poor unfortunate souls

My family has been fans of Disney for a long time. We have taken many, many trips to both US Disney resorts. We love the sights, the sounds, the overall experience. of just being there. This has prompted people — friends, family members, co-workers — to say: "Boy, I'd love to go to a Disney theme park with you guys!" Leading us to reply: "We are the last people you want to go to a Disney theme park with."

Aside from the rides, shows and other attractions, one of our favorite things to do at a Disney theme park is watch the other people. It's always a kick to see a family trudging through the park's walkways — a harried mom trying to wrangle an array of sugar-high children running in six different directions at once, while dad looks dour, figuring in his head how much this whole trip is costing him. We love to see folks who have no idea why they are there, aside from the fact that their neighbors came on a trip last summer and we can't have anyone outdo us! They misidentify characters. They ask directions to rides that are located at rival Universal Studios and they secretly discuss how their neighbors could possibly stand this place.

Then there are the "Disney Experts."These are my favorite group of Disney visitors. They are all decked out in their Disney finest — six lanyards, heavy with ready-to-trade enamel pins; a t-shirt emblazoned with the latest Disney character or some obscure Disney character long forgotten by the public; plenty of Disney themed accoutrements like socks, sneakers and, of course, those iconic mouse ears that you wouldn't be caught dead in anywhere else. These special Disney fans lead the uninitiated of their party through the parks, spewing all sorts of "inside" information and Disney trivia — most of which is slightly incorrect or blatantly wrong. To those unfamiliar, the majority of this information goes unquestioned, because — honestly — not a lot of people care enough to question. My family, however, enjoys hearing these self-proclaimed "experts" go off about locations of "hidden Mickeys" (look it up), tidbits about the construction of the park or little known facts about Walt Disney that they read on the ol' reliable internet. I have overheard everything from "Disney has snipers camouflaged in tree tops on the property, in the event of a serious security situation." to "Walt Disney is cryogenically frozen and his icy corpse rests beneath "The Pirates of the Caribbean" in a secure vault" to "The entire Haunted Mansion in Disneyland burned to the ground in the early 1970s." We've witnessed parents instructing their little ones to run up and give "Daffy Duck" a hug, while other groups of guests ask a Disney employee where "Harry Potter World" is. Once, in Florida, we were aboard one of the ferry boats that transports guests from the parking lot of the Magic Kingdom to the front entrance. As we made our way, another ferry was approaching from the opposite direction across man-made Bay Lake. The two vessels came precariously close to each other, prompting the ship's crew to scramble and sound alarms. During this incident, a particularly confident (and vocal) "expert" stated: "This is on a track. They can't hit each other." They are not and they could. We even made up a little song about the "Disney experts" that we covertly sang to each other when we encountered such a guest. We sang it often. It was very amusing. 

My wife and I have not been to a Disney theme park since 2017. My son, however, has taken two solo trips to Disneyland more recently. He reported that things have not changed and guests are just as misinformed as ever.

2023 marks the one hundredth anniversary of the Walt Disney Company. Aside from lengthy celebrations at their theme parks worldwide, a traveling exhibit will be making its way across the country, chock full of props and drawings and film clips and multimedia presentations honoring all things Disney. The exhibit makes its first stop in my home town of Philadelphia and last weekend — opening weekend! — my family and I attended. So did a bunch of "experts."

At the entrance to the exhibit, which snakes though a number of haphazardly-themed areas vaguely chronicling the history of the Disney Company, is a continuous film featuring Mickey Mouse (in a 1950s version of his Sorcerer's Apprentice garb) and a somewhat creepy Walt Disney, looking as though someone requested an AI generator to make a Walt Disney. The result is a little weird and sort of life-like, although they didn't get the hair quite right. Walt takes a minute or so to explain how his enterprise began and to never lose sight of the fact that "It was all started by a mouse." We know this because the queue line moved so slowly into the cramped, narrow first room of the exhibit, we got to see Walt and his rodent friend deliver their welcome message four or five times. (This little demonstration of technology has caused quite a stir on various social media outlets, with people voicing their "inside knowledge" about "how Walt would feel about this." Disney fans like to speak on behalf of the long-dead Walt Disney, confident that they knew him well enough to be qualified to express his personal sentiment... sort of the way Brian May speaks as though he is in regular contact with Freddie Mercury or how Republicans speak on behalf of Jesus.)

