welcome back my friends to the show that never ends

Greg Lake's
Bar Mitzvah 'do

I loved Emerson, Lake and Palmer... when I was 13. A friend from school introduced me to the 1973 progressive rock classic Brain Salad Surgery almost a year after its release. I remember sitting in my pal Bobby's bedroom, in front of his stereo, positively mesmerized by the otherworldly sounds emanating from the speakers. I was accustomed to the pop of The Jackson's Dancing Machine, Terry Jacks' clawingly sad elegy Seasons in the Sun, George McCrae's pre-disco Rock Your Baby and the inane "ooga-chucka"s of Blue Swede's take on Hooked on a Feeling. In comparison to the three-minute ditties I heard on the radio, Emerson Lake and Palmer were positively empyrean. Bobby also commented that he wanted to get his hair cut for his Bar Mitzvah in the style that Greg Lake sported in a photo included in the album package. But it was the music that got me hooked. I went right out and bought a copy of the album for my very own. 

I played my copy of Brain Salad Surgery over and over and over. I loved it! The songs spanned a variety of styles, although they all seemed to complement each other. There were ballads and traditional madrigals and even a bawdy skiffle tune. It was all capped off with an epic, three-part pseudo symphony, chockful of Keith Emerson's signature synthesizers, Greg Lake's soaring vocals and Carl Palmer's inventive percussion. 

But, alas, my interest in Emerson, Lake and Palmer was short-lived. In the Summer of 1974, I discovered Queen and there was no looking back. Freddie Mercury and company — in my limited teenage opinion — were the epitome of innovation and experimentation. By the time the 70s ended, Emerson Lake and Palmer had gone their separate ways and I was entering my new wave and punk phase of musical interest.

As a white male in his 60s, I grew up in what is now looked back upon as the "classic rock" era. Okay, maybe I'm on the young side of that era, but, still, I was in the thick of it. To be honest, I loathe the classic rock era, with only a few exceptions. I still like the stupid bubble-gum pop of one-hit wonders like Reunion and  Paper Lace (ahhhhh.... Paper Lace....!). But, I cringe at the reverence that "classic rock" unjustly thinks it deserves. Well, maybe not the music itself. I suppose it's the fans of classic rock. The unwavering, narrow-minded, opinionated cranks that just know that "classic rock" is the greatest music ever produced. The ones that angrily try to convince the members of subsequent generations that they should be listening to classic rock and the music from their actual youth is frivolous and unimportant. Of course, their campaign is bolstered by the regular parade of classic rock-era bands that trot themselves out for a national tour with one original member and a subsidy of recruited musicians who weren't yet born when the band in question was enjoying the adoration of their youthful fans. (I experienced this at a recent show I attended purely as a social experiment and to get a blog post out of it.)

"Is this bloody thing on?
C'mere and help granddad
with this, luv?"

A few days ago, I was mindlessly scrolling through the "Reels" on Facebook. Between the brief clips of stand-up comics, mouse-eared folks traipsing through Disneyland and cats climbing up curtains, the algorithm powers-that-be saw fit to stick in a promo video for an upcoming performance by.... um.... Emerson, Lake and Palmer. The video, shot from the unnatural angle of a nasal cavity examination featured an older man that I swear I just saw picking though low-fat yogurt in the refrigerated section at Aldi. In a weak and scratchy British accent, this bloke implored the viewer (in this case, me) to come see him at the historic Levoy Theatre in glorious Millville, New Jersey. He revealed that for an extra fifty bucks, you could participate in a  Q & A session, as well as pose for an exclusive photo with him and his band. It turns out this older gentleman with the thick-lensed glasses and gray crewcut was none other than Carl Palmer. The video looped again and he repeated the details of the performance by Emerson, Lake and Palmer. I was puzzled for a moment. After all, keyboard maestro Keith Emerson had taken his own life nearly ten years ago. Later the same year, vocalist/bassist Greg Lake (he of Bar Mitzvah-style hairdos) succumbed to pancreatic cancer at the age of 69. I got bad news for you, Carl. Your former bandmates ain't joining you in South Jersey... or anywhere else, for that matter.

Additional research showed that the performance — "An Evening with Emerson, Lake and Palmer" — would consist of  the 74-year old drummer flanked by two giant screens (in the promo video, Carl emphasized the enormity of the screens) showing decades old footage of Keith and Greg. Carl will be accompanying the film live on drums. For an extra fifty bucks — over and above your ticket price —  you can meet Carl face-to-face and possibly ask him: "Jesus, Carl.... what the fuck?" before they kick you out the door. That sounds like it's worth fifty bucks. Maybe you can also tell him to center himself better in the camera frame when he makes iPad videos. Y'know, before the venue door smacks you in the ass.

Look, I don't begrudge Carl Palmer (or Brian May or the guy from The Yardbirds who's not Eric Clapton or Jimmy Page or Jeff Beck) for wanting to earn a living. But do you really have to grab a buck at the expense of a dead and more popular bandmate? Is that the career path you had hoped for? If you ask Brian May, he'd confidently reply that "Freddie Mercury would have approved."

I guess Keith Emerson and Greg Lake are on board, too. Right, Carl?

www.joshpincusiscrying,com

happy together

I have to admit. The only reason I wanted to go to this show in the first place was my overwhelming desire to hear a 65-year old Susan Cowsill scream "...and spaghetti'd" in the closest approximation of her 10-year old self. Everything else was a bonus.

To be honest, concerts like these make me cringe and I have unabashedly railed against them for years. Every time I see an ad or promo for an upcoming show featuring the remnants of a once popular band from thirty (or longer) years ago, I will rhetorically question "Who goes to these shows?" Within the past few weeks, a bunch of creaky old men who were once the high-and-mighty Rolling Stones packed —packed, I tell you! — Lincoln Financial Field (the home of the Philadelphia Eagles). With tickets going for around a hundred bucks a pop, I still scratch my head and wonder: "Who goes to see The Rolling Stones in 2024?" The answer, apparently, is 67,000 people... in Philadelphia, at least. By the way, The Rolling Stones are down to two original members, although guitarist Ron Wood has been with them for nearly fifty years.

