening progressed and we felt it was time to start heading home, Mrs. P and Randi needed to make a quick stop at the closest ladies' room before we left on a lengthy car ride. The parking lot at Caesars was accessed via a long narrow hallway from the casino. It had an unusually low ceiling and the width of the corridor barely accommodated four people across. (Over the years, several building renovations have changed this.) Mrs. Pincus and Randi located the rest room and I stood alongside the doorway to wait for them. To entertain myself, I watched the interesting faces in the crowd as they passed by in relatively close proximity. There were old people, young people, short people and tall people. There were men in three-piece suits accompanied by women in sparkly gowns. These couples were followed closely by disheveled-looking fellows who looked as though the last place they should be was a casino. 

I smiled to myself as this cross-section of society paraded by me. Then, in the crowd, I spotted a familiar face, one I had seen on television numerous times. It was comedian Charlie Callas. He was a staple performer on television in the 60s, 70s and early 80s. He made 50 appearances on The Tonight Show with Johnny Carson, as well as The Ed Sullivan Show, Merv Griffin's show and the full roster of variety shows that were so popular on the 1970s. Charlie was a regular on the Dean Martin Celebrity Roasts, often showing up in military garb and doing as dead-on impression of show biz patriarch George Jessel. Charlie was known for his rubber-faced mug and the barrage of strange noises that he would inject into his stand-up routines. Folks like Jerry Lewis and Mel Brooks loved his act so much, he was cast in films like The Big Mouth and High Anxiety just to play upon the recognizability of his stage act. On television, he was seen in The Monkees, The Flip Wilson Show and singer Bobby Vinton's short-lived series, in addition to a Carpenters special. He even popped up on an episode of The Love Boat and also provided the voice for the animated Elliot the Dragon in the Walt Disney film Pete's Dragon. If you are of my generation, you knew who Charlie Callas was. 

Well, I certainly knew who Charlie Callas was. And there he was, walking past me wearing dark glasses and a terrycloth bucket hat pulled down to his brow. Evidently, he was trying to conceal his identity, but there was no mistaking that it was indeed Charlie Callas. Curiously, not a single person pointed or whispered or acknowledged him in any way. No one but me. I smiled to myself a little wider.

Soon, Mrs. Pincus and Randi emerged from the ladies room. As we continued to walk to the parking lot, I mentioned that I had just seen Charlie Callas walk past me in the crowd. They both stopped, and with jaws agape, simultaneously exclaimed, "NO, YOU DID NOT!," as though they had rehearsed it. Now, I stopped... and scratched my head. 

"Why would I make that up?," I asked. "Do you think I'm trying to impress you? It's not like I said 'Hey, I just saw Frank Sinatra!' It was Charlie fucking Callas! The guy who sticks out his tongue and makes funny noises. That's not impressing anyone."

They both kind of sheepishly smiled. We found ourselves at the building's exit. I opened the tinted glass doors and we stepped outside. At a taxi stand, about ten feet away from us, wait for a cab, was Charlie Callas. I pointed at him. "See?," I said to my companions. Again, we were the only ones looking in his direction.

We didn't say "Hello" to him or ask for a picture (actually, in the days before cellphones, who carried a camera?) or even request an autograph. We just looked at him. And he was still Charlie Callas.

And then we went to find our car.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

song sung blue

Let me preface this story by saying I really dislike "tribute bands." While I certainly am a fan of live music, I draw the line at bands that feel it's okay to ride the coattails of an established and beloved (by some) act by imitating every last move, note and lyrical inflection for a few bucks (actually way more than a few bucks). Even if the object of "flattery" is a band I like, I feel angered by and embarrassed for the performers, as well as the actual band. A few years ago, Mrs. Pincus and I were given tickets to a Queen tribute band — the "ultimate" Queen tribute, if I recall correctly. We broke our promise of staying until the end of the show. I loved — loved — Queen in my youth and still hold a soft spot for them (except for my recent contempt for Brian May). However, I couldn't stomach any more of their "America's Got Talent" caliber of prefab presentation. A former co-worker regularly cajoled me to see a Genesis tribute band that plays almost monthly at a nearby venue. He constantly sang their praises, to which I constantly rebutted. "Not only wouldn't I go to see them," I would explain, "but the fact that they performed Wind and Wuthering in its entirety, my least favorite Genesis album, was absolutely not helping the argument." He eventually let up when the company let me go.

Let me also preface this story by saying that I will rarely turn down free tickets to anything. Case in point: my wife and I have seen Donnie and Marie, Tony Orlando and suffered through numerous bad experiences at the now-notorious (by way of this blog)  Movie Tavern — all for free. But, free is free and, as a good friend likes to remind us: "If it's free, it's for me." Words and sentiment couldn't ring truer.

Let me offer one final preface to this story. I love..... no wait..... let me rephrase that. I marvel at people's public behavior. I think since the advent and prevalence of social media in people's everyday lives, most folks have forgotten simple rules of public decorum. They have forgotten that there are other people in the world and sometimes their pursuit of a good time can impede on other's pursuit of a good time. Also, I believe that nobody owns a mirror anymore.

That said....

Free.

Mrs. Pincus obtained two tickets to Jay White's performance at the Xcite Center showroom in Parx Casino, a gambling venue just outside of Philadelphia. Parx's showroom has surprisingly attracted some fairly big names. Not the current superstars that could easily fill a stadium, but headliners in, what I would call, the "twilight" of their careers. Acts like Air Supply, John Fogarty and Reba McEntire — all recognizable, but perhaps no longer at the height of their popularity, yet still popular enough to fill a 1500-seat venue. Well, fill it three-quarters of the way anyway. Between the actual name acts, are scattered several "tribute" acts, including the noted Australian Pink Floyd Show, allegedly blessed by the remaining members of Pink Floyd (Hmm, there's one thing they can still agree on.) and the aforementioned Jay White. (I also saw ads for something called "Ian Anderson presents Fifty Years of Jethro Tull." I'm not quite sure in which category that show falls.)

Jay White calls himself "America's Diamond" and performs songs made famous by popular (dare I say "legendary") singer-songwriter Neil Diamond. (Technically, this moniker makes zero sense as the real Mr. Diamond was born in Brooklyn, New York... and you don't get more American than that, baby!) Not only does Jay White sing with a very, very close approximation of Neil Diamond's imitable Sprechgesang style, but he looks uncannily like Neil Diamond to boot. I can just imagine White marching into the office of a record executive and belting out a few tunes, only to be halted with suspect scrutiny. "Mr. White.... you're okay, but we already have a guy who sounds and looks like you." "Fuck it," I imagined White's growling retort, "I'll do a goddamn tribute show then!" And that's exactly where Jay White's career has brought him, playing such illustrious towns as Gulfport, Mississippi, Kokomo, Indiana and a week-long residency in Delavan, Wisconsin.