After the initial display depicting the early days of Walt Disney's little animation studio, the exhibit thankfully opened up into wider accommodations, allowing guests to wander around an open area and view the various artifacts safely presented behind glass. It was here I began to overhear the "experts" in full force. "Oh, that's 'Will Turner' from The Pirates of the Caribbean movie," one fellow announced, pointing to the costume actor Geoffrey Rush wore in his portrayal of the villainous 'Barbarossa.' Another articulated a long and convoluted explanation about how Walt Disney drew Oswald the Lucky Rabbit (a character that predates Mickey Mouse.) While the gist of his story was fine, he included details that he either made up or repeated what someone else made up.

Along the exhibit's route, there was a large window behind which a pair of beige pants are displayed on the bottom portion of a mannequin. A nearby placard explains that these trousers were worn by Walt Disney himself on an expedition to South America to gather information about the 1942 feature Saludos Amigos. A woman sporting glittery mouse ears and a large Mickey Mouse face splashed across her chest, proclaimed these to be the disembodied pants from the less-than-celebrated Pixar film Onward. No one in her travelling group objected, countered nor cared. They nodded and proceeded to the next item for perusal. My favorite comment of the evening from an "expert" was a young man, who had been spouting his Disney knowledge to no one in particular,  pointed to a display case and announced: "Oh my God! It's what's-his-face!"

There is a lot to see at this exhibit... and there is also a lot to read. The problem is, I don't believe a lot of the people visiting on this particular day had the patience nor ability to read every single supplied placard. Sure there are a lot of cool, instantly recognizable items on display. The glass slipper from the 2015 live-action retelling of Cinderella really needs no additional identification. Jimmie Dodd's, the host of the original Mickey Mouse Club, "Mousegetar" is neat to see, but I'd be surprised if the under-thirty crowd touring the exhibit knew what they were looking at. Other items were rather nondescript — a desk, a typewritten sheet in a frame, a drawing of a duck — without reading a paragraph describing why this is important. (A similar situation exists at the National Baseball Hall of Fame in Cooperstown, New York. Without consulting a nearby plaque, that place is just room after room of old baseball equipment.)

At the end of the first half of the exhibit (yeah, it's big), there is a large wall decorated with the covers of albums from the archives of Disney's recording studios. One has the ability to call up timeless Disney music. This interactive presentation attracted those anxious to hear their favorite songs from High School Musical or Frozen II or the soundtrack of The Mandalorian, leaving tunes from Annette Funicello's stellar career and those from long-defunct Disneyland rides to go unplayed. 

The exhibit, in keeping to the code of Disney, ends at a gift shop. Visitors milled around the make-shift store, picking up Mickey Mouse this and Star Wars that. As a one-time collector of Disney memorabilia, nothing really appealed to me. Even here, the steadfast Disney "experts" misidentified characters, many of which they just spent the last ninety minutes learning about.

While I do not make recommendations, I will say that that I enjoyed the Disney 100 exhibit. I saw what I wanted to see, read what I wanted to read and overheard an evening's worth of unexpected entertainment. And once again, the Pincuses are the last people you want to attend such an exhibit with.

It runs through the end of August 2023 at the Franklin Institute in Philadelphia.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

seasons come, seasons go

In 1988, Jim Morrison (no, not that Jim Morrison), a life-long Christmas enthusiast, purchased a multi-piece display called "Tudor Towne" from the Christiana Mall in Delaware. Filled with lifelike, anthropomorphic animals, all decked out in Victorian era winter garb, the animated tableau takes viewers into a whimsical storybook world where chapters of the story unfold along a winding, faux cobblestone pathway. Christiana Mall was updating its holiday decor and Morrison was pleased to acquire the exhibit. He added it to his already massive Christmas collection.

Well, of course, this is the owner.

Morrison purchased a 20,000 square foot facility in the fittingly-named Paradise, in the heart of Pennsylvania's rural Lancaster County. Wedged between Bird-In-Hand and Intercourse, Paradise is a sparsely populated town of just over eleven hundred residents. Morrison filled the maze-like structure with the multitude of nostalgic, Christmas-themed items in his collection and began offering tours to the public in 1998. 