There are other bands currently waging tours — some even farewell tours. It's your last chance to catch 70s pop rockers Foreigner as they cross the country, waving "goodbye" to their legions (I guess?) of fans. But, be warned. The current incarnation of Foreigner is just singer Mick Jones and a band of guys who never played on a Foreigner album. It is my understanding that, due to health concerns, Mick Jones has missed the majority of dates on this tour. So, with ticket prices ranging from $40 to $95, this is essentially a Foreigner cover band. And, speaking of cover bands, Dead & Company, the Grateful Dead-ish collective who sort-of called it quits last summer, are back and trudging through a residency at Las Vegas's newest showplace The Sphere, much to the delight and obliviousness of Deadheads still holding on to the hope that Jerry Garcia will make a surprise appearance. (Spoiler alert: He won't.) Dead & Company guitarist John Mayer was 12 when the last Grateful Dead studio album was released.

That said, back in March, I bought to tickets to a show that goes against everything I stand for musically and is a reflection of everything I spent two paragraphs making fun of. And guess what? I don't care. The Happy Together Tour has been entertaining time-challenged music lovers for going on — get this — forty years! The line-up has varied over the years, but the concept has not. Headlined by 60s popsters The Turtles, The Happy Together Tour has featured a rotating collection of bands spanning the early 60s up to the middle 70s. The six bands included on each tour has something for every musical taste — providing that your musical tastes never evolved past the Nixon Administration. (For those of you too young to get that joke, Nixon was a President of the United states in the 1970s.) There are doo-wop holdovers, radio-friendly bubblegum one (or two)-hit wonders, pseudo-psychedelic hippies and a little bit of something in-between these specific genres. The two-hour-plus show allows for four songs from each group and a slightly extended set from The Turtles to cap things off.

This past Wednesday, Mrs. P (a somewhat reluctant Mrs. P) and I drove over to the nearby Keswick Theater to redeem our tickets and see what this thing was all about.

First off, my wife and I brought the age range waaaaaaay down. As I looked around, I covertly whispered to Mrs. Pincus: "Are we as old as these people?" Without even glancing up, she said: "Well, you are." I was fascinated! Mesmerized! Did I actually grow up listening to the same music as these people?  As folks filed in — slowly, very slowly — my wife spotted a fellow she recognized in the row in front of us. It was a funeral director from a prominent Philadelphia mortuary, Coincidentally, she had just run in to this guy at a funeral just a week or so ago. It was somewhat comforting knowing that he was in attendance... y'know.... just in case. And by the looks of the crowd, well, I wouldn't have been surprised if his services were employed on this evening.

Soon the lights lowered and the disembodied voice of national DJ Shadoe Stevens announced the evening's first guest — The Cowsills. The Cowsills enjoyed a surge of popularity for a few fleeting years in the fun-loving, carefree 1960s. With radio-ready hits like "The Rain, The Park and Other Things" (you know... "I love the flower girl..."), the politically-incorrect "Indian Lake" and their scrubbed-clean take on the counter-culture anthem "Hair," The Cowsills were the inspiration for TV's Partridge Family. Little Susan is now 65 and has had an pretty successful music career of her own. She performed and toured with Dwight Twilley as well as her own band The Continental Drifters with then-husband Peter Holsapple, late of the db's. She is a staple on the rich New Orleans music scene and can often be seen singing in one of the many clubs in the famed French Quarter. But, tonight she and her older brothers Bob and Paul are flashing back to a time when flower power was "a thing" and peace signs were flashed unironically. Original members Bill and Barry, along with Mom Barbara, have all passed away, The remaining siblings ripped through their hits, including an extended version of the Love, American Style theme song (ask your parents) and quickly cleared the stage for the next act.

Here's where thing started to get a little weird. Joey Molland was announced with a rundown of titles made popular by Beatles protégés Badfinger. A lanky fellow with long, gray tresses took the stage and launched into a barrage of familiar tunes, none of which were originally sung by this guy. The crowd didn't care. They knew the songs and they knew the words and they understood that this is the greatest music ever put to record and runs circles around anything thing that Justin Timberwolf or Billie Irish does. Joey is the last surviving member of the classic Badfinger line-up. In 1983, original bassist and song writer Tom Evans took his own life. The night before, he had a vicious, friendship-ending argument with Joey Molland over royalties from Badfinger's song "Without You," a tune covered by dozens of artists. Although he played on the original recording, Joey had absolutely nothing to do with the song's composition, yet he felt he was entitled to monetary compensation. Joey did not perform "Without You" in his set of four Badfinger songs.

After Joey and before a brief intermission, three guys in iridescent suits sang a quartet of familiar doo-wop-y songs though smiling faces. Identifying themselves as The Vogues, the trio consists of no original members. Tenor Royce Taylor joined the group in 1991, twenty-three years after the group's last charting hit. His bandmate, Troy Elich, joined the group in 2023. Their set evoked a lot of "Oh, I didn't know this was them" murmurs throughout the dimly-lit audience. But, they sang "Five O'Clock World" and everyone was happy.

When the place refilled after intermission, 60s hitmakers The Association reignited the crowd with an airy rendition of "Windy." Between songs, they cracked a few age-related, self-deprecating jokes before lighting up the place with "Never My Love," "Cherish" and an impossibly-accurate reading of "Along Comes Mary." They also reminded everyone that they kicked off the legendary Monterey Pop Festival in 1967. Well, not everyone. There are just two original members of The Association currently touring. Some audience members needed to be reminded of the impact the Monterey Pop Festival had on the 60s music scene. Later, those same folks needed to be reminded where they parked their cars.

Jay & The Americans were next welcomed to the stage. There is a Jay, but he's not that "Jay". He's not even that other "Jay." But he is a "Jay." Actually, those other, more famous "Jays" weren't really "Jay" either... but I digress. The Americans boast two original members from their hit-making heyday. Their current lead singer has a similar soaring vocal style as his predecessors. He was able to successfully recreate songs like "Cara Mia" and "This Magic Moment" (which may or may not be the same song) in such a way as to please the auditory limitations of the evening's audience. They ended with... maybe "This Magic Moment" again... I'm not sure.

