crush with eyeliner

After two years of dating and thirty-eight years of marriage, Mrs. Pincus and I have had some pretty weird conversations. Because we share so many interests (we do part ways on some subjects), we have been known to have lengthy and deep discussions about all aspects of certain television shows from our youth. These conversations are frequent — more frequent that you would imagine — and they are great for making the time pass on long car rides (and we take a lot of those, too.)

Subtopics of conversations have ranged from the total implausibility of Gilligan's Island to the subtle and heretofore unnoticed similarities between The Andy Griffith Show and Little House on the Prairie to why Darrin Stephens should have been thanking his lucky stars to have nabbed a hot witch like Samantha who was clearly out of his league. We have revealed our favorite episodes of Twilight Zone, as well as our least favorites. We have marveled at the casting of a handful of character actors who have appeared in multiple roles on numerous TV series throughout the 50s, 60s and even into the 80s. (John Anderson and the unrelated Richard Anderson come to mind.) We have talked about obscure game shows that we watched on days we were kept home from school with the sniffles. We lamented over that fact that none of the current crop of "retro TV" networks show the classic Hanna-Barbera cartoons, like Yogi Bear, Pixie & Dixie and Top Cat. This, my friends, is the secret to a long and loving marriage.

A few days ago, while out walking (not driving this time), I asked my wife about TV crushes she had as a kid. In reality, I knew of two of them — Bobby Sherman and Randolph Mantooth. Early on in our relationship, the subject must have come up. In addition, Mrs. P has held on to a couple of well-played 45 singles of Bobby Sherman recordings, as well as a big plastic button emblazoned with his toothy smile under that trademark helmet of hair. She purchased this beloved keepsake at a 1971 live concert by Bobby Sherman — one she begged her father to take her to at the long-gone Philadelphia Civic Center. I'm pretty sure my father-in-law wore a suit and tie to that one, after all, he wore a tie to the beach. Despite television throwing David Cassidy, Leif Garrett and Davy Jones in the direction of every pre-teen girl, the future Mrs. Pincus remained loyal to Bobby Sherman... until Randy Mantooth came along. 

Just a year after breathing the same air as Bobby Sherman at that West Philadelphia venue, producer Jack Webb, capitalizing on the "procedural drama" concept he made popular with Dragnet and Adam-12, introduced Emergency on NBC. The show followed the daily doings of the firefighter-cum-paramedics at LA County's Station 51. There was action, adventure, drama and, above all, there was dreamy Randolph Mantooth as hunky but benevolent and brave John Gage. Because Randy Mantooth didn't muster a singing career, Mrs. Pincus had to look elsewhere for mementos to reinforce her affection for the dark, handsome actor. She purchased a metal lunchbox shaped like a fire engine, as well as a plastic fire helmet featuring the Station 51 badge and Viewmaster reels highlighting scenes from the show. Those items and others still occupy a place of prominence and honor on a shelf in our third-floor office.

And that's it. Just those two. Even when pressed, my wife confessed to having only two TV crushes as a child. She hedged at including Henry Winkler in the group, but, after a little thought, she determined that her feelings for The Fonz were not on the same level as those for Mr. Sherman and Mr. Mantooth. Contrary to the sentiment expressed in that Joe Jackson song, I contend that it's different for boys... because I had more TV crushes that I can remember.

I seems I was smitten by every pretty female face that flashed across my television screen. In my house, the playing field was evened because we only had black & white television sets until I was in high school. So, Tina Louise's flaming red hair offered no special consideration over Dawn Wells' dark allure. Susan Dey's psychedelic stage costumes were a meaningless enhancement and Marlo Thomas' rouged cheeks and pastel eyeshadow were wasted on my potential devotion. Arlene Golonka's colorful wardrobe was monotone in my eyes. It didn't matter that Judy Carne's bikini-clad body was mistaken for a coloring book. I had a crush on all of them anyway! But, if we are really confessing, my main TV crushes were double the amount of my spouses. And, later in my life as an adult, I got to meet two of them. I coulda died!

Karen Valentine - How adorable was Karen Valentine?!? The pretty costar of the comedy-drama (years before the portmanteau "dramedy" was coined) Room 222 was an early crush of mine. Room 222, depicting the academic adventures of the students and faculty of Walt Whitman High School, premiered in 1969 in a prime spot in ABC's coveted Friday night line-up — smack dab between lead-ins The Brady Bunch and The Partridge Family and followed by The Odd Couple and Love American Style. Karen Valentine's portrayal of naïve student teacher "Miss Johnson" was positively charming. I can still remember, in the opening credits, when the school bus door slammed in her face... ugh! she was precious! Many years later, I met Karen Valentine at an autograph show. I sheepishly approached her table for an inscribed photo. I also confessed my feelings for her. She smiled sweetly, if a bit leery of this 50+ year-old guy opening up to her. I qualified my admission by saying it was as big a crush that an eight-year old could have. She laughed.

Yvonne Craig - How adorable was Yvonne Craig?!? I was a huge fan of the original campy classic Batman series starring Adam West. After two seasons of extraordinary popularity, the TV viewing public began to stray. Creator/producer William Dozier was looking for a way to inject new energy into the floundering series. Taking inspiration from Julie Newmar's slinky portrayal of the villainous "Catwoman" (the reason my dad and every other dad across the country subjected themselves to Batman on a weekly basis), Dozier recruited actress/ballet dancer Yvonne Craig to don a skintight purple suit as the sexy and mysterious "Batgirl." Fresh off appearances in two Elvis movies and a slew of TV Westerns, Yvonne's "Batgirl" was the exciting shot-in-the-arm that Batman needed. Unfortunately, the show only lasted 26 more episodes before its Bat-plug was pulled. But — boy, oh, boy — was I captivated by Yvonne Craig's high kicks, snappy banter, confident personality and faux long hair that cascaded from under her identity-concealing cowl. For bat's sake, it even baffled her father, the perennially befuddled Commissioner Gordon. Sure, I was just seven years-old when Batman left the airwaves, but, upon more recent viewings, I know now that little Josh was on to something.

Tina Cole - How adorable was Tina Cole?!? Nobody, but nobody, wore a bubble-cut like beautiful Tina Cole. Best known as - sigh! - "Mrs. Robbie Douglas" on the final five seasons of the popular family sitcom My Three Sons, Tina was, as Chip or Ernie might have put it, "real keen and junk!" She appeared in a single early episode of the show, but was brought back as "Katie," future wife of Don Grady's "Robbie." Her character was introduced on the first episode of Season Eight, when the Douglas family moves to California. After the family faces a succession of rude neighbors, store clerks and other assorted and rude Angelenos, Katie is a radiant beacon of friendliness when Robbie bumps into her on his first day of college. By Episode 2, Robbie asks Katie to marry him. Can you blame him? Tina Cole was absolutely delightful. She was pretty, she dressed in 60s mini skirts and enough paisley-patterned blouses to make Prince jealous, and she sported "the Rachel" two years before Jennifer Aniston was born. I met Tina at an autograph show in 2015 and, against my better judgement, I spilled my heart to her. Again, I reminded her that I was speaking about the innocent libido of a six-year old. She laughed and shyly batted her eyelashes. She was still adorable Katie.