While scanning the news feed on her Facebook page, Mrs. Pincus came across a post highlighting the National Christmas Center. The brief description was intriguing and, seeing how, once again, I found myself with a surplus of unused vacation days at the end of the calendar year, my wife and I planned a road trip to Amish country on the Tuesday afternoon before Christmas. Paradise is just a bit over an hour from Philadelphia. With Mrs. P in her natural surroundings — behind the wheel of her car — we headed out, not quite knowing what to expect.

We passed a number of large farms as we snaked up Route 30. There were small pockets of commerce — strip centers with a large supermarket anchoring smaller businesses like auto parts dealers and feed stores. But mostly there was farmland. Some were made up of bare fields while others were dotted with small herds of cows, grazing in bare fields. Our GPS announced that our destination was ahead on the right and, sure enough, the friendly facade of the National Christmas center loomed large just over the crest of a hilly section of blacktop highway. We parked and noticed that for a weekday, the lot was fairly crowded. We joined several folks in a queue to purchase admission ($12.50 for adults and five dollars for kids) and soon we entered for our self-guided tour.

The National Christmas Center is a heartwarming trip through the history of Christmas, beautifully displayed, beautifully assembled, although not chronologically presented. The fifteen individual galleries are loosely themed to various aspects of Christmas. The first display is a full-scale, minutely-detailed living room, straight out of the 1950s, replete with period board games and toys, furnishings and a large tree, dripping with tinsel and appointed with fragile (fragilly?) glass ornaments and authentic bubblelights. A night-shirted adult figure stands by the fireplace while a sad-faced boy in a pink bunny costume (reminiscent of "Ralphie" from the film A Christmas Story) stares longingly at a shiny red two-wheeler. Just past this scene is a long hallway outfitted with glass-front display cases that house hundreds and hundreds of figurines - Santa Clauses, elves, angels, nymphs, snowmen — crafted from a wide variety of materials from wood and plastic to papier-mâché. A doorway opens to a splendorous depiction of Christmas around the world, including vignettes of traditions from several European and Scandinavian countries. Figures are clad in clothing and accessories  alongside unusual trees and decorations. Another room is a full-size reproduction of a Woolworth's circa 1940. Shelves are tightly stocked with wares and signage from days long in the past. Tables overflow with trinkets and displays of sewing notions, greeting cards, kitchen gadgets, glassware, toys — all frozen in time and as pristine as the day they arrived at the store. The National Christmas Center continues on with room after glorious room. There's Santa's workshop, a full-scale street of vintage shops, a three-dimensional representation of Haddon Sundblom's famous Coca-Cola Christmas advertisement. A multi-level model train set-up — positioned beneath a giant Christmas tree — delights and mesmerizes guests with its tunnels and bridges and multiple locomotives. The collection culminates in a retelling of the birth of Jesus (after all, I've been told that "he's the reason for the season") and a stroll through a realistic Bethlehem of a thousand years ago.

We were surprised by the sheer amount of stuff assembled inside this nondescript building. We were also surprised by the meticulous attention to detail each and every display boasted. This was not some thrown-together roadside tourist trap. This was a lovingly conceived and presented collection, professionally executed and very well maintained. We were among the youngest visitors that day, with the average tourist having nearly twenty years on us. We were also unique for most likely being the only ones taking the tour who never celebrated Christmas and have no fond childhood memories of anything among the Center's contents.

 

But, alas, this may well be the final Christmas for the National Christmas Center. The owners, Mr. Morrison and his business partner Dave Murtagh, are in their 70s and 80s respectively. They recently announced that, unless they find a buyer, the facility will close its doors forever in January 2018. Murtagh and Morrison want to sell the entire contents of the National Christmas Center to someone who will continue their passion for all things Christmas. They cringe at the prospect of closing, but shudder even more at the thought of the collection being dismantled and auctioned off piece by piece. The National Christmas Center has never made a profit, despite its steep entrance fee and droves of visitors. Murtagh suggested that the next owner could apply for non-profit status. Quite an enticement to a prospective buyer.

I'm glad I got to tour the National Christmas Center. I would recommended it to all nostalgia lovers for a fun, interesting and educational day — even if you don't celebrate Christmas. But, hurry, because time is running out.

Unless, of course, you'd like to buy it.