As the night drew to its climax, what was left of The Turtles ambled out to the stage. The Turtles, best known for their sunshine-y, kind of humorous, ditties are down to one original member... and he's not even the lead singer. Also known as "Flo & Eddie," the duo that was the core of The Turtles, sang with Frank Zappa, T-Rex and Bruce Springsteen. They even provided songs for children's programming like Care Bears and Strawberry Shortcake. In 2018, Howard Kaylan (the "Eddie" of "Flo &...") was told by a doctor to stop touring in the wake of heart surgery. Mark Volman (the "Flo" of "...& Eddie) recruited Archies (yep, the cartoon band) vocalist Ron Dante to join The Turtles, as Volman had only provided backing vocals, limited percussion and wacky stage antics. Regardless of who was singing lead, this version of The Turtles wowed the crowd with "Elenore," "You Know She'd Rather Be With Me" and "It Ain't Me Babe," including a horribly-accurate Bob Dylan impersonation by Mark Volman in a raucous "bite the hand that feeds you" moment. Ron Dante was afforded a solo on "Sugar Sugar," with nary a mention of his other musical accomplishments over the decades. (He sang lead for The Cuff Links, provided lead vocals for various television show theme songs and produced the first nine Barry Manilow albums.) Of course, the set's coda was the title song of the tour — "Happy Together." The bouncy "bah-bah-bah"-driven tune brought the aged audience to its feet, happily joining in on the simple chorus upon instruction from the stage. And then, in a moment reminiscent of the final act of Disney's Enchanted Tiki Room or every M. Night Shyamalan movie, Volman and Dante invited the evening's performers back to the stage — one by one — to sing a few bars of one of the songs they sang in their set.... even though we were all here and it just happened an hour ago or less! The Cowsill siblings repeated the chorus of "The Rain The Park and Other Things," as Dante announced "THE COWSILLS!" Yeah! We know! We here here for them! That was us, remember? Each band came out in order of previous appearance, offered the Cliff Notes version of their big hit, and then segued back into "Happy Together." It was odd, to say the least. It was fun, to say the most.

The lights came up. The audience rose, some grabbing their canes or walkers or oxygen tanks, and shuffled out to the exit aisles. Mrs. Pincus, who admittedly had some trepidation about attending this event, was pleased. She had fun.

And I got a blog post out of it. As well as something else checked off my list.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

turning of the tide

I was much younger when I discovered the music of Richard Thompson. So was Richard Thompson.

In 1982, my future brother-in-law (no, not that one... the other one) introduced me to the newly-released Shoot Out the Lights by British folk-rock troubadours Richard & Linda Thompson. The album — comprised of eight heartfelt, sometimes gut-wrenching, songs — was a sonic chronicle of tension, specifically tension in a marriage and tension with colleagues. The married duo was without a record contract and had recently toured as a support act for Gerry Rafferty (of Baker Street fame). Rafferty offered financial assistance to the Thompsons, and expected control in the recording process. Richard and Rafferty butt heads often. At the same time, the Thompsons' marital union was crumbling. The album was released and was lavished with critical acclaim. However, it would be the Thompson's last effort together. Although they continued to tour, they would divorce by year's end. 

Shoot Out the Lights was, honestly, like nothing I had heard before. Granted, at the time, I was a rabid Queen fan and had recently latched on to the ubiquitous New Wave sounds emanating from every FM radio. Richard Thompson was a singer with roots in the English countryside, evoking visions of a guy in a colorful doublet and tights, strumming a lute and serenading the townspeople. He was pretty cool and his style stood out among the trendiness of Adam Ant and A Flock of Seagulls. My brother-in-law praised Richard Thompson's work, and in between Grateful Dead shows, managed to see him perform live quite a few times.

I, however, did not.

I've been to a lot of concerts over the past half century. I've seen big names and small names at big venues and small venues. I have missed the opportunity to see a few of my favorites over the years. Although a fan, I never got to see Billy Joel. Sure, he tours regularly now, but I want to see 1975 Billy Joel, not forty-seven years later Billy Joel. I missed seeing Pink Floyd on their Animals tour due to a miscommunication in my desire for tickets. (That's a long story for which I have since forgiven my brother.) Alas, Pink Floyd are no more, but I'll be goddamned if I'm going to give irrelevant loudmouth Roger Waters a dime of my hard-earned pay to see him croak out his racist, out-of-touch politics. I actually haven't listened to Animals in years.

But Richard Thompson is different. At 73, he's still got it. He still writes good songs. He still is pretty handy on the guitar and he still releases good albums. And I finally got the long-delayed opportunity to see him live.

And it was a somewhat rude awakening for Josh Pincus. 

Richard was scheduled to play at a small outdoor amphitheater in Haddon Heights, New Jersey, a typical "green-lawn and backyard-swing set" suburb, sitting just outside the city limits of notorious Camden. After a rain-out the previous week, Richard was kind enough to take the ninety-minute drive down to Haddon Heights from his Montclair, New Jersey home and perform seven days later.

I arrived nice and early and found a wide choice of seats among the permanent benches facing the small stage. I sat at the rear of an open lawn, using a stone wall as a little table to eat the salad I brought with me. As I ate, more folks began to file in. Some were carrying folding camp chairs. Others toted blankets. Most hefted some sort of paper bag emblazoned with the familiar "Whole Foods" logo. Just about everyone (except me) arrived in Subarus. Oh.... and everyone was old. I mean really old!

For reference only.

The men were bent over, a supporting hand offering comfort to an angled lumbar region. They wore ill-fitting clothes, the uniform of the day either being a Hawaiian shirt (to show they were here for a good time), a weathered concert T-Shirt proclaiming their love for The Grateful Dead, Bonnie Raitt, a recent tour of an ancient band or some annual blues festival dated 1980-someting in the year of Our Lord. A small smattering wore the same clothes they wore while seated all day behind their desk at the law firm which employs them. A lot of these guys looked like Peter Garrett from Midnight Oil. None of these guys had enough hair to drag a comb through, and those that did couldn't possibly complete the task, as it was gathered together in a ratty, gray ponytail. The women wore ensembles available on page 47 of the latest LL Bean catalog or some handmade peasant dress that they have worn to every concert since high school. Some wore that battered, floppy cowboy hat that is standard issue for concerts among this particular age group. You know the one I mean.

I was lucky enough to overhear snippets of conversations around me. "My kids are seeing Pearl Jam tonight. I can't even name a Pearl Jam song!" "I sat right over there last month to see Kathleen Edwards. Right over there. You see? Right there... in the middle. Right where I'm pointing. Right there! Right there!" "That Jenny Lewis is from that Rilo Kiley band." When I turned my head to see the source of each of these conversations, I felt as though I was sitting in the courtyard of a retirement community — you know, the ones that are advertised during afternoon reruns of Wagon Train and Perry Mason.