Maureen McCormick - How adorable was Maureen McCormick?!? When The Brady Bunch was first broadcast in September 1969, who ever dreamed that it would continue in syndication pretty much forever? One of the main reasons for its ongoing, generation-spanning popularity is — without a doubt — Maureen McCormick. "Marcia Brady," as brought to life by the lovely Maureen, was every pre-teenage boys' dream. She was pretty with a gorgeous smile and she was built like a brick.... well, certainty not one of the buildings that Mike Brady designed. Most of all, she seemed approachable, like someone you'd see at school and could be your friend. Plus, we watched her grow up right before our eyes. From a cute thirteen year old at the series premiere, Maureen blossomed into a knockout by the fifth and final season. Recent accounts of her wild, drug-fueled, off-camera antics made Maureen all the more appealing. But, while The Brady Bunch was in network first run, she was every boy's fantasy prom date. Everyone from Davy Jones to Big Man on Campus "Doug Simpson" wanted Maureen McCormick... and "Oscy" from the Summer of '42 ended up with her! Go figure!

Well, there you have it. I confessed. Anything you'd like to get off your chest?

We're all adults here.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

after last night

My wife and I are often asked: "How did you two meet?" It's a story that we have told many, many times over the years — both separately and together. In a group situation, the story usually unfolds as though it's been rehearsed over and over again. We take turns interjecting a crucial piece of the tale, like we are reciting lines from a script that we have been performing on a nationwide tour. Well, this year — this month, as a matter of fact — marks the 40th anniversary since the night we met. So, if you've heard this story before or if you haven't, here it is in all its quirky, typical Pincus glory...

I was a student at a respected Philadelphia art school in 1982. Prior to enrollment, I was informed by my parents — the world's worst handlers of money — that if I chose to continue my education past the tuition-free arrangement of public school, I was on my own. So, just out of high school, I wandered — alone — into a bank and with no prior experience aside from a little savings account (complete with a bank book) I had in third grade, I dove headfirst into the uncharted world of student loans. After a lengthy explanation of terms, I signed a bunch of papers and, a few weeks later, I received a check for tuition made out jointly to me and the school. I would have to begin repaying this loan (and subsequent loans I would contract over the next three years) six months after graduation. I had a job as a cashier at at discount department store near my Northeast Philadelphia home, but I needed to find something a little closer to the Center City location of my new school. Well, I did — at my cousin's health food restaurant. While his establishment did a brisk lunchtime business, he was looking to open a few nights a week for dinner. With my beard, ponytail and bohemian "art school" attitude, I would fit right in — despite the fact that I ate cheesesteaks and meat-filled hoagies. Not exactly the expected diet of someone who would be serving tofu and various vegetable-based entrees to a bunch of hippie holdovers that comprised the restaurant's clientele. (This, of course, was years before I latched on to the vegetarian lifestyle I currently practice.)

Three days a week — Wednesday, Thursday and Friday — I would leave school a few minutes early and rush across downtown Philadelphia to my cousin's restaurant. When I arrived, I'd stash my bag of art supplies, don a green apron and dish out salads and brown rice and tempeh and any number of foods that, if I wasn't getting paid to handle, I wouldn't touch with a ten-foot celery stalk. The restaurant was cafeteria-style and from 3 pm to 9 pm, I'd force a smile on my face and dispense plates of meatless food for an assortment of patrons that ran the gamut from hardcore vegans (before the concept was popular) to the "what's this all about" crowd. At 9 on the dot, I'd lock the door and begin the clean up process. I'd wipe down countertops and tables and mop the floor, while my co-worker would wash the pots, pans and serving utensils in the upstairs kitchen. We had the process timed down to approximately 50 minutes, if we weren't distracted. And by "distracted," I mean cordially, but firmly, guiding any straggling diners out the door before the clock struck 9. 

On February 26, 1982, I was distracted... and my life changed forever.

It was a Friday and I was ready to go home. Around 8 pm, I attempted to get a jump on my regular closing time ritual by covering some of the food that had gone untouched with plastic wrap. The restaurant had been pretty slow since the "dinner hour" ended around 7. Suddenly, the front door swung open and three — ugh! — customers walked in. A tall, dark haired guy in a preppy sweater and two pretty young ladies. I was just a few months shy of my twenty-first birthday, and — truth be told — every girl was pretty, in my opinion. I had a lot of "one dates" with a lot of different girls. Admittedly, I was always on the prowl — as they said in the promiscuous 80s. Tonight, however, I was in no mood to flirt. I wanted to get home and three customers were now standing in my way.

One of the girls approached the serving counter and perused the array of offerings in the salad section and the adjacent steam table where the evening's hot entrees were displayed. She pointed to a container of shredded cheese sandwiched between a container of sliced bell peppers and one of julienned carrots. She smiled and asked, "Does the cheese have rennet?"

I looked at her. She was pretty, but — like I said — I wasn't looking to hit on a girl right now. I was anxious to lock up, mop up and hit the road. I wrinkled my face at her question and replied with five words that — I assume — charmed her like a Shakespearean sonnet.

"What the hell is rennet?"

She explained that she observed the ancient laws of kashrut — "keeping kosher" to you and me. If the restaurant was truly vegetarian, then the cheese would contain a vegetable-derived rennet, instead of the commonly-used meat-based rennet employed by most commercial dairies in the manufacturing of cheese. "Kosher?," I exclaimed, "I don't know anyone under the age of 80 that 'keeps Kosher!' My grandmother keeps Kosher, for chrissakes!" Slowly but surely, I was winning this young lady over.

Soon, she was joined by the man and the other young lady. The trio asked some more questions and eventually made their dinner selections. They explained that they were headed to a movie and didn't want to be late. Once they chose a table in the otherwise empty seating area, I made sure that they didn't stay one second longer than they had to. Uninvited, I took a seat at a nearby table and struck up a conversation. I started with the obligatory "How is everything?" before moving on to questions about the movie that was in their plans. Then, assuming that the "rennet" girl was a few years too old for me, I relaxed my "let's hurry this along" strategy and asked the other girl for her phone number... just like that. She frowned and refused. The "rennet" girl, however, asked if I had an older and taller brother. "Hmm....," I thought, "she's not with this guy after all." (In reality, she had grown up with the male member of their party and always figured she would marry him one day. However, until that time came, she was open to other possibilities....) Coincidentally, I do have an older — and yes, taller — brother. I happily accepted her hastily scribbled phone number to deliver to my brother.

