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

in this house that I call home

After two years of marriage and two years of paying rent in an apartment, Mrs. Pincus and I bought a house in the small Philadelphia suburb of Elkins Park. The house, a three-story, six-bedroom twin, was just a few blocks from Mrs. P's parents' house, the sprawling residence where Mr.s P grew up. 

Ripped from the headlines

My mother-in-law had been scanning local newspapers ever since my wife casually expressed an interest in purchasing a house. She spotted a small ad in the Classified Real Estate section of the Montgomery County Times-Chronicle offering a "Spacious stone Twin. Elegantly refurbished. 1 block to train, shopping, school." There was a phone number, but no address. My mother-in-law (with, obviously, a lot of free time), scanned each and every page of the modest Elkins Park phone book until she located an address to match the published phone number. My wife covertly drove past the house-in-question like a former girlfriend stalking the cause of a bad break-up. She eyed the place up and concluded that it was a good fit for us... at  least from the outside.

Then, my wife called the number. There was no answer. She called again and again at regular intervals, but there was still no answer, no matter what the time of day. Finally, the next day, her eleven billionth phone call was answered. Her inquiry about the house was met with a bit of hesitancy. The man on the phone – the house's owner – informed us that the home would not be officially shown until Saturday. We made sure that we would be the first ones there on Saturday morning. And indeed we were. The house was perfect – filled with charm and character and fortified with apparent solid construction. We offered the asking price and it was accepted. A few nights later, we found ourselves sitting in our future dining room, signing an Agreement of Sale with the current owners. We packed up our little Northeast Philadelphia apartment and moved into our new home on Labor Day weekend 1986.

Over the course of 33 years, my family seemed to have accumulated a load of stuff. And while we do have a spacious home (as the original newspaper offering promised and delivered), we managed to fill it up to near-capacity. As my wife and I approach our 60s, we decided that it is time to purge. We enjoyed our various collections displayed throughout our house. But, as they say: "You can't take it with you." Last year, when I unceremoniously lost my job, the incentive to "clean house," as it were, became more imminent. Plus, I was determined not to leave a houseful of shit for my son to sort through, as my parents so thoughtfully left for me. We have always sold the occasional household item that we no longer needed or that certain collectible that had been replaced by one in better condition. But, in the immediately desperation of not knowing what the uncertain employment future held for a 57-year old artist, we began to seriously concentrate on thinning out our accrual. We started with our massive Disney collection and never looked back. For months and months, my wife and I sat side-by-side and listed the thousands of items that comprised our 30+ year collection in her eBay store. Soon, we were reassessing everything in our house, trying to determine whether or not we really needed it. Things that were deemed "eBay-worthy" went that route. Items that didn't make the cut were stored on our back porch for inclusion in our yearly yard sale... one of which we staged just this past Saturday.

Early on Saturday (and I do mean "early'), we filled our humble front lawn with, what we hoped to be, someone's new treasures. Happily, many folks came and perused the items strewn across our grass, obviously enticed by the 100 or so signs we tacked to utility poles throughout our neighborhood.

Around noon, an older woman ascended the two cement steps that lead from the sidewalk to our front walkway. She was accompanied by a woman about my own age. The older woman approached me, ignoring the plethora of items lining her path. She was focused on me and not interested in any of our household cast-offs. She stood before me, gestured towards my front porch and asked, "Do you live here?"

"Yes, I do." I answered.

She smiled and maybe even choked back a tear as she continued. "I used to live here. I grew up here and I was married right in the living room." She pointed to the younger woman and said, "My niece grew up here, too." She went on to explain that she got excited when she saw our yard sale ad on Craig's List and recognized the address immediately. She continued on, saying that she grew up in my house in the 1940s, eventually getting married in a small ceremony held in my living room. She implied that her husband was no longer in the picture (either a break-up or death – this was not made clear) and when her sister passed away, her sister's young daughter came to live in the house with her aunt and grandmother. They sold the house in 1980 when the niece (the younger woman by her side) graduated from high school. The house was sold to the couple that Mrs. Pincus and I bought it from. The woman cheerfully related many anecdotes about her childhood in my house, punctuating her stories with questions about accouterments and amenities of the house and if we still kept them in tact. I was treated to a lengthy session of reminisces, including a very cool tale of the woman who lived next door in the 1950s – a mother of three – who jumped to her death from a second story window. I noted that a story like that is usually a deterrent to a potential buyer, but for me, that would be a selling point. After a while, I uncharacteristically offered the inevitable. I welcomed the pair into my house as a trip down the Pincus version of "Memory Lane." 

Leaving my wife to tend to customers on her own (which, with my meager level of help, was a fairly simple task), I took the two women on a tour of their childhood in the current guise of Chez Pincus. Curiously, as we entered my house, the older woman mentioned that she was glad to see that we had not changed anything in the dining room. Puzzled, I ask how she knew that. She sheepishly admitted to reviewing my wife's Facebook photos, using the yard sale post as her entrance. She saw pictures from the phenomenal spread my wife puts out at our annual Thanksgiving Dessert Party. 