At dusk, Richard Thompson took the stage. Bathed in lavender lights, he tore through song after song, accompanied only by his acoustic guitar. His between-song banter was brief, though, at times, humorous, displaying the same sardonic wit featured throughout his compositions. Culling from his vast career, his song choice included a few cuts from his time as guitarist with Fairport Convention, a couple of tracks from the "Richard & Linda Thompson" years and, of course his prolific solo output. I was familiar with a handful of tunes. The ones I didn't know sounded like typical Richard Thompson songs, so.... 

About three-quarters into the show, as it neared to its palpable conclusion, I spotted a guy — in my peripheral vison — making his way down the aisle to my right. Dressed head to toe in tie-dye and sporting a birds'-nest-like beard, he looked like he just wandered over from wallowing in the mud on Max Yasgur's rain-soaked farm. While Mr. Thompson was introducing his next selection, "Mr. Woodstock" began to yell at a young man seated at a long table a few feet in front of me. The fellow — in his early 20s — was checking over a few open laptop screens that were arranged across the table's surface. He wore headphones and one hand was resting on a computer mouse. He was — obviously — an integral part of the technical crew. "Woodstock" raised his voice and screamed "Hey! Sound Guy! Sound Guy!" The young man's gaze never waivered from the screens. "Sound Guy! Hey! Sound Guy!," he continued, "Turn it up, man! The people across the street can't hear, man! Turn it up, man! Hey! Sound Guy!" (The venue was so packed, that some overflow of fans  had taken to parking their blankets across a street that bisects the park. A distance away from the stage, but still within reasonable proximity to enjoy the performance.) "Woodstock" was relentless. "SOUND GUY!," he blared. Finally, the young man removed his headset and calmly addressed the angry hippie. He spoke just four words. He said, "I'm the 'lights' guy" and turned his attention back to his work. 

A look of confusion spread across "Woodstock's" face. It was as though he had just been answered in the dead language of Aramaic. He was speechless for a moment, his head cocked to one side like a dog trying to figure out where in the backyard he hid that bone. Then, he continued right where he left off. "Hey! Sound Guy! Sound Guy! Turn it up!" By this point, the 'lights' guy didn't care.

Mrs. Pincus was out of town on this day. When I got home, I called to tell her about the show. I related the anecdotes I just told you, driving home my point about the advanced age of my fellow concert-goers. "Are we that old?," I asked.

"Well, you are.," she replied.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

easy like a sunday morning

I think I started watching CBS Sunday Morning, the venerable weekend extension of the CBS early morning news program, when my son was in college. We'd wake up early on Sunday and watch together... surprisingly on his suggestion, not mine. I'm not sure why a 20-something year-old would want to watch a show that was obviously geared to an older audience, but, who was I to argue. So, we watched. Together.

At the time, the show was hosted by the avuncular Charles Osgood, who was well into a decade of hosting after taking over the reigns from the equally-avuncular Charles Kurault. Osgood was a friendly, folksy fellow, nattily dressed in a comfortable tweed suit and a hand-knotted bowtie at his throat. He introduced relatable tales of regular folks tending to home gardens or feisty grandparents who had formed a rock group or proud World War II vets being honored by their small-town neighbors with a very homemade-looking parade. It was ninety minutes of a Norman Rockwell painting come to life. There was weather and fun facts interspersed among the stories, as well as a not-too-heavy editorial, a movie recommendation and maybe a humorous piece or recognition of a notable passing. The whole thing was capped off with a nearly-silent bit of footage of some wildlife cavorting in their natural habitat, like coyotes in the desert or penguins waddling across a snowdrift. Credits would roll and I'd change the channel, interrupting a scowling Bob Schieffer as he announced the day's topic of Face the Nation.

Even after my son moved out — first with roommates, then to his own house — we continued to watch CBS Sunday Morning together, making our comments to each other via text messages instead of a nudge on the sofa. We'd offer each other observations about Charles Osgood's piano playing (of which there was a substantial amount) or the antics of prairie dogs popping in and out of holes in the sunbaked Badlands of South Dakota like a real life Whack-a-Mole game. 

Suddenly, Charles Osgood announced his retirement, handing the mantle over to regular correspondent and former NBC Today Show host Jane Pauley. At first, we were, of course, disappointed in the pending departure of Charles Osgood. The guy had served the show well, but he was 83. He earned the pleasure of retirement after a long and illustrious career. As longtime fans of the show, we felt Jane Pauley was a fine choice to continue the tradition of gentle stories to accompany our coffee and (sometimes) schmeared bagels — not that CBS ever asked our opinion. On October 9, 2016, CBS Sunday Morning opened with a smiling Jane Pauley at the helm.

It was all downhill from there.

Within the first few weeks of Jane Pauley taking over as the host of CBS Sunday Morning, the show began to take on a noticeably different tone. Where the program once steered clear of most things political — leaving that subject to be dealt with during the weekday news reports or by the talking heads on Face the Nation — they were now kicking things off with some serious, often trouble-invoking, piece about the turmoil in Washington. The reports would run way too long and way too in-depth and seemed out of place in the Sunday morning timeslot usually reserved for a gray-haired woman offering a lesson in canning your own fruit. or a wizened gent carving bird-shaped whistles from the wood of a tree that grew in his front yard, recently felled by a thunderstorm. I, like most of the audience who tunes in to CBS Sunday Morning, come for a respite from spin doctors and other members of the politico. Soon, even non-political stories took on political characteristics, especially when every new episode led with a story about the COVID-19 pandemic. Sure, it was important, but information — real, usable information — about the pandemic could easily be obtained by any number of other outlets. CBS Sunday Morning went from being an oasis to being part of the glut.

Then, more changes in mood crept into the program. It took on a very elitist and condescending tone — a very uppity, very exclusive, very clique-y, very white (if you will) attitude. It's target audience was becoming very clear. Sure, I understood who the show was geared towards in the past, but now there was no mistaking the show's intent. It now featured regular cooking segments hosted by the Queen of Out-of-Touch Lifestyle, Martha Stewart. Comfortably sauntering around a kitchen that is bigger than my house, Ms. Stewart offers impromptu instruction for preparing some French-named dish using exotic-sounding ingredients that she grows on her farm — you know, just like the one which you grow your exotic ingredients.