I made a few additional smart-ass comments to the group as they finished up their dinner. Actually, my intention was that my commentary would help in hurrying them along. A little before 9, they gathered their coats and belongings and headed for the door. But not before the "rennet" girl told me that I was the most obnoxious person she had ever met. She wasn't the first person to tell me that. She wasn't even the first person that day.

Early Saturday morning, I called my brother to tell him I got the phone number of a girl for him. My brother was in a long-term relationship with the woman who is currently my sister-in-law. But the Pincus brothers were the Pincus brothers and — prior to the meaningful and solemn commitment of marriage — anything was fair game. He did ask a favor of me, though. He requested that I call this prospective girl first and explain that he was going to call. He hated to go through the awkward formality of jogging someone's memory. What if they couldn't remember giving out their number or even the entire encounter at all. He wanted that all out of the way, leaving plenty of time to ply the patented Pincus charm that won over so many defenseless members of the fairer sex.

So, I called her. She answered the phone and I launched right into identifying myself. "You know, the obnoxious guy from the restaurant." She laughed... and that began a lovely, natural and engaging conversation that lasted three hours. Three hours! Finally, I told the "rennet" girl — Susan — that I would not be turning her phone number over to my brother. I would like to ask her out myself. She accepted and a date was planned for the following Saturday. By December of that year, we were engaged to be married.

... and it all started when Susan walked though the front door of that restaurant. 

Footnote: One of our early dates was to my brother's 25th birthday party. This was the first time Susan met my brother and other members of my extended family. Later in the evening, Susan confided to me that if the original plan of events had transpired and she, indeed, went out with my brother, that would have been the last time any member of my family ever saw her. Oh, Susan and my brother get along just fine... just not in that way.

And the two other people mentioned in this story? Well, the have both been written about elsewhere on this blog.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

we now state emphatically it's happy anniversary

Today marks thirty-four years of wedded bliss shared by my beloved (and yours) Mrs. Pincus and me. I was the first one of my friends to get married. When I told my friends that was my plan, they were shocked. Josh? Married? Never! But it turns out that our marriage has outlasted a lot of marriages — and that says something. Something about the strength of my relationship with my wife. And we do have a great relationship. We have often said that we were destined to marry each other because no one would be able to put up with either one of us.

But how did it begin? Well, I'll tell you...

I was in the middle of my junior year at the Hussian School of Art, a small vocational institution located in Philadelphia. I was a typical budding artist — a strong-willed dreamer with unrealistic visions of fame and fortune filling my head. I footed the tuition bill myself, as my parents made it very clear that if I chose to further my education past free public school, I was on my own. So, at 19, I wandered into a bank and, with no idea what I was doing, applied for a student loan. Then, I had to figure out how to begin to save up to pay that loan back. I got a job at my cousin's vegetarian restaurant located a distant, but manageable, walk from school. Three days a week, I would pack up my art supplies fifteen minutes early and head out of my mostly informal classes. The majority of my instructors said nothing, but for the few that questioned my early exit, I would curtly justify my actions with, "I'm going off to pay your salary." My departure was usually met with a silent nod.

My job was manning the counter of a cafeteria-style eatery that did a pretty brisk lunchtime business, but slowed to a crawl during the dinner hour. To be honest, Wednesday and Thursday evenings were dead. Tony, my co-worker, and I would sometimes stare at each other for a couple of hours before the first customer would breach the doorway. Fridays would be a little busier, but by no means did we ever — ever — experience the so-called dinner rush. With our 10 PM closing time approaching, Tony and I would start to wrap up items that we knew we wouldn't use in the final hour, like salad ingredients and baked potatoes. I'd leisurely begin to sweep, then fill the mop bucket as Tony gathered up serving utensils and nearly-empty casserole pans to carry to our second-floor kitchen and deposit them in a sink of warm, soapy water. At 10 on the button, I'd lock the door and we'd get that place "spic 'n span" in record time.

However, there was that one particular Friday night — February 26, 1982, as a matter of fact — when things went a bit differently...

It was 9:30, a half hour from closing time and Tony and I were at our usual places behind the counter of Super Natural Restaurant, just killing time until I could lock the door for the night. Suddenly, the front entrance was darkened by three late-evening diners — two attractive girls and a guy — and I didn't want any of them there. Begrudgingly, I tightened up the ties on my apron and forced a smile to my face. Tony disappeared upstairs to get a jump on his dish washing duties, leaving me to handle the threesome on my own. The trio first perused the menu board then drew closer to the glass-enclosed counter to examine what was left of the evening's dinner offerings. One of the young ladies — a tall, pretty girl with long dark hair — was the first to speak. She pointed to one of the many recessed metal containers that filled the serving area — each sporting the evening shift's remainder of salad fixings. I followed the direction of her dark-hued, lacquered fingernail, as she asked, "Does the cheese contain rennet?"

I frowned and replied with five words. Five magical words that were flush with charm and allure — effortlessly melting the heart of this young miss. "What the hell is rennet?," I said.

She frowned right back. "It's an animal derivative that is used in the making of cheese. I keep kosher and if this is a true vegetarian restaurant, then you should be serving cheese that is made with vegetable-based rennet." She finished and smiled sweetly.

I dug in for a second salvo. "Kosher?," I asked, "I don't know anyone under 80 that keeps kosher." This conversation was in a downward spiral. The subject of "cheese" was not brought up again, as they placed their orders. As I tended to preparing their meals, they took seats at the first table-for-four in the small dining room. In a few minutes, I presented these diners with their late dinner. And I decided to hang around their table, even though I was not invited. Hey, I was 20 years old and the pursuit of girls was instinctively a top priority. Based on absolutely nothing, I decided that the first girl was too old for me. Instead, I focused on the other girl. She was cute and I brazenly asked for her phone number. I didn't know who the accompanying guy was with... and, frankly, I didn't care. She wouldn't give in, despite my relentless badgering. The first girl looked up from her dinner and interrupted my ploy with, "Do you have an older and taller brother?" Caught off guard, I answered, "As a matter of fact, I do." She laughed and scribbled her phone number on a scrap piece of paper. And still, her friend wouldn't relent. They finally finished and stood to put on their coats, explaining that they were headed to a midnight showing of the movie musical Grease. Just before they left, the first girl double-checked that I had her phone number for my brother and then punctuated her visit by telling me that I was the most obnoxious person she had ever met.

And that was it. They left. Tony and I cleaned the restaurant. He went home and I went home.

On Saturday afternoon, after finishing up a some work for school, I gave my older and taller brother a call. At the time, he was dating the woman who is now my sister-in-law, but a zillion years ago, the Pincus boys didn't know the meaning of the word "loyalty." I told my brother Max that I had met a girl and got her phone number for him. He stopped me before I went any further. "Could you call her first," he said, "and tell her I'm going to call? I hate having to explain who I am and how I came to make this call in the first place."

"Sure," I answered obligingly.

I hung up the phone and then immediately dialed the number written neatly on that little piece of paper. Susan, the girl from Friday, answered on one ring.  "Hello?," she said.