I was a little apprehensive about going to this show, but, as I said earlier, I won't turn down free tickets to pretty much anything. And this show had all the promise of "pretty much anything." Mrs. P and I had nothing to do and the venue was air-conditioned, so... what the heck! Besides, Neil Diamond has announced his retirement from the stage, giving Jay White the opportunity to perhaps fill a void that I was not aware needed filling.

...and then there's this guy.
(That's Jay White on the right.... or left.
I'm not sure.)

We drove the twenty or so minutes to Parx Casino and located the venue at the rear of the bustling gaming floor. We were a bit surprised by the configuration of the showroom. It was flat, not sloped at all, and was reminiscent of my elementary school auditorium, except the stage seemed to be built unnaturally high. (A Trip Advisor reviewer seems to agree with me.) The pre-show music piped in over the PA was a standard mix of songs that would appeal to the decidedly older crowd. (classic light rock and a smattering of country). Just before the lights dimmed, however, Lee Greenwood's chest-pounding, flag-waving, heart-stirring "God Bless the USA," came blasting through the venue speakers, offering just the right blend of nauseating, rabble-rousing, redneck faux-patriotism and faux-religion to an all-white audience, all of whom apparently had checked their handguns and MAGA hats at the door. A woman a few rows in front of us stood at her seat and dramatically waved her arms at the audience as though she were the choirmaster at a school recital. The room erupted in thunderous applause at the song's conclusion — a recording from thirty-three years ago by an artist who was not in the fucking room!

The crowd loved it... especially the old guy
 with the two-foot braid.

In the darkened theater, I could see a number of musicians filing in and tuning up. Still in the shadows, they launched into the opening bars of "Soolaimon," a popular, but lesser-known song from the Neil Diamond canon. Jay White, clad in a sparkly shirt and high-waisted tuxedo pants, his helmet of hair fashioned into the signature Neil Diamond 'do, strutted and posed and pointed his finger for the next ninety minutes, as he bounced around from "Cracklin' Rosie" to "Cherry Baby"  to "Holly Holy"... all executed with the dead-on precision of the respective recordings. The band was comprised of obviously talented musicians and White is definitely in possession of a strong set of pipes. But, there was still something that didn't sit right with me. While I do love and appreciate cover versions of songs, someone making a career out of someone else's act is no different than an artist duplicating the Mona Lisa or a writer plagiarizing Hemingway. If you have talent and creativity, then use it and be creative. Don't sell yourself short and take the lazy route. I know I was in the overwhelming minority. The crowd that evening, much like the audience gathered at the "Ultimate Queen Tribute," was eating it up like candy-coated candy. They thought they were actually seeing Neil Diamond at a fraction of the cost of a Neil Diamond concert ticket. They stood. They swayed. They sang, They cheered. One woman was welcomed stage-side while the pretend Mr. Diamond offered a personal and seductive serenade with "Girl, You'll Be a Woman Soon." It was greeted with palpable adoration. I found it embarrassing.

The evening closed with a participatory "Sweet Caroline" punctuated by the recent obligatory "so good so good so good" chorus that has ruined that song for me. Thank you Red Sox fans. I hate you even more. The last song was an epic rendition of "Coming to America" from the soundtrack of the 1980 version of "The Jazz Singer." My wife noted that if the crowd realized that this song was about a Jewish cantor emigrating to the United States, they may not be singing along with such gusto.

The house lights went on and the audience filed out — some still dancing as out of rhythm as they were clapping.  Jay White was in the lobby, cheerfully posing for pictures with his adoring fans. We passed.

If I learned anything from this experience, I realized that I know a lot of Neil Diamond songs. More than I thought.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

food, glorious food

No one likes a good buffet more than I do. Actually, no one likes a bad buffet more than I do.

I love going to and eating at buffets. When I was a kid, my parents used to take my brother and me to a buffet, except back then, it was known by the exotic and exciting sounding smörgåsbord, a name that my label-giving, xenophobic father bastardized into "schmorgazboard." This place was a picky-eating child's dream. From the long, winding buffet, I could select only the items I liked — fried chicken, corn, french fries — and avoid the yucky stuff I was forced to eat at home, like green beans and broccoli. I was reminded of a time when my nephew (now 24, but just a child at the time) returned from the salad bar at Ruby Tuesday's with a giant plate sporting a compartmentalized portion of crispy rice noodles and dollop of chocolate pudding. See? Kids know what they want.

Breakfast buffets are always great, no matter how big or small. We used to make an annual event of Mothers' Day brunch at a lovely and bountiful buffet offered at a Sheraton hotel in downtown Philadelphia. An aunt, who obviously didn't get the concept of a buffet, asked a waitress — whose only function was to deliver and refill cups of coffee and removed spent plates — if she could get an omelet for her, as she didn't wish to wait in line. Waiting in line is part of the fun of a buffet! Who doesn't love to grab the last waffle from the serving tray, in full view of the hungry dude behind you, leaving him grumbling until they fill the tray up again  — which is usually in about three seconds.

Of course, I've been to my share of weird buffets, like the one at the Hibachi Grill and that al fresco set-up at a roadside motel in St. Augustine, Florida that Mrs. P stumbled upon on our honeymoon. It's one we still talk about over thirty years later.

More recently, Mrs. P and I have frequented the buffet at Harrah's Resort in Atlantic City more times that we probably should have. When my wife was riding high on the "comp train" at the seaside casino, we could drop by Harrah's buffet any time we liked. We would eat there several times a month. Despite the 90-plus minute drive, Mrs. Pincus would pick me up after work during the week and we shoot down the AC Expressway for a sumptuous — and more importantly free —  dinner. But, all good things come to an end and Harrah's cut her off for no good reason and I'll be damned if I was gonna pay for a meal that I had for free over a million times. So we steered clear of Harrah's until the good folks in their promotions department invited Mrs. P back into their fold. The free buffet offers weren't nearly as plentiful, but we took full advantage of the four per month that we got.

But that didn't seem to stop a group we saw at Caesar's buffet..

Last weekend, during a free weekend stay at Bally's Resort (a sister property of Harrah's), Mrs. P and I ate dinner at the newly-renovated Palace Court Buffet in Caesar's Resort on the famous Atlantic City Boardwalk. (Caesar's is also part of the Harrah's family). We hadn't been to the buffet at Caesar's for years, unimpressed by its small size and limited selection. In our almost decade-long absence, they expanded the seating area and nearly tripled the buffet size with stations featuring pizza, Asian and Mexican cuisine, seafood, fresh sushi and a large array of salads. Due to our self-imposed dietary limitations (I'm a vegetarian and my spouse observes the laws of kashrut, avoiding shellfish and non-kosher meat. You have the internet. You can read all about it, if you're interested.) Earlier in the day, we visited the buffet and asked the cashier at the front if we could take a quick look around to see if there was enough for us to eat. Of course, there would be. We perused the many offerings and, satisfied, decided to return for dinner. We left and thanked the cashier for her consideration, making sure she saw us leave. After all, we could have very easily grabbed a plate and helped ourselves and no one would be the wiser.