Most of the stories contain interviews with white people by white reporters. If, on the off chance that a person of color is the focus of a report, it is assigned to a black reporter or it is treated like a quaint little novelty, as though this portion of society is something that regular viewers will never ever experience outside of the setting for a movie or, possibly, the very segment they are watching. Steve Hartman does a weekly report — a feel-good story about people just being nice to one another. The subject is usually someone who is down on their luck or suffering from some sort of ailment. I can just imaging the typical home viewer watching and thinking: "Oh, those poor people. I'm glad they don't live near me."

Recently, they brought in Ted Koppel, a one-time respected television journalist. I thought Ted had retired years ago, and, by the content of his reporting, he should have. His reporting style is dismissive and his reports are condescending. He is resting on his thirty-year old laurels and those laurels are no longer applicable to today's issues. But, no one, apparently, has the guts to tell Ted this. Instead, he treats the current story — the one on which he is reporting — like it pales in comparison to the sorts of thing he covered in his heyday. 

Even their lighter pieces carry the same, overarching attitude. Recently, I saw a piece about how Wayne Coyne and his band The Flaming Lips are dealing with the pandemic. Coyne and company have been together, in one form or another, for around thirty years. The band was presented as a bunch of upstarts that CBS just found out about. However, a week later, Crosby, Stills and Nash were showcased as though they are the most relevant band on the planet. (Spoiler alert: They are not.)

All during the pandemic, the Sunday Morning staff felt that America — especially their target audience — craved a weekly check-in with Jim Gaffigan. Gaffigan, a popular comedian who tours regularly, was sidelined during the pandemic, like the majority of his fellow performers. Gaffigan took this time to film his innermost feelings about how much he dislikes his family. This became a weekly thing. A thing I don't believe I asked for.

I will watch pretty much anything on television, including shows I hate — Gilligan's Island, I Love Lucy, Mork & Mindy. Last Sunday, I snapped off my weekly viewing of CBS Sunday Morning in favor of mopping our kitchen floor.

That should explain things fairly well.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

behind the mask

I am writing this in the middle of my fifth week of "working from home" as a result of precautions being taken to "flatten the curve"* of the effects of the COVID-19 pandemic. Unfortunately, due to the hands-on nature of my job, there is not a lot of work for me to do at home. I have been on "stand-by" for five weeks. Two weeks ago, I did a reworking of a layout that took me all of an hour. Otherwise I have wandered around the confines of my home during most of this time, going downstairs to the kitchen. Upstairs to the den. Over to the bedroom. Back to the den. Back down to the kitchen. I'm starting to realize that my house isn't as big as I thought it was.

My only respite from "workday" boredom is an afternoon walk with my wife. Mrs. Pincus normally works from home, maintaining her eBay business from a home office on the third floor of our house. (Yeah, I go up there, too... sometimes.) Every afternoon, we set out for a stroll around the block for a little fresh air and exercise. We have been doing this for over a year. My previous job allowed me to be home by 4:30 in the afternoon, but circumstances of my current job — which is an hour's commute — leaves Mrs. P to traverse the sidewalks of Elkins Park alone. I have only been able to join her on weekends — until the majority of the nation's workforce was sent home in the middle of March. Now, I accompany her daily and will do so for as long as this home quarantine lasts.

Rules, suggestions, guidelines and mandates have changed regularly throughout the course of this decidedly uncertain situation. The governor of Pennsylvania, who, like a select number of other state governors, has assumed a position of reassuring authority and calm out of necessity. Regular briefings on current state policy are broadcast on local television and on the state's website offering pertinent information to help and guide the residents of my state through this mess. As would be expected, things change. What was once accepted policy could do a complete one-eighty a day later. Just last week, it was strongly recommended that face masks be worn by all Pennsylvania residents when leaving the house, after initially being told the contrary. Instructions on how to fashion a suitable face mask out of a bandanna are readily available all over the internet. My wife, who has been self-designated as the liaison to the outside world, does the shopping, prescription pick-ups, banking and running of small errands for me and her parents. She is the sole representative of the extended Pincus clan that leaves the house to venture further than the perimeter blocks. Before each trip, she puts a colorful bandanna in place, secured with elastic hair ties encircling each ear. When she returns home, she carefully removes the cloth and drops it in a laundry basket in the basement (yeah, I walk those steps sometimes, too) for later cleaning. Then she proceeds to thoroughly was her hands, humming "Happy Birthday" or what lyrics she can remember from the theme to "The Nanny" as presented in a recent YouTube video featuring Fran Drescher. When we go out walking, I wear one, too.

Since this most recent mandate regarding the wearing of face masks, I am surprised by the amount of people we pass on our walks — from a socially acceptable distance of six feet — that are not wearing them. In reality, I see more people not wearing a mask or some sort of facial covering than those who are. I also see a lot of people not practicing "social distancing" (another of those phrases*), stopping to talk to a neighbor and standing close enough to grab an arm or touch a shoulder. We see folks walking dogs, passing other folks walking dogs, stopping to converse while their pets sniff each others asses — yep! their owners are that close. What is wrong with these people? Oh wait.... I know! We live in a time of "The rules don't apply to me." I know we all hear the same warnings, it's just some people think those warnings are for everyone else. Other people have to follow those rules. They can't possibly mean me! After all, I'm me! My wife tells me she sees the same thing in the supermarket. She has witnessed people closing up the temporary, but clearly-marked, six-foot delineations put on the floor. She has had people reach right across the bridge of her nose to get an item on a shelf. A guy even picked up a pair of sunglasses my wife had dropped, despite her loud pleas of "Please don't touch them," his ungloved hand continuing to wrap around the lenses. Oh, right!  Sorry! You can touch them! I didn't realize it was you!

Look, I don't know how long this pandemic will last and how long we will have to maintain this cautious existence. No one does. I just keep envisioning a post-apocalyptic world as depicted in so many movies. Sinewy hollow-faced men and women roaming the streets in ragged clothes with an appropriated rifle strapped to their backs, collecting scavenged scraps of survival from steaming, picked-over spoils, strewn across the decimated landscape. It's a worrisome image that I hope I never see.