"Hi," I began, "It's Josh... the guy from the restaurant...."

Once we got past the awkward re-introductions, our conversation touched on a wide variety of subjects. The next thing we knew, three hours had whizzed by as though they were mere seconds. "Damn!" I said, about to get brave, "Forget my brother! I'm going to ask you out myself!" She laughed. I laughed. And we went out on our first date the very next weekend. And then we went out the weekend after that. And the weekend after that. I never went out on a date with anyone else ever again. Susan and I were engaged before the year was over.

I still wonder, after 34 years of marriage, if I'm still the most obnoxious person she ever met. That's a title I don't want to lose.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

now it's time to say goodbye to all our company

In the summer of 1980, I made my first trip to Walt Disney World.... and I didn't even want to go. 

I had graduated from high school just a year earlier and hadn't yet decided what I wanted to do with my life. My friends had all taken the expected educational path and were enrolled in college. But not me. I was working as a cashier at a clothing store as I pondered a suitable (and lucrative) direction for my career. I considered going headfirst into retail — except I hated it. I had been drawing since I was a child, but the thought of making a living at it was inconceivable. I had always heard of the proverbial "starving artist" and I didn't want that to be me.

My friends and I began kicking around ideas for a trip — our first collective vacation sans parents. As summer was approaching and the school year (at least for some) was drawing to a close, a vacation sounded like just the thing we all needed. We quickly dismissed a week in Atlantic City, as that was the "go-to" option we were compelled to take for most of our lives. We wanted to really go somewhere. Somewhere to which we'd never been. We all agreed on Florida, but where exactly in Florida was a point of contention among us. I voted for Fort Lauderdale, lured by my older brother's tales of flowing beer and bikini-ed girls. My friends Alan and Scott suggested landlocked Orlando, home of Walt Disney's variation on his "Disneyland" theme. I frowned at the idea. "An amusement park?," I whined, "I don't want to spend a week at an amusement park!" I was debated and cajoled until I finally relented. Little did my 19-year old self know that by agreeing to go to Disney World, my feelings for all things Disney were about to do a complete one-eighty.

I scraped together every spare cent I could and even had to borrow the last few dollars to purchase my very first airplane ticket. Soon, my friends and I found ourselves face-to-face with actual palm trees of which we had only seen pictured in geography books. Our rental car took us to the ritzy (in our perception) International Inn, dead center on the main drag of bustling International Drive in Orlando, a thoroughfare so exotic in our sheltered eyes that it boasted an International House of Pancakes at either end of the street. We were definitely not in Philadelphia anymore. We checked into our room, tossed our luggage where ever it landed and headed out to the first liquor store we could find. Unlike Pennsylvania, where the state-run Liquor Control Board holds a tight grip on the distribution and sale of distilled spirits, alcohol flowed freely and was as readily available as Coca-Cola (or in Florida's case — Mr. Pibb). And four rambunctious, uninhibited Yankee 19-year-olds took full advantage.

Twenty bucks including tax.

On our first full day in Florida, my friends and I stuffed ourselves with the fine offerings from Davis Brothers breakfast buffet (where a mere five bucks allowed me to eat more waffles in one morning that I had eaten in my entire life up to that point). We piled into our rental car and tooled on over to the Magic Kingdom, the only Disney theme park in Central Florida at the time. We made sure we each had our coveted two-day, all-inclusive Magic Kingdom "Passport" that we had purchased under the guidance of  the travel agent with whom we had arranged our trip. Yessiree! Our "passport" would allow full access to every attraction the Magic Kingdom had to offer without having to fuss with those pedestrian "letter" tickets. As we passed through the turnstile, our admission ticket was hand-stamped by a smiling young lady in a Disney-branded plaid vest and skirt. I began to feel a twinge of actual excitement breaking through my previous "vacation cynicism." This was pretty cool. And perhaps, I thought to myself, this place is something more than an amusement park. The combination of a loud, steamy tooooooot from an old-fashioned train just above our heads, the low tones of a unseen calliope, the distinctive rhythmic tinkle of ragtime piano chords, the scent of fresh popcorn and the sweet aroma of flowers was putting my senses into euphoric overload. A grin stretched across my lips as I scanned the free park guide map, trying to decide which attraction would be my inaugural foray into an eventual lifetime of Disney.... hell, I'll say it.... obsession. I raced with my friends up Main Street, weaving around the crowds, making a slight left toward the path marked "ADVENTURELAND" in decidedly primitive-looking letters arranged across a wicker arch that spanned the walkway. Jungle drums beat out an ominous cadence. Giant palm trees bent down, creating a cool, secluding canopy that effectively blocked out the gaiety on Main Street, a mere fifty or so feet away. We tackled The Swiss Family Treehouse first, making our way up and down the narrow rope-and-plank staircases that threaded through the enormous trunk. On first glance, the whole thing is quite impressive, but, when you realize that not a goddamn thing in the entire place is real — that's when it hits you just how impressive Disney World is. It was the kick-off of a surreal day filled with rollicking pirates and singing bears and spinning teacups and gas-chugging race cars and 999 happy haunts and eighty dolls singing small world after all.

Gotta have 'em.

At the end of my first taste of the immersive world of a Disney theme park, my friends and I made our way towards the exit, but not before an obligatory stop at The Emporium — the largest gift shop in the Magic Kingdom. Excitedly, I sorted through the bins and displays and racks of Mickey Mouse-emblazoned tchotchkes. I began grabbing everything! And I do mean everything! Buttons! T-shirts! Pens! Posters! Magnets! I started filling a shopping basket as my bewildered friends marveled at my behavior. They had never seen me so... so.. possessed, at it were. They also seemed curious as to why I was wasting precious beer money on black felt Mouse ears with "Josh" stitched across the back. When the dust finally cleared, I lumbered out of the store with several bags brimming  with all sorts of Disney treasures.

And that's where it all began. My hobby. My pastime. My collection.

I visited Walt Disney World many more times after my initial trip, including my honeymoon and a wintertime vacation when Mrs. Pincus was about six weeks pregnant. Actually, when I met the future Mrs. Pincus, we each had a small collection of Disney items from previous theme park visits. Her family had been to Disneyland in '68 and to Disney World just after its 1971 opening. When we married, our collections were merged in much the same way as her Grateful Dead albums were placed alongside my Queen albums, but without as much cacophony.

Each visit yielded more and  more Disney items added to "the collection." What had once been a little assembly of cute figurines, novelty buttons and a smattering of ephemera on a single shelf in a spare room now swelled to three full bookshelves and soon an entire room and it showed no signs of receding. Books and toys (still pristine in their packaging) stood meticulously positioned alongside vintage glassware and novelty lunchboxes, all distinct in their inclusion in the Disney canon.