After a day on the beach, we showered, changed and headed to the Palace Court Buffet. We waited in the long line with all of the other anxious diners. Finally, we presented our vouchers and were guided to a table. We filled our plates and ate. As we sat at the table at the end of our meal, Mrs. P toying with the bottom part of a cupcake and me, downing my second cup of after dinner coffee, noticed a small commotion at the table just behind us. A waiter was having a heated conversation with a table full of twenty-something hipsters who were working diligently on plates full of crab legs. It seems the waiter noticed their table was lacking the receipt from the cashier that every other table displayed conspicuously in the napkin holder. 

"Um, did you folks pay?," the waiter questioned.

The diners stopped their eating and looked at him, silently. One fellow spoke up, while his companions remained speechless. "Pay? There was no one up front to pay.," he replied, hoping that his answer would be satisfactory enough to end this exchange.

The angered waiter pressed. "You have to pay first. Before you eat." He asked the spokesman to accompany him to the cashier. As they walked away, his friends remaining at the table began to snicker. 

Mrs. P and I decided we were through. We left a tip for our waiter who was attentive and brought us iced tea refills without our asking. We made our way out of the dining area and approached the "down" escalator. We were surprised to find the non-paying diners just ahead of us on the escalator, laughing and wiping their seafood-tainted hands on their pants.

I guess free buffet vouchers are still too much to pay for some people.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

hello darkness, my old friend

Uh-oh. Here we go again. How, after so long, did I end up here? Well...

My wife has always enjoyed visiting Atlantic City, the famous Jersey shore resort. When casino gambling was introduced, Mrs. P found another reason to drive the 90 minutes from Philadelphia. She enjoyed playing slot machines. I don't know if it was the flashing lights or the cute characters that decorated the spinning reels or the cha-CHING! of coins, but something about those so-called "one-armed bandits" held her attention. I wasn't particularly worried about her frequent trips to Atlantic City. We were able to meet our financial obligations, so that wasn't an issue. But soon, the casinos, Harrah's in particular, began offering an assortment of gifts for frequent players. Gifts like small kitchen appliances, costume jewelry, Harrah's branded clothing and accessories — all for just showing up at an appointed time and presenting a voucher. She began receiving two or three pieces of promotional mail from Harrah's every day, including offers for show tickets and discounted — then, eventually free — buffets. On weekends, when I could accompany my wife on a trip to Atlantic City, I'd stand by her side and watch as she'd blow through the "free slot play" that Harrah's used to entice her to the casino, followed by a few hundred of her own money. Sometimes she'd come out ahead and sometimes she wouldn't. We'd cap our visit off with a complementary meal at Harrah's bountiful buffet, then head home.

In 2009, Mrs. P and I celebrated our twenty-fifth wedding anniversary in Las Vegas. This trip had been in the planning stages for a while and we let friends and family know the dates, hoping some would join us in our celebration. Seventeen members of our collective families met us in Sin City for a pre-planned dinner at the lovely Mon Ami Gabi at the Paris Resort, overlooking the always-interesting Vegas Strip. When we first arrived in Vegas, we checked in at the Camelot-themed Excalibur Hotel, our pre-booked accommodations for the week. My wife and son signed up for Excalibur's Slot Player Club and each received personalized cards on the spot. These cards, when inserted into a selected slot machine, track a players activity and reward various levels of comps based on play. After a week of intense tourist-y stuff and a significant amount of slot machine play, we were ready wrap up our vacation and head to the airport, Mrs. P inquired about accumulated comps at the Slot Player Club customer service desk. The helpful woman behind the counter scanned my wife's card and her eyes lit up at the results glowing on the computer monitor before her. She instructed us to go to VIP Services when we were ready to check out. We skirted the line at the hotel front desk, swarming with angry masses of guests, and passed through a set of gold-trimmed glass doors. Once inside, the sound from the lobby and  near-by casino was blotted out by lilting classical piano. The floor was covered with sparkling white carpet and several plush, upholstered chairs invited VIPs to rest until their name was called. We took a seat and soon, a tuxedoed man beckoned my wife to the counter with a graceful wave. The Pincus family approached and Mrs. P handed over her slot club card. The man nodded, smiled and swiped the card across the card reader. His monitor lit up and he examined the results, noting each line with an index finger. A printer spit out a single sheet of paper. The man made a few notations on the paper and drew a large circle at the bottom. He handed it to my wife with a gracious "Thank you." We looked at the bill. He had circled the grand total. And that total was "$0.00." A week's hotel stay, meals, snacks and a couple of drinks at a hotel bar. Zero. Nada. Nothing. My wife and I exchanged glances, then looked at the man in the tux. "Is this correct?," we said, nearly simultaneously. 

"Oh yes," he replied, "based on your play."

I turned to my wife and whispered, "How much did you play?"

"A lot.," she said plainly.

Just for kicks, my son passed his card to the man and asked if he had any comps available. The man scanned his card and laughed. He handed my son a voucher and said, "Here. Take your parents out for breakfast."

Astonished, my son asked, "Is this from the points on my card?" The man just smiled and winked.

And that's pretty much where it started. We returned home and Mrs. P continued her regular visits to the casinos in Atlantic City. The more she played, the more we benefited. Soon, Mrs. P's casino activity warranted her very own "casino hostess." This is sort-of a personal concierge, able to quickly arrange and confirm spur-of the-moment hotel reservations and secure show tickets — even for sold-out events. We received free tickets for Penn & Teller, B.B. King, Don Rickles and Tony Bennett. We had countless buffets for which we were comped. We had numerous multi-night stays at Harrah's, with all of our meals included. We were flown to several other Harrah's properties across the country, including Laughlin, Nevada, New Orleans, Louisiana and Tunica, Mississippi, where we enjoyed the same VIP treatment we received in Atlantic City. We were offered free cruises, which we happily took and enjoyed. We were riding high and reaping the benefits. Until one day, it stopped. 

I asked my wife if she could call her casino hostess and get tickets for an upcoming show. Mrs. P called and left a message. No reply. She left another message. No reply. The hostess was unresponsive for weeks. The concert I wanted to see came and went. We got the hint — loud and clear. Granted, my wife's visits to Harrah's had sort-of tapered off, but we were cut off. Cold turkey, as though we were the black sheep family member in a dying rich uncle's will.