But — goddammit! — those men and women better be wearing masks and keeping their distance.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

* If I may stray from my point for just a second (as I often do), there are certain words and phrases that I have come to loathe as specific hot-button topics trend in the news. Media outlets tend to stick these words and phrases into every report, no matter how applicable it is to the current hot story. Over the years, the constant repetition of words like "Iraqi" during the days of Operation: Desert Storm and "Lewinsky" during the infamous Clinton scandal drove me crazy! More recently, "quid pro quo" was quickly replaced by the current "flatten the curve" — a phrase that is slowly losing its meaning as it is repeated over and over again on a daily basis and repeated by people who just heard it repeated on a news broadcast. 

time (clock of the heart)

A few years back, I was watching one of my favorite movies — Marty, selected by the Academy of Motion Pictures Arts and Sciences as the "Best Picture" of 1955 (and the downfall of one Herb Stempel on the TV quiz show Twenty One). Early in the picture, "Marty Piletti" (as portrayed by 1955 Best Actor Ernest Borgnine) is talking to his mother. She tearfully laments to her son that she is an old woman of 50. 50! An old woman! I was floored. Immediately, I logged on to IMBD.com (the invaluable Internet Movie Database) and searched for the film. My research revealed that Esther Minciotti, the actress who played Ernest Borgnine's screen mother was actually 67 at the time of filming. However, I was still a bit disturbed that, in 1955, fifty years of age was considered "old." It should be noted, though that Ernest Borgnine was only 38, but looked well into his 50s. I suppose it was around this time that I became a little obsessed (just a little) with the ages of actors from the "Golden Age" of cinema as well as those on television during my formative years.

It is no secret that I watch a lot of television. I rarely watch any current programming, opting to view and review programs from my youth. I love to revisit the shows I watched as an adolescent, parked in front of our big black & white Zenith in my family's den with my mom on the sofa and my dad settled in "his" corner chair, chain-smoking Viceroys. (Unsurprisingly, one of the few "current" shows I have watched and enjoyed is Amazon's original The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel, mostly because of its retro setting.  Go figure...)

If you follow my illustration blog (found elsewhere on the internet), you will find that a lot of my drawings are heavily influenced by the television shows from my youth. In 2011, I published a drawing of actor Joseph Kearns. Kearns had a long and celebrated career as a bit player in a number of radio shows before making the transition to the new medium of television. He performed and held his own alongside such entertainment giants Jack Benny, George Burns, Eve Arden and (ironically) Gale Gordon. He is best remembered as the cantankerous "Mr. Wilson" on the insufferable sitcom Dennis the Menace. The show ran for four seasons.  If you remember, Kearns sported wire-framed glasses, a crew cut and wore his pants pulled up to his armpits. He always had a scowl across his face and doddered around his house with a loose cardigan draped over his slumped shoulders. Granted, Dennis was a pain in the ass and drove Kearns's character up a wall, but he carried himself like a man of seventy. With just seven episodes left to film in Season Three, Joseph Kearns suffered a cerebral hemorrhage and unexpectedly passed away. He was 55. 55! (Gale Gordon, who replaced Kearns was just a year older.)

Recently, I was watching the zillionth rerun of The Andy Griffith Show. I love The Andy Griffith Show almost as much as my wife hates it. I love the gentle humor and the crazy characters and how Sheriff Andy tries to maintain some sense of order in the nuthouse that is Mayberry, North Carolina. I am convinced that the real reason that Andy doesn't carry a gun, is because he would have shot Deputy "Barney Fife" to death in episode four. In the show, town sheriff "Andy Taylor" (as played by Andy Griffith) lives with his son Opie (future Oscar winning director Ron Howard) and his aunt "Bee Taylor." Bee is embodied by actress Francis Bavier, who enjoyed a career playing essentially the same befuddled character in films and television going back to the early 1930s. In this particular episode of The Andy Griffith Show, there was a discussion about Aunt Bee's birthday. I was prompted to look up just how old Ms. Bavier, at the time of filming this episode. With her dark-patterned, high-necked dresses and her gray hair pulled back into that omnipresent bun, she gave the appearance of a woman in her mid to late seventies. She was 62. If you need a frame of reference.... Madonna is 62. Additional research led me to discover that Irene Ryan, feisty "Granny" on The Beverly Hillbillies, was the same age as Francis Bavier. Sure, Ms. Ryan wore a wig and glasses that she didn't really require, but I recall seeing her on Password at the height of The Beverly Hillbillies popularity. She looked a lot older than 62. Incidentally, Buddy Ebsen, the Hillbillies patriarch was 54.

Oh, there are others that fascinate me. Actor Carroll O'Connor (a favorite of my father) was just 48 years old when All in the Family premiered in 1971. Abe Vigoda, who was the brunt of many "boy, is he old" jokes for the latter part of his career, was just 54 when he played the role of "Detective Phil Fish" on Barney Miller, making the "old" jokes a bit odd. The "Sweathogs" on Welcome Back, Kotter were all in their twenties when they were playing high schoolers in 1975. (Ron Palillo, who played "Horshack" was 26.) Marcia Strassman was just two years older than the actors playing the students when she appeared as series star Gabe Kaplan's wife. Jim Backus, pompous "Mr. Howell" on Gilligan's Island, was just 52 when the show began. And Oscar-winner Shirley Jones was 34 when she was cast as the mother of five kids on The Partridge Family, just 14 years older than her real-life stepson David Cassidy.

This past week, I watched a movie called Harry and Tonto. I had seen it before, probably just after its 1974 release. The film, about an elderly man traveling across the country with his cat, starred Art Carney. Carney had diligently campaigned for the role, convincing the studio that he could pull off the role of a 72 year-old man, despite being just 56. (An age-appropriate James Cagney was the first choice for the role. He turned it down.) However, Carney wore little age-enhancing make-up, preferring instead to wear his real hearing aid and not conceal his war-injured gait. Carney won an Oscar for his performance and a "second act" in films opened up for the actor. By the way, Brad Pitt just won his first Oscar at this year's ceremony. He is 56, as well.

Of course, the most jarring age revelation (at least for me), is Judy Garland. I grew up watching the annual telecast of The Wizard of Oz, as well as Ms. Garland's other grand musicals like Meet Me in St, Louis, Easter Parade and Summer Stock. Judy's personal troubles are well known and the toll they took on her are apparent. Judy passed away in 1969 at the age of 47. On a December 1968 appearance on The Tonight Show, just six months before her death, she looked quite haggard and aged beyond her years.

Perhaps I have just become more aware of age and the ages of my contemporaries as I approach my sixtieth year on earth. I think it makes me feel younger.