Our Disney collection was expanding almost at the same rate as Disney expanded their theme park roster worldwide. Of course, we obtained items from Tokyo Disneyland, Disneyland Paris, Hong Kong and the Shanghai locations, as well. My wife and I were always on the hunt for that elusive object that we didn't even know we were missing until we saw it. We had housewares and mugs and records and the much-sought-after "cast member" items... oh, all kinds of stuff. Guests at our house would smile, and yet, scratch their heads, pondering why two adults would have a roomful of kids' stuff. In their defense, it was a pretty good question.

Just before our son was born, the entire collection was moved (by me — in a single night) to a heretofore empty room on the third floor of the home we had purchased a few months earlier. Of course, we purchased a lot of Disney toys and related items for our new baby, as did family and friends who figured that he had no choice but to become a "Disney Kid." Our son E's room was subtly appointed with Mickey Mouse and Winnie the Pooh, in both plush and plastic formats. We watched Disney video tapes as a family and E was a fan of cable TV's fledgling Disney Channel. As E grew up, he would often ask people whose houses we visited if he could see their "Disney Room." He just assumed that every house had one. His house did, as well as the standard living room, kitchen and bathroom, so why wouldn't they have a "Disney Room?" When his requests for a tour were met with confusion, I suppose that's when he figured out his parents were not like other parents.

Over the course of thirty or so years, between numerous vacations to Disney World, Disneyland, Disney merchandise outlets, Disney Stores, eBay auctions, flea markets and collector shows, our "Disney Room" grew and grew and grew. It became legendary among friends, relatives, friends of friends, coworkers and other acquaintances. At our yearly "Night Before Thanksgiving" dessert soiree, invited guests would climb the two flights of stairs to the third floor of our house and cram themselves into the ever-shrinking space in the center of the "Disney Room." With each passing year, the walls seemed to close in a little more and fewer people could fit in the room at the same time.

(click to enlarge... if you dare)

When my parents passed away in the early 1990s, I became concerned about what sort of mess my son would be left with when my wife's and my time on earth has run its course. I certainly didn't want to leave a house full of shit like my parents left me. While our house is way more orderly than the chaotic shambles my parents called "home" (and stocked with way cooler stuff), Mrs. P and I toyed with the notion of thinning out our household accumulations — including our beloved "Disney Room." With our 60th birthdays looming in the not-too-distant future, we really gave "liquidation" some serious thought.

Then, this past February, came the unthinkable. I lost my job. At 56, it was quite scary. Not knowing when my next employment would begin, my wife and I tightened our belts, swallowed our pride and started in on the bittersweet task of dismantling and selling off a lifetime — our lifetime — of Disney memorabilia. At first, it was hard. Very hard, as a matter of fact. I scanned the room and reluctantly cherry-picked a few nondescript items. A book. A die-cast car. A yo-yo. A doll. My wife, who has maintained an eBay store over twenty years, patiently schooled me on the ins-and-outs of listing items on the world's largest internet auction website. The first weekend of our "little project" was admittedly tough, but as the days went on, it was actually a freeing and fun experience. I began to gather up items with zeal. I was not nearly as discerning as I was when the project began. Certainly not as discerning as when I was originally buying the stuff. I was on a mission and that mission was clearing those shelves to both generate income and not leave an abysmal burden for our son. Every weekend afternoon, my wife and I sit side-by-side and list our prized possessions. And little by little, the room is noticeably emptying. For the first time in thirty years, I am able to see the backs of the shelves. Some surprising items are generating interest, while others — ones I thought would be most sought after — are ignored by what is obviously a new crop of collectors who don't share the same sense of nostalgia as Mrs Pincus and me. There is activity among DuckTales and TaleSpin items, a Disney cartoon that was popular when I was 26, so there's this "window of opportunity" for the older, more collectible pieces that may have closed when were were still happily admiring our accumulation. Nevertheless, the majority of our collection is selling at a fairly brisk clip.

Am I sorry to see the stuff go? Not nearly as much as I thought I'd be. As a matter of fact, as the weeks go on and more of our collection is sold, I am less and less concerned. Recently, my son had the opportunity to give the Disney Room a "once-over," grabbing stuff that he had singled out and desired over the course of his lifetime — stuff that, at one time, was off-limits to the touch of a child's hand. He took a mini Pirates of the Caribbean music box from Tokyo Disneyland that he had been eyeing for years. (Actually, my wife had to yank it from her eBay store, as it was already available for sale.)

If you have ever been to my house — I'm sorry — but the "Disney Room" is no longer accepting visitors. If there was something you saw on a shelf that you secretly wished you could own, now is your chance. Take a look at the Disney items available in Mrs. P's eBay store and auctions.

There's enough stuff to fill a room. But it's going fast.

Click here for a panoramic view....that no longer exists.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

harmony and me, we're pretty good company

A few years ago, Mrs. Pincus and I began, what I thought would be, an ongoing family tradition, Yeah, I suppose it's odd to start a "family" tradition when it's just the two of us and we are well into our 50s. Despite that, a 2014 trip to the kitschy, though spectacular, holiday light show at the flagship Macy's location in center city Philadelphia, followed by dinner in nearby Chinatown, had all the makings of a tradition. After that 2014 visit — as well as one in 2015 and 2016 — I thought that this would continue for... well, for as long as we were able.

I was wrong.

A week or so before Christmas, we began to make plans for our annual outing to the holiday light display at Macy's (the former John Wanamaker's, most nostalgic folks over 40, still refer to the store by its original name). Mrs. P contacted our son E., and soon, our plans included E. and his lovely girlfriend Pandora. A rendezvous time on a Sunday was agreed upon. We would meet them at Macy's, as they live in center city Philadelphia and we still reside a short train ride away in the suburbs. Although it was never mentioned, I assumed that these arrangement included dinner at New Harmony, a vegetarian Chinese restaurant a few blocks from Macy's and the location of each post-light show meal for the previous three years. We assembled with the gathering crowd on the third floor of Macy's, overlooking the Grand Court. The show, once again, delighted the holiday shoppers just as it has for the past sixty years. When the show ended, plans for dinner were discussed, much to my surprise. E. and Pandora suggested a couple of their favorite eating spots, including a new place that featured falafel, a favorite of Mrs. Pincus. I smiled and remained silent, but it was obvious that we would not be feasting on vegetarian Chinese food within the next 30 minutes. Goldie, the falafel place, was voted as our destination. Not wishing to appear childish or obstinate, I "happily" went along with majority rule. Admittedly, the falafel at Goldie was really good and it proved to be an excellent choice for dinner (and I will definitely return). However, I really wanted to go to New Harmony.