It was fine. We moved on. Mrs. P satisfied her slot machine cravings with a few apps that she downloaded to her cellphone. Otherwise, casinos were no longer a part of our lives, save for the week-long cruises were were still awarded based on casino activity on previous cruises. But, we were done with casinos. Or, rather, they were done with us.

In the time that passed since we last visited Harrah's in Atlantic City, five — count 'em five — casinos have shut their doors permanently. The casino business in Atlantic City was obviously suffering from outside competition. New casinos have opened in Pennsylvania, Delaware, Connecticut, Maryland and New York — all of the places from which Atlantic City drew its client base, So, someone somewhere in the Marketing Analytics Department at Harrah's decided to re-assess their strategies, because, suddenly, Mrs. P was back in Harrah's good graces. She received a multi-page schedule in the mail, highlighting numerous offers tailored specifically for her. It was just like the good old days. Commencing on July 1, there were free gifts and free slot play and free hotel stays and free buffets. And, there we were on July 1, front and center. We are determined to milk this thing for as long as we can. Mrs. P will accept the free gifts and play the slots only on their promotional money, She won't put a dime of her own funds into a slot machine. We booked a weekend in July and will use our free buffets then. Also, that weekend, we will receive a voucher for another free cruise. Of course, all of Mrs. P's casino activity will be tracked and documented. And they must know that Mrs. P has not given them a dime of her own money.

So, we fully expected to be cut off by August, but Harrah's sent a calendar full of offers for September. Who knows how long we can keep this going?

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

my melancholy blues

Not Queen.

I loved Queen, the rock band that shook up radio playlists in 1974 with unique instrumentation and elaborate harmonies on their hit Killer Queen, brought opera to the mainstream, followed it up by reviving the rockabilly genre, then made a left toward funk and disco. Not bad for an art student, an astrophysicist, a dental student and an electronics engineer who stumbled into super stardom.

I saw Queen several times when I was in high school, at the height of adoration for the band. In 1977, I caught one of the coveted carnations tossed to the audience by charismatic front man Freddie Mercury during the encore of the band's Philadelphia date on the News of the World tour. I took my soon-to-be wife and my mother (um, those are two separate people) to see what would be Queen's final US tour in 1982. My mom, a long-time Queen fan experiencing her first concert, was brought to emotional tears. My almost-wife, an unwavering Dead Head, was also brought to tears — but for different reasons.

Freddie Mercury had kept his AIDS diagnosis a secret until the day before his passing in 1991. In Spring 1992, a crowd of 72,000 mourning fans packed London's Wembley Stadium for a star-studded show honoring the late singer. It was the last time the surviving members — guitarist Brian May, drummer Roger Taylor and bassist John Deacon — would perform together onstage. 

Deacon has since retired from the music business to a very non-public life, however Taylor and May have attempted to rekindle the magic of Queen's halcyon days. With May at the forefront, they recruited one-time Free and Bad Company vocalist Paul Rogers to fill Freddie Mercury's shoes (or ballet slippers, in this case). While Rogers' husky voice is typical "rock & roll," it is hardly in the same ball park as Mercury's five octave range. But that didn't deter Brian May from cashing in on the Queen legacy sans Freddie. He latched on to American Idol runner-up Adam Lambert to take on Freddie's vocal acrobatics, touting the young singer with the cringe-inducing blessing: "Freddie would have approved." (I commented at length on my current feelings for Mr. May nearly three years ago.) Needless to say, as far as I am concerned, there is no longer a band called "Queen," nor will there ever be.

Around the time that Mercury and company were telling the world that they were the champions, Broadway was alight with a show called Beatlemania. This multimedia production, billed as "not the Beatles but an incredible simulation," was a meticulous recreation of musical moments from the illustrious career of the Fab Four. It was an exciting and, for the time, unique undertaking, as well as a treat for those who had never seen the Beatles in concert (which was many, since the Beatles ceased live concerts in 1966). The four members of the cast talked like the Beatles, dressed like the Beatles, moved like the Beatles and, yes, sang like the Beatles. It was spectacular, if not a bit eerie. The production, which ran for over 1000 performances, spawned a new show business phenomena — the tribute band.

When I was younger, my friends and I would frequent any number of dive bars in our area. Besides cheap beer, these places would feature a band offering their interpretations of the hits of the day. In addition, some bands would do an entire set of the songs of one band. There was Witness, who did a Jethro Tull set.  There was the all-girl band Rapture, giving their best approximation of Blondie and, of course, local legends Crystal Ship famous for their Doors show. (Crystal Ship are famously mocked by The Dead Milkmen in the spoken intro of their song "Bitchin' Camaro.") These were just a bunch of guys playing songs by their favorite popular bands. But, more recently, tribute bands are big business. They tour regularly and get themselves booked into larger venues. Some even are officially sanctioned by the band to which they offer tribute. With clever (?) names like The Musical Box (a Genesis tribute), Strutter (a KISS tribute) and The Iron Maidens (an all-female tribute to guess who?) and some not-so-clever names like Australian Pink Floyd and 2U, these bands draw a loyal following of both the tribute and actual band.

Yesterday, my wife called me at work to tell me that her cousins Diahann and Heath (remember them?) were offering us tickets to see a Queen tribute show at The Borgata in Atlantic City. Mrs. P would pick me up near my office after work and we'd drive to the shore for dinner (again, complements of Diahann and Heath) before heading to the show. I did a quick Google search for this particular Queen tribute and discovered an officially endorsed tribute called "The Queen Extravaganza" starring one Marc Martell. The project, produced by Queen drummer Roger Taylor, was described as "much-buzzed-about" and has received much praise. Martell was commended as sounding "as if Freddie (Mercury) was in the room." However, further investigation revealed that the show we would be seeing was not that show. It appears that Mr. Martell has split with the official version, and taken his own rogue band in a similar direction, calling themselves "The Ultimate Queen Celebration." Ultimate, indeed.

After dinner, we entered the sparsely-populated venue a few minutes before showtime and were ushered to our eighth row seats. Mrs. P and I glanced around the room and assessed that the majority of the crowd had at least ten years on us... or perhaps they had all just led hard lives. Soon the lights dimmed and stage smoke enveloped the racked guitars and drum kit. In the dark, a man in our row screamed at the top of his nicotine-roughened voice: "Freddie's in the house!" Mrs. P and I exchanged surprised looks and Mrs. P whispered, "These people think they're at a Queen concert." On second thought, she may not have said "people." She may have said "idiots." Other folks were screaming wildly, bopping their heads and throwing up the "devil horns" (The same ones that KISS's Gene Simmons wants to trademark). The band members emerged from the violet-lit smoke, strapped on their instruments and launched into "Tie Your Mother Down," the lead-off track from Queen's 1976 effort A Day at the Races. Marc Martell, the alleged second coming of Freddie Mercury, stepped to the front of the stage and belted out the song's opening lines: 

"Get your party gown
Get your pigtail down
Get your heart beatin' baby" 

Was he good? He was okay. Was he Freddie Mercury? Not. Even. Close. Bud.