I guess this is the kind of thing that old people do.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

rude boy

After work, I stopped at Walmart to pick up a few things in their grocery department. I have a love/hate relationship with Walmart. I love their prices on groceries. However, I hate going to Walmart. Nearly every Walmart I have visited is exactly the same. Scummy, dirty, inconsistently stocked and filled with the absolute dregs of society — both shoppers and employees. I've been to a lot of different Walmarts and it's uncanny how you see the same people in all of them. (The first Walmart I was ever in was in St. Catherines in Ontario. Who knew there were scummy Canadians?) Everyone in Walmart looks as though they'd rather be somewhere else ...and I can't say I blame them. But their prices on groceries are so unbelievably low that I feel silly shopping anywhere else. (Last week, I bought a package of eight hamburger roils for 67 cents. Now, come on!)

There's a Walmart just a few blocks from my job and I stop there often on my way home from work. I usually prepare a list of items I need before I enter the store to make sure I am in and out in ten minutes or less....and I usually am. Today, my list consisted of just three items — milk, a loaf of bread, and butter. This should take under five minutes. 

Today's selections

I pulled into the parking lot and drove up towards the building to find a parking space. I saw a prime spot right next to the row of reserved handicapped spaces. As I flicked my turn signal and began to swing my car into the space, I saw a man pushing a shopping cart in my direction. He was a tall thin man, probably in his mid-seventies. He was one of those guys that has a permanent scowl on his face, as though he is coming to the end of a life that done him wrong time and time again. His mouth was curved into a frown that betrayed years of disdain and contempt. He tightly gripped the handle of the cart with thin bony fingers, but he also may have been using it for support under the weight of that enormous chip on his shoulder. As I slowly guided my car into the space, he frowned harder, made a sweeping gesture with his arm towards the front of my car and mouthed some words that I could not make out. I threw the shift lever into "PARK," pulled up my parking brake, unlatched my seat belt and slowly opened my door... just enough to get out but not so wide as to bump the adjacent car.... which I would soon understand to be the older man's vehicle.

The man stopped briefly right in front of my car, right by the pylons holding the "handicapped" designation signs, and then he pushed his cart to the passenger side of my car and grumbled something under his breath. I managed to get "didn't leave me no room" before he trailed off. He was about a foot away from me and the situation was becoming crystal clear. I dared park next to his car in his parking lot. My selfish act of parking was now forcing him to put his two small bags of purchases in his car by way of the door on the other side. He was tense and fuming.

I looked at my parked car. I was well within the yellow guide lines painted on the asphalt. I was not crooked nor did I overshoot the front of the designated space. I may not have stopped my car equidistant from either side of the space, but I was absolutely within the boundaries. Absolutely.

I spoke up — something I don't normally do. "I can move my car.," I offered, but I followed that proposal with a stern, "You don't have to be rude." 

The old man frowned even harder. "You're the one being rude!," he spat and he pointed in the direction of my car, "Parking like that!"

I raised my voice a bit."I said I'd move my car. All you had to do was ask!" I climbed back into my car, started the engine and backed up into a space on the other side of the parking aisle. This took all of two seconds. I repeated the standard series of "parking the car" formalities and headed to the store. The old man watched me park and exit my car. As I passed him, he managed to choke out a strained "Thank you," but I wasn't convinced. 

I did my shopping (five minutes worth, like I figured) and returned to my car. Considering how slowly the old man moved, I was surprised that he was gone from the lot. But as I approached my car, I saw something under my wiper blade. I gulped and thought the old man left me some kind of nasty note. As I drew closer, I saw every car around mine had the same thing shoved under their windshield wipers. It was an announcement for a restaurant opening in the area. I was relieved.

A lot a people have misunderstood me. I have been pegged as angry and sullen — even a curmudgeon. I am not. I am actually a pretty nice guy. I hold doors open for people. I gladly allow people to enter traffic from a parking lot or an adjacent lane. I say "please" and "thank you" and I do my best to be courteous and polite. I am not aggressive... until crossed. I am a reactor, not an instigator.

But, I'll be damned if being nice doesn't get tougher and tougher every day.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

I foresee terrible trouble and I stay here just the same

If you are a fan of Steely Dan, you might as well just stop reading right now. There is nothing I am about to say that you will like. Go and explore some other part of the internet for a few minutes.

Now, for the three people left, let's proceed...

Mrs. Pincus and I went to see the local stop on the oddly-named Rockabye Gollie Angel Tour 2015, featuring the unusual pairing of Steely Dan, the venerable jazz/rock band that dominated FM dials for the better part of ten years, and Elvis Costello, the one-time angry young man of New Wave who has now emerged as the elder statesman of aging punk rockers, if only for his career longevity. 

I have seen Elvis Costello a few times before and, while I am a fan, I have been less than impressed with his live show. I saw Elvis and his backing band The Attractions in 1982 when he was promoting Punch The Clock, not one of my favorite of his twenty-four (to date) releases. I also saw him with The Imposters (essentially The Attractions with a substitute for bassist Bruce Thomas) on New Year's Eve 2007 in Atlantic City. While the performance was entertaining and his song selection satisfying, he curtly vacated the stage on the dot of 12:30 AM, as though his union contract prohibited playing for one single minute more. Steely Dan, on the other hand, were never a favorite. Sure, I heard their ubiquitous sound for nearly a decade. If you owned a radio, you had no choice. They were hit machines in the progressive 1970s. They specialized in slickly-produced, jazz-tinged poetic mini-epics that maintained uniformity from song to song and album to album. While I own many entries in Elvis Costello's vast discography, I own only Aja, Steely Dan's 1977 career-defining monster — and that purchase was made when I was 16. I don't dislike Steely Dan. I just wouldn't number them among my top 100. Or even 200.

Back in April, Mrs. P purchased a pair of lawn seats for this show through Groupon, at a deeply discounted price that we just couldn't turn down. Considering the unpredictability of Philadelphia summers, we couldn't have been blessed with a more beautiful evening. We stretched out on our blanket and sipped the bottled water* we brought with us. I observed the crowd filing in to the venue as we waited for the concert to begin. I watched as men and women who could only be described as "old" shuffled along the parched grass that Susquehanna Bank Center tries to pass off as "lawn." The bulk of the crowd were weary, tired, hunched-over figures. Men in ill-fitting shorts, sad expressions on their collective faces. Women wearing too much make-up to conceal the lines of a hard-lived life. "Jesus!," I whispered to my wife, "Are we as old as these people?" It was pretty obvious that the overwhelming majority of these concert-goers were there to luxuriate in the dulcet, silken sounds of Steely Dan and not the piss-and-vinegar petulance of Mr. Costello.