On the ride home, Mrs. P revealed to me that she really doesn't like New Harmony. I was shocked. We had eaten there quite a few times, not just after the Macy's light show. She said she would rate the food as "just okay," but, in reality,  she was a bit creeped out by the fact that we have always been the sole customers each time we've been there. She felt it was a reflection of the business that there was never another diner in the place. This admission took me by surprise. First of all — the food was  just okay? Just okay?? Compared to our usual choice for Chinese food, a neighborhood place that is, at best, inconsistent — New Harmony is a four-star Zagat favorite. I love Chinese food and it has featured prominently on my personal menu since I was a kid. (In 2009, I even wrote about the role Chinese food has played in my life.) The Chinese restaurant around the corner from our home is like that pair of ratty old slippers you can't bear to throw away. Sure, they're comfortable, but they're not the best. They've just been around awhile. Plus, when you see a new pair of slippers, it becomes obvious what your tired old slippers are lacking. I wasn't mad at missing my chance at New Harmony, but now it was apparent that, if I wanted to eat there, I was gonna have to do it alone.

Mrs. Pincus went away for an extended weekend to visit Cousin Juniper in Virginia Beach. She had plans to leave on Friday afternoon while I was at work. Although I cannot cook, I am quite capable of fending for myself when left on my own. I can throw together a salad or a sandwich without much effort. I can also go to any number of restaurants or take-out places where a meal can be prepared for me. One of those places, I decided, would be New Harmony. 

Cold, noodle-y and delicious.

After work, I headed — by myself — through a rain-soaked Philadelphia to New Harmony, a mere eight blocks from my office. To my pleasant surprise, I saw I was not the only customer when the host showed me to a table. Across the small aisle, a couple was just finishing up dinner, their table covered with empty, sauce-smeared plates and dotted with stray grains of rice. In the corner, a couple with a baby was dining with a guy who I momentarily mistook for my friend Cookie. As I perused the lengthy menu, another single diner was seated at the table ahead of me. Soon, a waiter filled my water glass for the first of many times and asked for my order. I requested hot and sour soup, cold noodles and sesame sauce and orange beef with broccoli  — all enticing and all creatively made from meatless ingredients. My soup arrived almost immediately. It was a thick, brown broth, resplendent with crisp bamboo shoots, flavorful mushrooms and three enormous chunks of tender tofu. I happen to love tofu and this soup was delicious. As I polished off the soup, a large plate of vermicelli noodles slathered with a big glob of sesame sauce and accented with finely shredded carrots and sesame seeds was placed on my table.

Crispy, crunchy and very orange-y.

I thoroughly combined the two main elements with two provided forks and transferred a healthy portion to my plate. The dish was awesome and, while I could have easily wolfed down the entire serving, I refrained, deciding to focus on my entree. I picked hesitantly at the remaining noodles until my orange "beef" arrived. In spite of the prominent "imitation meat" disclaimers placed at various spots throughout the menu, even the most die-hard carnivore would be satisfied by the offerings at New Harmony. The orange "beef" was a concoction of seitan (a wheat-based meat substitute), breaded, deep-fried and covered with a light, slightly spicy, ginger-orange sauce, accompanied by huge florets of the brightest, freshest, greenest, crispest broccoli. As I ate, I could only compare it to the familiar sameness of every dish at our local Chinese restaurant. My old standby there  — General Tso's tofu (a purely American recipe)  — is good, but it includes thin, limp sticks of broccoli that should be embarrassed by the examples set before me now. I ravenously finished the entire plate (and the rice) as though I was a death-row inmate consuming his last meal.

That's the way the cookie crumbles.
(Click to enlarge.)

The waiter cleared the empty plates from my table and presented my with the check and a cellophane-wrapped fortune cookie. I snapped the baked confection open and read the enclosed message. This prophetic little cookie must have had some kind of insight into my love of trivia, Jeopardy! and all kinds of useless knowledge. I put on my coat, grabbed my messenger bag and started for the front desk to pay my ridiculously inexpensive check. I thanked the waiter and he returned a "thank you," as well. I noticed that the dining room had begun to fill up, with at least six tables occupied in the tiny dining room. Perhaps the secret is to come on a Friday evening and not on a Sunday after a holiday light show. I will try to convince Mrs. P to give New Harmony another chance. I think I am now equipped to make a pretty good argument.

And I brought home a souvenir, although I doubt it will still be here when Mrs. Pincus gets home.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

glad all over

While watching a DVRed episode of Jeopardy! a few evenings ago, my wife pointed out an ad for Glad® trash bags as I fast-forwarded through the commercial breaks. I stopped and backed the programming up to the beginning of the commercial to watch.

A man is sitting alongside a trash can in, what appears to be, his house. He explains to the viewing audience, in a very serious tone, that his wife has convinced him to become a devout vegetarian. Then a sly smile spreads across his lips and he arches one eyebrow. "Except on Ladies' Night.," he adds. He is then shown dumping the remains of a barbecue dinner into a Glad® "ForceFlex trash bag. There are dozens of long rib bones — browned, cleaned of meat and glistening with bits of red barbecue sauce, followed by several paper plates — greasy and stained with the same sauce. Finally, the last items into the bag are scads of crumpled paper napkins, all smeared with more sauce. It is implied that when this man's wife goes out with her friends on "Ladies' Night," he sneaks in a large mess o' ribs, disposing of the evidence in an opaque trash bag before she discovers his charade. She believes he is maintaining his aforementioned "vegetarian status," and, thanks to the good folks at Glad®, she's none the wiser. The commercial ends with the man dropping the tied-up bag into the outside trash receptacle as his wife pulls up in the car, the headlights illuminating the bag, but the incriminating contents remaining hidden.

While I certainly understand the gist of this ad, I didn't like its "humorous" approach at the expense of faithful husbands and vegetarians everywhere. So, I did what every outraged consumer does in this era of technology, convenience and laziness. I took to Twitter. I whipped out my phone, opened up the Twitter app and punched this message to the Glad® company:

I was careful to note that I was offended by the ad apparently condoning deceptive behavior and lying to one's spouse, as well as the not-so-subtle dig at vegetarians. All that and the fact that Glad® was offering its product as an accessory to the "crime." Of course, my "anger" was exaggerated, but, still, I wanted Glad® to know how misguided I felt their message was.

The next morning, I got this reply from the Glad® Twitter account:

Really? They needed me to send them a link to their own commercial?  I suppose the Twitter account at Glad® is manned by some college intern following detailed instruction in standard, generic customer service procedure. A quick search of YouTube resulted in a truncated version of the thirty second TV spot, but the sentiment was the same. I replied:

Soon, I received this reply to my reply:

What? That's how you handle a customer who has been offended by your company's advertising message? It wasn't over, as far as I was concerned. I shot back with this:

I received no further response from Glad®. I'm still waiting.

I don't really buy Glad® trash bags anyway. I'm just a troublemaker.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

honeymoon with B troop

I wrote this story nearly eight years ago and it appeared on my illustration blog. Since I am on vacation with my spouse of thirty-three years, I thought I'd share this tale of our honeymoon. It's one of my favorites.                                                            

Let's get something straight. Men are idiots. They are bumbling awkward misfits who should be eternally grateful that women take enough pity on them to disrupt their own self-fortitude and take them as their husbands. As my 27th wedding anniversary draws near, I am reminded of how my own dear wife ignored all of the idiotic warning signs I displayed on our honeymoon and stuck it out with me for over a quarter of a century.