They were a cover band. A band doing other band's songs. Mr. Martell was making a half-hearted attempt at imitating some of Freddie Mercury's signature stage moves, while incorporating some of his own gestures. (Having seen the real Queen, I am very familiar with Freddie's faux ballet, stiff-finger punches in the air and microphone balancing.) The band was average, with the lead guitarist copying Brian May's well-known solos, but not his expression. Actually, he looked as though he had better things to do.

They delivered song after song, feigning excitement with each one. I physically winced at the opening strains of Sheer Heart Attack's "Now I'm Here," one of my favorite songs in the Queen canon. 

Not Queen.

Each new number — "Killer Queen," "Save Me," "Love of My Life," "Play the Game" — merely served as a sad reminder of how good Queen was. I silently reminisced about how much I once loved this band and how I still smile when I hear one of their hits and what a welcome shot of nostalgia it is to hear one of their more obscure songs. But, by Queen — not a cover band. Freddie Mercury oozed a certain amount of arrogance and pomposity, but it was earned. He was beloved by fans worldwide. When he greeted a local audience with "Hello Filthy-delphia! How are you motherfuckers?," it was received with reverence and esteem — especially when it was intoned with his upper-crust British accent. When Marc Martell, with the tiniest bit of smugness, shouted: "How are we, New Jersey?," it was met with a smattering of light applause. This was Queen karaoke by some guys playing rock & roll dress-up.

After a while, I was embarrassed. For the band and for the audience.

I don't know what would have made it better. Would I have appreciated it more if it was closer to Beatlemania, with the band members actually dressing like and imitating the members of Queen? I really don't know. I think that would have made it too close to the stage show We Will Rock You, the Ben Elton-penned Queen musical in the Mamma Mia vein. My son and I saw this ill-conceived debacle in Las Vegas and I hated it. I mean I really hated it. So, I don't know.

Was "The Ultimate Queen Celebration." an interesting evening? Oh sure. Hey, I got a blog post out of it. It also made me want to listen to my old Queen albums — something I haven't done in, literally, years.

The band wasn't bad. The performance wasn't horrible. But, most importantly, it wasn't Queen.

This is:

Queen.

Look, Diahann, I didn't even mention the pretzels.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

it's important to me

Mrs. P and I just returned from our third cruise in as many years. While we did have a good time — a great time, as a matter of fact — each cruise was nearly identical. Yeah, they each had the same itinerary (two days at sea, stop at Port Canaveral, Florida, stop at Norwegian Cruise Lines' private island, stop at Nassau, Bahamas, then two more days at sea), but I mean the overall experience was the same. There were scheduled activities, 24 hour-a-day food, high energy, yet campy, shows and... did I mention there was food 24 hours-a-day?

The early part of the cruise is sort of a self-orientation period. After boarding the ship, the first activity is, of course, a visit to the buffet. Here, one can get a preview of the obscene amounts of food that will be abundantly available for the next seven days. During your third or fourth helping of spicy citrus cole slaw and pomegranate cheesecake brûlée, the PA crackles to life with the announcement that the staterooms are ready. Then after unpacking your belongings into the tiny drawers and skinny closets of your cabin, all guests are instructed to gather at a designated area for a mandatory life boat drill. Federal maritime law and the International Brotherhood of Seafarers (I think) require all cruise lines to have a life boat drill prior to launch. (That's launch, not lunch. For Chrissakes, you just ate lunch!) 

All cruise lines treat the life boat drill differently. Some are rigid and deadly serious, requiring passengers to don life jackets and stand silently by their appointed lifeboats. Others, like Norwegian, are more relaxed, merely having guests gather, sans life jackets, in an on-board restaurant, bar or other common area and sit through a five minute run-through of some loud air-horn blasts. At 2:30 sharp, Mrs. P and I joined our fellow "Section G1"s and waited until we were given the "all clear." We sat at a table in one of the ship's formal dining rooms as other guests filed in at staggered intervals. Slowly. Very slowly. A crew member in an official-looking vest checked names off on an official-looking clipboard. Several other crew members in equally official-looking vests, circled through the assembled crowd counting and recounting. The first crew member announced that we would begin once everyone from our section was accounted for. People were trickling in at 2:45. Others stumbled in as the clock approached 3 o'clock. At thirty minutes after the designated time, people were still entering the "G1" area, kicking punctuality to the proverbial curb. Finally, with everyone in attendance, the alarms sounded and the drill was completed. Everyone filed out and, most likely, headed back to the buffet.

Once the ship crossed the 12 nautical mile mark, the on-board casino sprang to life with the ringing of slot machines and the shrieking of winners. The casino remained open for the next consecutive 48 hours, as the ship cut its way down the eastern seaboard in international waters toward Florida and all points south. When the vessel entered Port Canaveral, slot machines were silenced, chips were stacked and locked up and the casino emptied as passengers took the gangway out to the various available shore excursions.

Mrs. P and I returned from our shore excursion, a full day at Downtown Disney, the shopping district at Walt Disney World. We made our way back on to the ship and walked through the closed casino. We nearly screeched to a stop. Every single seat at every single blackjack table was occupied, as were the seats at every slot machine and all available space at the craps tables. The casino would not open for at least ninety minutes, as buses arrived from various shore excursion destinations. Yet guests had already staked their territory, not wanting to miss a single second of gambling activity. I recognized some as the same people who sauntered in late for the life boat drill. 

When it comes to personal safety and gambling, it was clear which was a priority. The early bird gets to double down.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

the party's over

Atlantic City's history is not unlike the roller coasters that once rose up along its sandy shore. Once renowned as "The World's Playground," the seaside town experienced a construction boom in the early 20th century, with the small rooming houses being replaced by more regal accommodations and anxious visitors eager to take in shows, amusements and the other curiosities of the world-famous Boardwalk. Men were required to wear suit jackets when taking an evening stroll. The majestic hotels offered beach-goers special, hidden access, as decorum prohibited bathing suits on the Boardwalk.

After World War II, the area slumped into poverty. Hotels were vacant, as cheap airfare made places like Miami Beach more appealing. Crime rose and political corruption increased and came to an ugly head when the press showed the city in a negative (albeit truthful) light during the 1964 Democratic Convention.

Cha-ching!