At a few minutes before the posted start time, Elvis Costello, sporting a wide brimmed Panama hat for reasons only known to him, took the stage with his band — busting out "I Hope You're Happy Now" from his 1984 release Goodbye Cruel World, an album that Elvis himself described as "the worst album of my career." He and the band sped through an hour or so of career-spanning hits. At the end of his set, he waved and quickly exited and — encore-less — stayed exited.

The sun set, the stage lighting glowed and soon the multi-piece touring version of Steely Dan filled the stage, complete with a trio of slinky back-up singers. Craggy-faced, satin-voiced Donald Fagen rewarded the crowd early by kicking things off with an almost album-quality rendition of "Black Cow." from the aforementioned Aja. From that point, it was hit after hit after hit, sounding like a Steely Dan jukebox or like we were listening to the radio and it was once again 1978. The crowd was responsive, entranced and enchanted. Everyone knew every beat, every cue and nearly every word that they spent decades trying to decipher. They were getting exactly what they came for. However, for this casual listener, every single song — including the ones I knew — sounded identical to the one before and after it.

I saw my first concert in 1975. I was fourteen years-old and I went with some friends to see Alice Cooper as he brought the sinister spectacle that was the Welcome to My Nightmare show to the Philadelphia Spectrum. Bitten by the concert bug, I was rabid to see another. I chose Midwestern folkies America for reasons I can't begin to fathom now. I was not a fan. I owned none of their albums. I was familiar enough with some of America's songs from the radio ("Tin Man," "Sister Golden Hair," "Horse with No Name"), with their sweet harmonies and nonsensical lyrics. But I went to see them nonetheless. I remember hearing the hits but there were no standout moments.

That was how I felt as Steely Dan bid "farewell" to the evening with a spot-on, album-duplicate take of "Kid Charlemagne." It was pleasant, non-offensive and not at all memorable. I fully realize that I am in the minority and I have come to the conclusion that every band is someone's favorite band. The thousands of dancing, delighted faithful around me would attest to that — trick knees and artificial hips be damned! All in all, it was a lovely evening in lovely weather with my lovely wife.

Reelin' in the years

Oh, that picture at the top? That's a shot I selected from a Google search. We weren't nearly that close. We were waaaaay back where the muddy sound system at the Susquehanna Bank Center sounds even muddier. Here is my view from the lawn. It was a nice night out just the same.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com



*One bottle each! No outside food, forcing guests to partake of thirty-dollar pizza and sixteen-dollar beer — in addition to the outrageous thirty-dollar parking fee! 

the autumn of my years

Television has always played a big part in my life. As a kid in the 60s, I was always up bright and early on Saturday mornings, parked in front of the television with a big bowl of Trix balanced on my still-pajamaed little legs. On Friday evenings, I'd watch The Wild Wild West with my Mom and, on Sundays, everyone's family would tune in to Ed Sullivan.  Mondays brought The Monkees followed by Rowan and Martin's Laugh-In. Tuesday nights were filled with Red Skelton's variety show and Doris Day's sitcom (if I was allowed to stay up until 9:30). Wednesday offered the action-packed camp of Batman, with another episode on Thursday on the same "Bat-channel" at the same "Bat-time." 

When the mod 70s came along, ABC presented a Friday night line-up that I still remember vividly — The Brady Bunch, The Partridge Family, Room 222, That Girl (and later The Odd Couple) with Love American Style as the grand finale. My Dad loved All in the Family, although he was convinced it was a documentary. Later, programs like Happy Days and Marcus Welby MD were not to be missed. 

Guess what? Thanks to cable networks like MeTV and Antenna TV, I still watch many of these shows from my youth. These shows were simply shot, with uncomplicated plots and mediocre acting. The jokes weren't great and the sets were used and reused from one show to another. And I still love them. They remind me of a good time in my life, when my biggest worry was finishing a book report and a weekend trip to the shore was a grand vacation.

However, I'm a bit disturbed by the commercials that are shown on these nostalgic networks. Because I am more than just a casual watcher, I get to see many of the commercials over and over. (I guess the advertisers got a really good deal or maybe they don't get that many advertisers. It's hard to tell.) I see commercials for ambulance-chasing lawyers promising to get huge sums in compensation for those who have been wronged by something called a "transvaginal mesh." (I don't think I'm eligible.) There are spots for medical providers who can get hydrophilic catheters delivered discreetly to my home. (I don't think I need that.) And, of course, there are a plethora of invitations to apply for a reverse mortgage. All of these products and services have one thing in common: their target audience is old. 

I think.

It started when I saw a commercial with some white-haired old guy hawking the life-saving benefits of a reverse mortgage. (I still have no idea how a reverse mortgage works, but it sounds shifty and it seems like they are preying upon desperate, easily-confused old people.) Upon closer inspection, I was alarmed to discover that the old guy was none other than Henry Winkler, AKA "The Fonz," the leather-jacketed King of Cool from Happy Days. Yeesh, Fonzie! Really?!? He was no longer the svelte tough guy who could start a jukebox with a well-placed rap of his fist or attract a bevy of gorgeous chicks with a mere snap of his fingers. He was a paunchy geezer with Sansabelt® pants and a head full of gray hair in dire need of a haircut.

Later, a matronly woman seated by a crackling fireplace delivered a heartfelt plea about the virtues of securing a burial plot, so the task wouldn't be a burden to your family. A few prerecorded testimonials were afforded by several elderly couples before returning to the solemn-looking woman continuing the pitch by the blazing hearth. To my horror, the woman was Morgan Fairchild, the ubiquitous TV bombshell famous for her shapely figure, surgically-pointed nose and impenetrable hair helmet. Now, here she was — not sipping a cocktail on the Lido Deck of the Love Boat — but comfortably fuzzy in a sensible, cable-knit cardigan, extolling the upside of pre-purchasing my grave.

That's when it hit me. The advertisers were using spokespeople to whom their target audience could relate. Here were two icons from my TV watching heyday. Had I become the target audience for these products?

When did Fonzie and Morgan become old people? And did I get old right along with them?

www.joshpincusiscrying.com