In the early morning hours of July 15, 1984, while the USFL champion Philadelphia Stars were embarking on their celebratory march down Broad Street, the new Mrs. Pincus and I were readying ourselves for our first trip as husband and wife. We crammed our suitcases into the tiny hatchback of our Datsun 200SX and pulled out of the parking garage of Philadelphia's Hershey Hotel (now a DoubleTree), where we spent our wedding night. Being children at heart (some more than others), our destination was Walt Disney World, the perennial mecca of pretend, just outside of Orlando, Florida.

As we ate up the distance on our 990-mile journey, our conversation bounced about from our wedding the previous night to the plans for our vacation-at-hand. Playing the part of navigator, I deciphered the TripTik as my "better-half" helmed our automobile — music blasting out of the rolled-down windows. We made several stops along the way to quench my new bride's thirst for new shopping experiences. I believe we patronized every Stuckey's and Cracker Barrel between Philadelphia and North Carolina, checking out the tchotchkes  and souvenirs and stocking up on pecan log rolls and locally-distributed soft drinks along the way. Convinced we were making excellent time, we called it a day at a Quality Inn in Roanoke Rapids, North Carolina, just south of the Virginia border. We were given a room that faced the parking lot and offered an inviting view of an Aunt Sarah's Pancake House, which — based on the remoteness of our accommodations — would, no doubt, be our dining choice for the evening. We hurriedly stashed our luggage in our room. Our short walk across the gravel parking lot was quickly interrupted by a tiny kitten who was wandering around the walkway in front of our car. My wife, a sucker for a cute, pink-nosed, whiskered face — and cats, — immediately envisioned the feline as our traveling companion for the remainder of our trip. I explained how that idea was not a great one considering — well, considering everything — the drive, our reservations in Florida — everything!  A brief discussion yielded an amicable compromise. We decided to bring some small containers of coffee creamer to give to the cat when we returned after dinner.

Several stacks of pancakes later, we took the return stroll across the crushed-stone lot to our hotel. My wife remembered to grab a handful of pre-portioned cream containers, but as we approached the lighted area around our door, there was no sign of the little cat. I pulled back the foil lid on one of the small plastic cups and set it on the ground, allowing easy access to its pseudo-dairy contents. We patiently waited, craning our necks and scanning the surroundings for a glimpse of the cat. Our futile search lasted several more minutes until we finally retired to the confines of our evening's lodging.

An hour or so later, my wife became curious about our feline friend. She asked me to glance outside to see if the puss had come to investigate the processed cow juice we had left for him. Obediently, I parted the curtain and leaned toward the window. As I did, a face leaned in toward me, its head cocked at the same inquisitive angle as mine. Startled, I jumped and hastily threw the curtains back to their concealing position. My wife, shaken, asked what the matter was. I whipped around and said, "Someone was looking in our room at the same time I was looking out." I trailed off, realizing what had just transpired. Mrs. Pincus started blankly at me, her arms folded across her chest and that look  I would soon become very well-acquainted with across her face. Once my initial panic subsided, I realized that the guy I saw peering into our room had a certain familiarity to him. He wore the same glasses and the same shirt as me. He also had the same hair, though parted on the other side. It was at that moment the entire episode crystallized. The combination of the brightly-lit room and the darkness outside coupled with the opaque barrier created by the enshrouding curtains caused the window to take on the characteristics of a mirror. I sunk in the embarrassing affirmation that I had just been frightened by my own reflection. In front of my wife of thirty-six hours, no less.

The next morning, the incident was not subject to further discussion or analysis. I loaded our bags back into the car and we silently restarted our southbound course. However, within minutes, we were, once again, laughing and talking on the open road. Soon, we reached the sun-drenched expanses of central Florida. We plunged into a week's worth of fun and excitement, leaving my display of bonehead behavior a distant (but not forgotten) memory.

Our time in Disney World wound to a close and we began the long trek back to Philadelphia and to the new world of domestic marital bliss. Our trusty map from Triple A directed us to a more scenic homeward route. Veering off of I-95 just north of the Georgia border, we traveled through towns that could have doubled for the ramshackle settings of Erskine Caldwell's Tobacco Road.  At one point, we stopped for gas and, as I dispensed the fuel from the tall, glass-globe topped pump, Mrs. Pincus went to pay in the dilapidated shack that served as an office. She came out chuckling and told of two men playing checkers on a barrel top and how payment was accepted by a Jed Clampett look-alike who was leaning on huge jar proudly labeled "pickled pig's knuckles."

Our drive up Route 17 was long and tedious and, aside from several enormous tobacco fields, far from scenic. My watch ticked past midnight and the hotel offerings were separated by more and more emptiness. Finally, an ethereally-lit Ramada Inn shone like a beacon in the otherwise sleepy hamlet of New Bern, North Carolina. My wife navigated our vehicle just under the carport by the lobby entrance and I hopped out to check the availability of a room for the night. I pulled on the door and, despite obvious activity in the illuminated lobby, it was locked. I could see a burly man jogging from behind the reception desk and heading toward the door. Several other people inside glanced in my direction without changing their positions. As the man drew nearer, the gun jammed in his shoulder holster came into view. "Holy shit!," I thought, "I'm interrupting a robbery!" Frozen in my shoes, I quickly turned to Mrs. Pincus still seated behind the wheel of our idling car. I was about to mouth "Help!" to her, when the man unlocked the door and identified himself as a security officer, explaining that they keep the door locked at such a late hour. I inquired about a place to crash for the night and was informed that a lone room was available. I paid and was handed the keys (actual keys — this was 1984). I ran out to grab our suitcase. A minute later, Mrs. Pincus and I boarded the elevator.

Exiting at the proper floor, we located the room number corresponding to the oversized plastic fob to which the key was attached. I turned the key in the knob, reached inside the slightly opened door and flicked on a light switch. I swung the door fully open and, ahead of me, the television flickered with life. The bed was blocked from view by a wall, but I know an "on" TV when I see one. And an "on" TV usually means someone is watching it. I slowly closed the door and whispered to my wife, "I think there is someone in the room!  The TV  is on!"  Could the front desk have made an error? Did they lose track and book us into an occupied room? I opened the door again and called out "Hello?" No reply. I called again. "Is anyone here?" Again, there was no reply. I instructed my wife to wait in the hall. I entered the room. The TV blared. The bed was made and undisturbed. I cautiously swept my extended arm across the heavy, drawn curtains — in case a possible intruder had learned their lesson in camouflage from a 1940s detective movie. Satisfied that the curtains were not disguising any thugs, I dropped to my knees and checked under the bed. Coming up empty, I bounded into the small bathroom and gave the shower curtain a good shake. Echoing the words of Zelda Rubenstein in Poltergeist,  I announced to my spouse, "This room is clean" and welcomed her in. We were both exhausted but, although I had given the room a thorough once-over, we slept uneasily until morning.