* * * *  UPDATE * * * *  

The National Christmas Center has closed its doors forever on January 7, 2018.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

B-A bay, B-E bee, B-I bicky by, B-O bo

The Three Stooges started as an idea by vaudeville comedian Ted Healy. Healy stood onstage and told jokes while three "plants" in the audience would heckle him. These plants, or "stooges" as they were called, were eventually pulled up onstage and the act would continue, much to the delight of the real members of the audience. The group, now known as "Ted Healy and his Southern Gentlemen," was a popular stage hit but the team went their separate ways in the early 1930's over a film contract dispute. Now calling themselves "The Three Stooges," Moe Howard, Larry Fine and Moe's brother Jerry (known as "Curly") signed on with Columbia Pictures in 1934 after original member Shemp, the other Howard brother, left to pursue a solo career in films. Shemp eventually returned to the trio after the untimely death of Curly in 1952.

I am not a huge fan of The Three Stooges. Sure, I'm very familiar with the 190 short subjects they produced for Columbia, having seen them on television over a million times. I've seen them, but I wouldn't consider myself a fan. I am, however, a fan of the Golden Age of Hollywood and there is no denying The Stooges' impact on that era of entertainment history. The Stooges have held a larger audience for so many years — than, say The Marx Brothers — because not everyone can understand and appreciate the cleverness of Groucho's rapid-fire wordplay, but everyone laughs at a slap in the face or a kick in the pants (or the occasional wrench-twist of the nose).

In the tiny suburban Philadelphia town of Ambler is the one and only Stoogeum, the only (I repeat only!) museum in the world devoted entirely to the history and preservation of The Three Stooges. No, not in Hollywood, not in New York, but in a small industrial park next to a Ford dealership behind a Wawa. The Stoogeum has unusual operating hours. It is only open one day per month (although that will change in 2013). This past Saturday, I went for the final opening of 2012.

I never imagined what I would find.

I left my house early on Saturday and jumped on to Route 309 for the 20-minute drive to Ambler. Arriving a little early for the posted 10 o'clock opening, I stopped for a cup of coffee at the aforementioned Wawa. Back in my car and sipping from a steaming 20 ounce cup of hazelnut brew, I swung my vehicle around the driveway into the entrance to a small parking lot populated by a cluster of modern-looking buildings housing doctors' offices, small accounting firms and a few companies mysteriously identifying themselves by initials only. I can only imagine what illicit transactions were being conducted behind their darkened windows. A small sign directed me to the 904 building, according to my Mapquest directions, home of The Stoogeum. Turning the corner, I was surprised by the amount of filled parking spaces. I really expected to be the only one there. Instead, I observed a slew of multi-generational families exiting their cars and minivans. It being a few days before Christmas, I guess it was as good a diversion as any to keep the family entertained. Besides, what says "Happy Holidays" better than watching three guys give each other an eye poke? There were Dads in t-shirts emblazoned with one or more Stooge. There were disinterested kids, their faces buried in a hand-held video game, being directed towards the entrance by an equally-disinterested Mom. And there was Grandpa, the tips of his white crew cut rustling in the breeze, imparting his memories of the slapstick threesome aloud and to no one in particular.

I followed several families into the gray, nondescript building. I was directed by the young lady inside to start up the stairs, where I would be greeted by a volunteer with a brief introduction. I scaled the steps and took my place behind a crowd so large that it obscured the person delivering the orientation speech. When the speech ended with a Stooge-referential "Spread out and enjoy!," I shuffled through the entrance to the museum behind two leather jacketed guys who were overly cologned. The place was especially well-presented and beautifully decorated. The collection, assembled exclusively by one Gary Lassin, is positively astounding. On display, in sleek chrome & glass cases throughout three floors, are nearly 100,000 pieces of memorabilia. Everything from movie posters, props and costumes to signed contracts, drivers' licenses, wallets and pocket watch chains are lovingly exhibited. While the flow of chronology is a bit awkward (due to the configuration of the small building), the contents are nonetheless overwhelming. There's an entire room filled with promotional posters, both domestic and foreign, connected to another room stocked with a nearly-complete inventory of licensed merchandise spanning several decades — including trading cards, toys, Halloween costumes and even beer. The walls are covered with a massive collection of movie stills photos and personal shots of Fine and the Howard brothers cavorting and mugging at each other's homes. Most items are accompanied by a small placard explaining, in detail, its significance in the annals of Stooge history. Reading each placard takes a good deal of time. But, the combination of close quarters and the fact that Stooge fans obviously shun deodorant, made this task difficult. I was fascinated by the amount of individual pieces on display, but I couldn't take the stench for any length of time. A few more unwashed patrons walked past me and I took that as my cue to bring my visit to a conclusion.