In 1976, in an effort to reinvent itself, New Jersey passed a referendum allowing casino gambling in Atlantic City. In May 1978, the former Chalfont-Haddon Hall Hotel emerged as Resorts International, the first legal casino on the East coast. It was the "shot in the arm" that Atlantic City's economy needed. Queue lines were steady as patrons waited for hours to gamble. Trying to maintain an aura of class and sophistication, the casinos enforced a dress code. No shorts, no t-shirts, no sneakers, and especially no bathing suits. Men were required to wear a jacket. Atlantic City was once again on the rise.

A little over a year later, Resorts International faced its first bit of competition. In June 1979, Las Vegas heavyweight Caesars opened a casino on the Boardwalk. In addition to cutting into Resorts' monopoly, Caesars offered a relaxed dress code. Jackets were only required after 6 PM. At the risk of losing potential customers (and revenue), Resorts adopted the policy as well. Then, as more casinos opened, regulations regarding attire took a back seat. Dress on the casino floor became "come as you are." At one point, Atlantic City boasted over a dozen casinos. My wife and I played (sometimes winning, sometimes losing) in almost all of them. And we wore whatever we wanted.

The casinos were supposed to reinvigorate the area. They were supposed to create jobs and benefit the surrounding community. They were supposed to. Most casinos were offered tax breaks and special incentives as reward for building in Atlantic City. In reality, the casinos lined their own pockets and regarded the residents with a tall middle finger. Sometimes they even gave that same finger to their own customers. The prevailing attitude was: "We are the only game in town. You wanna gamble somewhere else? The next closest place is Las Vegas and that's 2500 miles away!" Prices were high, service was adequate at best, but attitude was plentiful.

My family visited Las Vegas for the first time in 2003. I was expecting Atlantic City in the desert. Boy, was I wrong! It was more like Disneyland for adults. Each massive hotel was embellished with over-the-top, impeccable theming. There was the Luxor with its frighteningly realistic Egyptian motif. The medieval charm of Excalibur, looking like it popped out of a fairy tale. The incredible authentic detail of New York New York. We were totally captivated and didn't know where to look first. In addition to casinos, there were ridiculously inexpensive all-you-can-eat buffets, nightly outdoor light shows, endless unique shopping areas and extreme thrill rides. While waiting in line at a restaurant, a couple asked where we were from. "Philadelphia," we replied. Puzzled, they asked why would we come to Vegas if we live so close to Atlantic City? My wife and I exchanged knowing glances and answered, "That's a question coming from someone who has never been to Atlantic City." There was no comparison. Atlantic City is no Las Vegas. Not by a long shot. Although it thinks it is.

Closed.  Closed. Closed. Closed. Closed. 

Soon, the states surrounding New Jersey — Pennsylvania, New York, Connecticut, Delaware and Maryland — all passed casino gambling laws and wasted no time in jumping into the gambling pool. Suddenly, Atlantic City had some serious competition. Although the Atlantic City casinos were obviously feeling the drop in attendance and revenue, they did virtually nothing to help their cause. They still kept their elitist attitude, despite there being less people to wield it upon. 

At nine months into 2014, four Atlantic City casinos have permanently shut their doors, including the 2.4 billion dollar Revel that lasted a mere 29 months. Just this afternoon, it was announced that a fifth would close in November. Yet, Atlantic City turns a blind eye to its own situation and that blind eye refuses to acknowledge the handwriting on the wall.

Atlantic City is like that one pretty girl in sixth grade. All the boys follow her around, giving her their full attention and she is well aware of all of the attention she's getting. But a few years into high school, there are other pretty girls wearing cool clothes and current hair styles. The pretty sixth-grader has now faded into the background. She's still wearing those silly jumpers and that wide white headband to keep her hair in place. She's not as popular as she used to be, but she still has the snobby attitude.

She's all alone on Prom Night and no one feels sorry for her.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

who let the dogs out?

It's been some time since I offended dog owners (December 2012, March 2011 and way back in August 2010), so let's give this another shot.

You love your dog? Good for you! But I've got some bad news for you, sunshine... I don't love your dog. Nor do a whole lot of other people. Fortunately for you, the good folks at Harrah's Resort in Atlantic City have rolled out the flea-bitten carpet for you and the kibble-eating members of your household. It seems that the casino is hurting for business and want to throw out the welcome mat to everyone. Having already divided and sub-divided the "No Smoking" areas of the casino floor for the sake of future emphysema patients, they are now offering accommodations to guests with dogs, provided they are under fifty pounds (The dogs, not the guests. Harrah's still offers one of the best all-you-can-eat buffets at the Jersey Shore).

There is a list of rules and regulations regarding staying with dogs. One of the five guest room towers has been designated as the "dog" tower. Dogs must be crated when left unattended or when a member of the housekeeping staff is making up the room. Not unreasonable. Not unreasonable at all. Unfortunately, there are those among us that live by the credo: "Rules? Rules are for you assholes. The rules do not apply to me." Then, there is that other group, too (the ones I referenced earlier). The ones who love their dogs and believe that everyone else loves their dogs, as well. The ones who think their dog is a person*. The ones who refer to their dog as "my baby." The ones who don't restrain their dogs around other people. The ones who insist their dog is just being friendly as it wipes its muddy paws all over your shirt and jams its snout into your crotch.

These are the guests that will bring trouble to the well-meaning Harrah's.

The elevators at the designated "dog" tower let out mere steps from a busy, twenty-four hour coffee shop. That means dog hair in the food. Dogs, while leashed, will encounter other dogs in common guest areas (lobbies, inside walkways, front desk, elevators etc.). Dogs are known to be unpredictable around other dogs.(Yes, even your dog!) Children love to pet dogs, whether or not your dog likes to be petted... and dogs bite. Some owners don't bathe their dogs regularly. Oh, and sometimes dogs shit on the floor. (Yes, even your dog!) 

I hope Harrah's little canine experiment works out for them. I, however, will not be around to see if it does.

Look, I hate dogs as much as the next dog hater. But, I hate overzealous dog owners more.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

*Your dog is not a person and never will be. Never.

after all, we're only ordinary men

Casinos are places of unusual camaraderie. I am not a fan of camaraderie of any sort, but in casinos it particularly unsettling. I have observed on many occasions that the overwhelming population of people that visit casinos look as though the last place they should be is in a casino. There is an “Us Against Them” feeling among most casino patrons. It’s a feeling of we, as gamblers, are in a battle against the nameless, faceless, evil entity that is “The Casino” and it is our duty to take down this Goliath. Defeat is achieved by bankrupting the giant and since we are “all in this together”, we are entitled to know the status of each member of the campaign. This is a group to which I do not wish to belong, nor do I wish to be recruited.