I woke early. My wife awakened as I was dressing. I sat on the edge of the bed and while I pulled a sock onto my foot, the TV suddenly switched on. Then, it switched off. Then, on again. Rattled, I turned around to Mrs. Pincus and asked, "What's going on?" She answered, "I wanted to see what this controlled,"and pointed to an odd-looking light switch on the wall next to the bed. It differed from the other switches in the room, in that it was surrounded by a tarnished metal back plate and not the standard, cream-colored plastic. She flicked the switch several more times and the television screen brightened and darkened in the same sequence."Hey," I began my revelation, "there's a switch just like that next to the door." — I trailed off just like I did in another hotel room a little over a week ago. Again, my foolishness came to the forefront, as I slowly comprehended that I  had turned the TV on the previous night when I opened the door and reached for a light switch. Now, I was facing the big mirror over the dresser. I didn't need to turn around. Mrs. Pincus's reflection was giving me the look.

We silently finished our packing and headed to our car.

July 2011 marks 27 years of a marriage that has overcome the demonstrations of stupidity that book-ended our honeymoon. I know I am not alone in my struggle for consistent intelligent thinking. But, I am  in the minority of those who will admit to it.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

the ties that bind

I had a very lengthy blog post all set and ready to publish this morning. But I will not. I will publish this one instead.

My original story was long, detailed and pretty pointed in its references. However, last night, I read it to my wife in its pre-publication form. Aside from the numerous typos and grammatical errors (that I have yet to correct) and one totally cringe-worthy reference to Buchenwald, she felt the subject matter may be detrimental to an already fragile relationship with some of the parties of whom I referenced. "Poking the bear" were her actual words. I thought about it and thought about it some more. I decided not to publish my original post out of respect and love. I was not at all concerned about offending anyone that I alluded to in my story. No, I decided to leave the post in my "Drafts" folder purely and solely out of respect and love for my wife.

My wife has a very close relationship with her family. She always has. It was something that, when I met her, was foreign to me. Sure, I loved my parents and my brother growing up, but the level of togetherness and interaction displayed by my wife for her family was something that I never, ever witnessed before. I still haven't. Even through good times and bad times, happy and sad, my wife has remained loyal and loving and devoted to her family.

So, based on Mrs. P's feelings and my feelings for Mrs. P, you are just going to have to wait until I die and my unpublished blogs are published. 

Oh, and there's a really good one I wrote in 2014 about an awful experience I had at a Ruby Tuesday's. But, that one will have to wait as well.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

we are each other

I met Mrs. Pincus in February 1982. I wish I could say differently, but, it was not love at first sight. As a matter of fact, she thought I was the most obnoxious person she had ever met and I was hitting on her girlfriend. But, soon, a spark ignited. We had a lot in common and we fell in love and the rest is Pincus history.

While we explored our common interests, there was one subject we decided was off-limits — music. We decided if we ever ran out of things to talk about, we would ask each other: "What kind of music do you like?" and that would pretty much be the end. We would have exhausted all there was to discuss between us. So, we never — in 34 years — asked the question.

But, of course, we knew. How could we not? I had records and tapes when we met and so did Mrs. P. Jeez! We even went record shopping together. We darn well knew each other's favorite band. Mine was Queen and hers was The Grateful Dead. We couldn't have picked a more opposite pairing if we tried. Queen, with its flashy stage show and multiple costume changes, was noted for its chameleon-like musical style falling somewhere between Led Zeppelin and George Formby. The Grateful Dead, on the other hand, was a group of tenacious, psychedelic 60s holdovers, purveying its inimitable brand of atmospheric opuses to the spacey delight of the most rabid and loyal fans in the history of modern music. I was taken to my first Grateful Dead concert one month after I met the future Mrs. P. I was bored and unimpressed. I took my bride-to-be to her first (and, to date, only) Queen concert a few weeks later. She hated it.

I went to a dozen or so additional Dead shows in the years following. Mrs. P, however, was spared prolonged exposure as Queen had eliminated North America from all of its subsequent touring schedules. Soon afterward, Queen's flamboyant chanteur, Freddie Mercury, passed away. Four years later, The Grateful Dead's iconic sage, Jerry Garcia died.

Then things got eerie.

Considering how different — how polar opposite — Queen and The Grateful Dead were, their fate took a very similar path. Very similar.

Liar, liar everything you do is sin

Immediately after Freddie Mercury died, the remaining three members of Queen laid low, shunning the spotlight after a tribute concert for their departed colleague. Bassist John Deacon retired from the music business entirely. Guitarist Brian May and drummer Roger Taylor began to get a little antsy. Obviously they were not ready to call it a career. They had more music left in them. They soon teamed up with former Bad Company/Free singer Paul Rodgers and mounted a tour called "Queen + Paul Rodgers." They performed songs from the Queen catalog as well as hits from Bad Company. They frequently capped off their shows with the popular Free anthem "All Right Now." More recently, May and Taylor recruited American Idol runner-up Adam Lambert, a much younger vocalist with decidedly more pop-leaning talents, to fill Mercury's glittery shoes. At the same time, Brian May has been busily licensing Queen's music to every commercial entity that will wave a fistful of money in his direction. Queen songs have been featured in ads for PetSmart, Lay's Potato Chips, Diet Coke, The Gap and others. Brian May, taking the role as earthly spokesman on behalf of his late collaborator, has said (with a straight face), "Freddie would have approved of this." In the 25 years since Mercury's death, and despite several lucrative tours, there has been no new music attributed to Queen. They're just resting on their laurels.

He's gone, gone,
nothin's gonna bring him back

Faithful Dead Heads predicted the demise of their heroes in the wake of Jerry Garcia's death. Surprisingly, the band soldiered on, forming and reforming as "The Other Ones," "The Dead," "Furthur" and currently "Dead and Company," each version including a revolving roster of former members of the original, Jerry-less Grateful Dead, fortified with additional musicians. Their repertoire consisted of the 50-plus year Dead library of songs plus a number of familiar covers that had become concert staples. In a scene right out of the Mark Wahlberg film Rock Star, founding (and surviving) member Bob Weir once shared vocal duties with John Kadlecik, the leader of The Dark Star Orchestra, a Grateful Dead tribute band. Now, they are back on tour with the addition of John Mayer, a much younger guitarist with decidedly more pop-leaning talents. In the 21 years since Garcia's death, and despite several lucrative tours, there has been no new music attributed to The Grateful Dead. They're just resting on their.... well, you know.

It's interesting how two bands from different backgrounds with different musical directions ended up in such a similar situation. And, of all the bands in the world, my wife and I chose those two bands as our respective favorites.

The golden road to unlimited devotion. Funny how love is.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com