Making my way back to the main entrance, I overheard a few guests offering vague reminisces and a smattering of wrong information to younger family members, who were actually more interested in playing the free Three Stooges pinball game. I took one last look at the life-size figures of Moe, Larry and Curly — in full bellboy regalia — and descended the stairs to the exit. I thanked the young lady that originally greeted me. She was now standing and talking with a Moe look-alike in a Santa Claus suit.

Considering I live in the city famous for housing a national symbol of freedom and liberty, I can't remember the last time I've seen it. In the past week, however, I have seen a hometown museum filled with medical oddities and one filled with Stooges. (Those are two different places.)

www.joshpincusiscrying.com 

"M" is for the million things she gave me

As I exited the train station, I got a text message from my son that he was waiting outside of our predetermined destination — the Mütter Museum. I walked through a light drizzle to an ornate, yet unassuming collegiate-style building, nestled among the high-rises and offices on North 22nd Street. My son was pacing, hands jammed in his coat pockets, but he smiled when he recognized me approaching. Hundreds of people pass by this building daily, but how many know that just on the other side of those heavy wooden doors is a vast collection of human horrors that are capable of making one's head spin.

We entered the marble foyer that proudly displayed and acknowledged the names of those whose generosity had made the Mütter Museum an ongoing reality. Dr. Thomas Dent Mütter, a 19th century pioneer in plastic surgery, donated his collection to The College of Physicians of Philadelphia in hopes that it would be used for research and education. And, oh, the things Dr. Mütter collected. (My son, a past visitor, noted that the museum bears the good doctor's name for several reasons: it was his collection, he had a bit of an ego and, most importantly, if they called it "The Museum of Totally Fucked-Up Shit," no one would come.)

Once through the dignified reception area, past a formal sitting area replete with period furnishings, the adventure began. The subdued lighting shone down on a room lined with dark polished wood and glass showcases that stretched from floor to ceiling. Within the confines of glass and wood were examples of medical wonder ranging from the tiniest bone fragment to complete torsos, their contents splayed in preserved grisly Technicolor. The mind-dizzying accumulation includes wax replicas and actual specimens of appendages, limbs, organs and bones — some twisted and misshapen, some sprouting one or two angry red eruptions, some covered with ghastly amorphic growths rendering the specific body part unrecognizable. There is an entire wall of skulls garnered from every nook and cranny on earth, all in varying degrees of completeness and integrity, some sporting the results of poorly healed gunshot wounds. Down a flight of stairs, the exhibit continues (as my son stated in a tone of delighted caution, "Now, shit gets real!") with slices of brain, dissected spinal columns, bloated fetuses jarred and preserved in murky formaldehyde, sundry severed hands and feet, shiny with preservative lacquer, a detailed study of every conceivable eye disorder and drawers filled with various items that one doctor removed from patients over the course of his career — all numbered and cataloged. (The drawer marked "PINS" is particularly unnerving.) One wall features a graphic, yet lovingly presented overview of birth defects and adjacent to that is the pickled conjoined liver of celebrated 19th century Siamese twins Chang and Eng Bunker. Oh, and there's a forty-foot colon impossibly gorged with fecal matter.

My boy and I viewed the assorted oddities in awe, interjecting smart-ass commentary when we felt it necessary. (My son repeatedly approached the showcases and muttered authoritatively, "Now... what seems to be the trouble?") Nearly two hours later, our medical journey had drawn to a close and we were browsing the gift shop, but not before we waved "adieu" to a woman whose corpse had mysteriously turned to soap. That's right. Soap.

Philadelphia is renowned for the Liberty Bell and .... soft pretzels and cheese steaks I guess. However, if you ever get the chance to visit The City of Brotherly Love, skip that old cracked bell. Instead, I encourage you to visit the Mütter Museum and marvel at what could happen if one day, without warning, your body just turns on you. It truly is an enlightening experience.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com