Because of the configuration of casino’s slot machine areas — wide open floor space with row after row of machines  — non-playing spectators are offered easy access to view and comment on the activity of total strangers and a lot of them take full advantage of the situation. And once someone occupies the machine next to you, they are granted full disclosure to your financial situation. Or so they believe.

My wife and I spent the final days of 2012 in Atlantic City as guests of Harrah’s Casino Resort. In the afternoon, Mrs. P and I ventured into the casino for a little gaming before attending a New Years Eve party for invited guests. My wife sat down at a slot machine and slid a twenty into the bill acceptor slot and the machine sprung to life. She hit a few consecutive winning combinations, each one tendering a fairly high payout. I stood quietly behind her and expressed my pleasure of her luck. The older woman seated at the machine to her immediate left paused her playing to also express her pleasure.

“Oh good for you!,” she exclaimed in a cigarette-roughened voice, “That was a good hit!” and then, she questioned, “How much did that pay?”

We both looked at her without answering. My wife pushed the “Cash Out” button, grabbed the printed voucher and we left. We found another machine, one themed to the 1984 Bill Murray supernatural comedy Ghostbusters. This particular machine is set up as a pair of consoles with stereo speakers integrated into the bucket seat. The two machines are connected to a flat-screen monitor that displays game graphics, scenes from the film and simulcasts of the games in play. The game is loud and fun and — if you’re winning — even more fun. While Mrs. P played, a man walked up to watch the action. At first, we thought he was a companion to the woman playing the Ghostbusters game next to our left, but we soon realized, by her reaction to his unwanted commentary, he was not. This man’s comments got louder and more frequent as the time went on. And the longer he stood by us, he deemed himself the official Ghostbusters slot machine play-by-play announcer. He described each and every outcome of each and every spin of the electronic reels. “Hey, that was a good pay!” and “Yes! Five of a kind! That pays great!” were coming at us every few seconds. He emphatically cheered when the three “Bonus Game” symbols appeared on the center reel, indicating additional play-within-play for supplemental payouts. He offered his views on which were the better Bonus Games, which were his favorite, which gave the highest payouts — all without anyone ever asking his opinion.

Despite the fact that she was doing well, Mrs. P had had enough. She stabbed the “Cash Out” button with her finger. As she grabbed the newly-printed voucher, the man, now standing well into our personal space, asked, “Are you guys winning?” We did not answer as we pushed past him and made our way deeper into the casino.

The news is full of stories of people being followed, attacked, beaten, robbed, carjacked, and murdered in the areas surrounding casinos. Crooks will observe a winning patron and tail them to a secluded, dimly-lit area of a parking lot and help themselves to the winners’ stash, sometimes with the help of a weapon. Some winners have even been followed home by determined thieves. So why on earth would I confirm to a random someone in a casino that I am winning? Why would a complete stranger feel that my monetary status at that particular moment is any of their goddamn business? Would these same people stand outside of a bank and inquire about the balance in my checking account? Would they feel that the contents of my monthly Visa bill is within their right to know? Do they believe that my weekly pay stub should be public knowledge? My income tax return put on display?

Humans. I will never figure them out.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

clink, clink, another drink

I've been to many restaurants and I'm sure you have, too. I am pretty familiar with the procedure. You enter. You are greeted by a host or hostess, who asks the number in your party and pretty soon, you are led to a table. You receive menus, or in the case of a buffet, you just head off in the direction of the food. A member of the wait staff will come to your table and introduce themselves, inquiring about your beverage order. The reason they are called "waiters" is that they wait on you. And conversely, you wait for them to come to you.

Or so I thought.

Last week, my wife and I found ourselves in yet another casino. This time, it was Paris in Las Vegas. We wandered the faux cobblestone that wound around the rear of the casino floor, passing a bakery and convenience store, each with meticulously themed façades, until we arrived at The Village Buffet. The buffet at Paris is not that different from other buffets we have visited, so the securing of a table followed roughly the same procedure. After being shown to a table, Mrs. P and I started off at the salad area, as per our usual routine. Upon returning to our table, a young man clad in the dark, formal uniform of the staff, introduced himself as "Melvin" and began pouring water into our glasses. He was asking for our proper drink order when a man appeared behind him. Melvin was startled, even more so when this man draped a lazy arm around Melvin's shoulders. The man, now using poor Melvin as a crutch, was dressed in dingy gray sweatpants and a threadbare t-shirt tucked haphazardly into his waistband. He leaned in close to Melvin's ear and began to speak. Melvin recoiled, obviously affected by the man's alcohol-tinged breath.

"Can I get two Pepsis over at my table?," he slurred, pointing off in the distance, "Two Pepsis."

Dutifully, Melvin nodded and eked out a crookedly uncomfortable smile. The man took a more than adequate amount of time to remove his arm from Melvin's person and then staggered off in the direction of his point. Melvin resumed filling our water glasses and muttered something under his breath. He looked up and smiled at us.

"Two iced teas for you, right?," he said, "Be right back." He proceeded toward the beverage station, shaking his head.

The double Pepsi-craving man — inexplicably — left the restaurant and stumbled towards the casino.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

josh pincus is crying is on Facebook now. You like him, right?

that's what friends are for

Earlier this evening, I was waiting for my wife to pick me up after work. (Okay, I was waiting outside of a casino, but that really has nothing to do with the story.  Okay. Okay, we were on our way to another casino to have dinner, but, again, that has nothing to do with the story!) Where was I....? Oh yeah... miraculously the Market-Frankford subway was running on schedule, so I arrived at Sugar House Casino around fifteen minutes before Mrs. Pincus did. Biding my time until I spotted my wife's car, I paced about our appointed meeting place just outside the north entrance. I fiddled with my phone. I avoided a few random dragonflies that buzzed off the nearby Delaware River. I checked my watch. I checked the digital clock on my phone. I compared the two times.

As I stood and waited, various people paraded by me. Some entering the casino, some exiting. Some paced around, making cellphone calls, others catching a quick smoke before heading back inside. I stared out across the parking lot and a figure came into my peripheral vision. I have an uncanny knack for ignoring pretty much anyone I choose to. I exercised my ability and ignored the gentleman, who had now parked his considerable bulk on the broken top of an ambient light fixture less than a foot or so away from me. He exhaled dramatically and exclaimed, "Ahhh! I gotta tell ya...."  to no one in particular, but unconsciously directed toward me.

I continued to ignore.

After a few moments of silence, he began again. "Did you ever have a friend that promised something and then didn't come through?," he asked hypothetically, directing his inquiry even more to me.

Reluctantly, I answered, "I have no friends." hoping my snide reply would put a quick end to this exchange.

"No friends?," he asked.

I shook my head. Twice, to be exact.

He wasn't even close to finished. "I owe a guy money," he continued, "and my friend was supposed to give me the money. I been trying to get a hold of him all day."

"Can't rely on anyone," I said. "That's why I don't have friends."

"Well," he elaborated, as though I cared, "I guess I gotta face the music and tell this guy he's not getting his money. I guess I gotta face the music."  I thought for sure that this gentleman was going to ask me for a "few spare bucks to help him out". I could feel it coming. Instead, he produced a cell phone and dialed a number. "Hello? Sam?," he spoke into the small electronic device, "Did you get the package I left for you? You didn't? Oh, well, I'll be by later on to drop something off to you." He added a quick "goodbye" and mashed the "End Call" button. Turning his attention back to me, he announced, "That was easier that I thought."

I nodded and hoped my wife would be pulling up any second.

"No friends, huh?," he reiterated, still intrigued by the beginning of our (mostly one-sided) dialogue.

"Nope.," I answered.

"Don't rely on anyone, huh?"

Again, I shook my head in the negative.

"Except for the Man Upstairs...right?," he said and smiled hopefully.

I stared silent and expressionless back at him.

"No response to that?," he questioned

"No response.," I responded.

"HA!," he laughed, "You have a good day, my friend." and he walked off towards the casino entrance.

http://www.joshpincusiscrying.com

bright light city, gonna set my soul, gonna set my soul on fire

I've made it pretty clear that my wife and I visit casinos a lot. Okay... maybe a little more that "a lot". The Waterfront Buffet at Harrah's Resort in Atlantic City is a great place to eat. That fact that it is connected to a casino and, due to my wife's — shall we say — "affinity" for gambling, we haven't paid for a meal there in years, makes it all the better. We have experienced the over-the-top glitz of Las Vegas and the faded, slow-paced, middle-of-nowhere desolation of Laughlin, Nevada and everything in between. We live within a convenient driving distance to several casinos. There's Atlantic City, the gaming mecca that has ruled the east coast since 1978. More recently, we have patronized Sugar House (the first and, so far, only casino within the Philadelphia city limits), Parx (the former Philadelphia Race Track) and the Harrah's location in the blighted hamlet of Chester, Pennsylvania.

I am fascinated by the other people I see at casinos. I usually stand behind my wife as she sits before a glowing slot machine, feeding triple-digit currency into the acceptance slot like scrap paper into a shredder. Trying to break the hypnotism of watching the blurred reels spin, I watch the crowds of people shuffle by. I maintain that the overwhelming majority of guests at a casino look as though the last place they should be is in a casino. Most wander about the rows of slot machines, glassy-eyed and confused, pausing briefly to study the possible money-making options the machines offer. (My wife and I play slot machines exclusively. The house minimums at table games have kept me away since the early 80s.) The age of the average slot player is that of one who has been on a fixed, government-support income in the many years since their mandatory retirement.

On a recent late Friday evening, Mrs. Pincus and I found ourselves seated at a slot machine based on the Las Vegas romp The Hangover. The machine was part of a free-standing island on the casino floor that was coupled with three additional machines of a duplicate theme. My wife and I do our very best to draw little attention to ourselves. If we are winning, it's no one's business. Same goes for losing. Other people, it seems, are of a decidedly different line of thought. It seems that television commercials have set a precedent for how to behave at a casino — at that is loud and cartoonishly animated. Add an abundance of free alcohol that crosses the legal limit and you have a very volatile and obnoxious combination. On this particular night, one such example was at the machine on the other side of ours. A woman in her early thirties was screeching and whooping and barely able to stand on her feet. She was not playing and merely observing the progress of the active player. While this woman was staggering and screaming, she was being physically supported by a large man bearing an uncanny resemblance to Santa Claus. He was dressed in jeans and a yellow chamois shirt, but most striking was the vest that he wore. The top half was bedecked with a multitude of glistening multicolored stones (not jewels, stones) and a the bottom had — what appeared to be — the loose change found beneath a sofa cushion and sewn into individual coin-sized pockets. A large, ten-gallon hat decorated with silver, turquoise and feathers completed the outfit. When Mrs. Pincus and I decided that we had sufficiently won (or lost) enough, we left, but not before I was doused with ice from a cup that the drunk woman lobbed into a trash receptacle. "Oh my God! Oh my God!," she slurred, "I'm s-s-so sorry!" and she Oh my God -ed me all the way out the door.

The next night, we headed down the Atlantic City Expressway to Harrah's to enjoy the bountiful buffet and a crack a untold riches. We stopped by the Total Rewards desk, the customer service area for members of Harrah's "frequent gamblers" club, to pick up vouchers for a future promotion. The free Total Rewards membership is offered in four levels: Gold, Platinum, Diamond and Seven Stars. Upon entry to Total Rewards, members are placed at the Gold level. As frequency of gambling is increased, tracked and proven, membership level is raised. My wife is currently at the Diamond level. As we stood in the queue line awaiting our turn with a representative, we quietly chatted about some non-casino related subject. Suddenly the woman in front of us turned around and began loudly criticizing the qualifying criteria of admittance to the Seven Stars level. She angrily voiced her opinion to us or several minutes as we stood in silence. Then, just as abruptly and unprovoked, snapped around on her heels and approached the next available agent. My wife and I stared blankly at each other.

Once in the queue at the Waterfront Buffet, Mrs. Pincus rifled through her purse to locate a coupon that offered free dining (and that was possibly expired). The line slowly made its way to the cashier counter when a young man immediately in front of us rudely interupted our conversation.

"You got any coupons?," he asked.

"What?'", my wife replied and I whispered: "Do you know him?" She shrugged in the negative.

He figeted in his ill-fitting overcoat, ran his hand through his uncombed hair and repeated, "You got any coupons?"

"No.," Mrs. Pincus answered. By this time, our meddler had been called on the step up to the cashier. He produced a creased paper from his pocket and asked the clerk, "Do you take coupns from Caesar's ?(another casino, but part of the Harrah's family)".

"No, we don't," she said.

"Then, I hav'ta pay ?, " he asked.

"If you'd like to eat here, yes.," she answered.

We approached another cashier, one we knew from many previous visits. My wife made small talk and the cashier tossed our coupon to one side without looking at it. She wrote out a table card and, with a smile, directed us to the hostess. The young man, struggling to situate his wallet back into his baggy, pants pocket, pushed his way in front of us. The hostess led our "party of two" and his "party of one" through the massive dining room. On our journey, he stopped a pointed to several empty tables, inquiring, "Can I sit here? Can I sit there? " until he was eventually seated in a remote corner away from other diners. The hostess figured him out immediately. We caught glimpses of him during our meal, as he bothered as exasperated waitress for dinnertime conversation of which she had no interest.

Mrs. Pincus and I finished our dessert and walked to the casino to encounter characters that will make it into a future blog post.