The two women grew huge smiles as they looked around my living room, examining the fireplace mantel, the locks on the windows, the original cast-iron radiators. If I didn't know otherwise, I would have thought they were casing the place for a planned burglary. As we moved into the dining room, they caressed the tiny crystal pulls on the louver-doors to our built-in china closet and gazed misty-eyed out the windows that reveal our backyard. In the kitchen, they marveled at the rearranged appliances. The couple from whom we purchased had done extensive remodeling in the six short years they occupied the house. The older woman pointed out that the small attached extension behind the kitchen was referred to, by her family, as "the outside kitchen." We just call it "the back porch." The basement was the biggest shocker to the two women. In the early 1990s, we remodeled our basement as an alternative to moving, transforming a cement-floored, purely utilitarian storage space into a close approximation to a 50s-era diner, complete with a vintage Formica table, black & white checkered floor, vinyl booth seating and a working pinball machine and Q-Bert video cabinet. They remembered a confusing (and somewhat spooky) series of doors and closets making up the dark basement, the younger woman confessing her fright at the thought of going down there alone. It was in stark contrast to the now brightly-lit space, the faux-tiled walls decorated with numerous autographed and framed photos of various levels of celebrities. In the laundry room, I was told that the closet where we currently keep detergent and the small collection of basic household tools we own, was used by the older woman's family as a food pantry.

Floored!

We headed back upstairs so my charges could see the second and third floors. The older woman stopped to examine a small crevice alongside the banister where she hid small objects as a child. I assured her that nothing would be there anymore, as the mother-daughter team who clean our house probably made off with any trinkets they discovered – that weren't long-forgotten cat toys. Once on the second floor, my guests jogged their collective memories as they scrutinized the moldings at the base of the walls, the fixtures in the bathroom and the unique push-button and turn-knob light switches. They waved off my apologies of not having the made the bed or the state of disarray in the room that previously housed our Disney collection. They were excited to see that we had preserved the beautiful linoleum floor. I told them that we loved that floor, inlaid with muted color nursery rhyme scenes and game boards, from the moment we saw it on our initial tour of the house. Also, it would be impossible to move and would probably crumble if the attempt was made. Moving into the top-floor bathroom, our claw-foot bathtub brought smiles to their faces as did the red-velvet upholstered chair perched under the window (my own addition to the retro "theming" in our house), a prize rescued piece from my grandparents' Philadelphia antique store by way of my parents' living room. And against my better judgement (with Mrs. P's mortified voice in my head), I even opened the door to a walk-in closet that's filled with a jumbled assortment of eBay items, our luggage, a surplus of all-occasion wrapping paper and stuff for the next yard sale.

Roll up!

Our tour completed, we made our way back downstairs and outside to join the yard sale festivities once again. The two women were grateful and appreciative of my hospitality. I was actually surprised that I was so accommodating. It was so unlike me. The older woman told me that she enticed her niece, who was visiting from her current New York City home, with the promise of a mystery trip to a mystery location. I never imagined or even considered that my home would feature in someone's fond memories – other than those with the last name of Pincus, of course.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

stopped in to a church I passed along the way

I am not a religious person at all. I find religion to be silly. I regularly make fun of all religions. If you find that offensive, I suggest you do not continue reading.  If you are Mormon, you probably shouldn't even have started to read this. — JPiC

A few weeks ago, my pal and co-worker Pat asked if I'd like to accompany him on a tour of the new Philadelphia Mormon Temple that recently opened in Center City (that's how Philadelphians refer to the downtown area of the city). The recently-built and newly opened temple is offering free tours of the massive facility to the general non-Mormon public for a few weeks before admission is limited to a select group of card-carrying Mormons — and that's not a joke. You, literally have to present a card to enter.

The Mormon temple is just a short walk from our office, but on the day of our scheduled tour, we got busy and had to reschedule. Then we got really busy on the rescheduled day, so Pat rescheduled again. On Thursday, Pat checked the calendar and noticed that the tours come to an end just after Labor Day, so our opportunities were running out. We were going that afternoon, no matter how busy we got. Around noon, we stealthily slipped out, along with two other co-workers, Junior and Sly (you remember Sly, don't you?) without telling anyone where we were going. The four of us navigated the streets and sidewalks of our fair city, most of which were under some sort of on-going renovation. Once we turned the corner on to 17th Street, we spotted the temple's slender spire soaring high above the bustle of the approaching lunch hour.

First we had to check in at the small meeting house across 17th Street from the actual temple. As we walked two-by-two across the gray, interlocked brick path, I feared the possibility of Sly and me setting off the "Jew alarm." I imagined being denied entrance and afforded the explanation that they didn't want their new carpet to burst into flames at the mere touch of our Semitic feet. We were, in fact, greeted by a pair of fresh-scrubbed young ladies with enormous grins stretched across their flawless faces. We were instructed to join a group that was just exiting the building to begin their tour. Circling outside again, we crossed 17th Street and entered the large, walled forecourt of the temple.

"Thou shalt track no dirt into
the house of the Lord."

The building itself, while neutral in color and plain in construction, is notably imposing. I understand that its design was inspired by the typical, historical architecture of Philadelphia. It was reminiscent of the type of movie set-like structures in Liberty Place at Walt Disney World's Magic Kingdom, except true-to-scale instead of stunted by forced perspective. The courtyard was spotless and stark and dotted with gentlemen in suits and ties, smiling at no one in particular. Our cheerful (and smiling) tour guide informed us that, in order to preserve the floor and carpets in the new building, everyone would be required to wear disposable paper coverings over their shoes. She quickly added that the shoe coverings have no religious significance whatsoever. I whispered to my colleagues, "That thought never crossed my mind. If she's making a point to say that there is no religious significance to the shoe coverings, you know damn well that there is some religious significance to the shoe coverings." The queue line snaked past two smiling young ladies who were tasked with stretching the shoe covers snugly around visitor's feet. Judging from their smiles, they seemed to be quite pleased with this responsibility. Although, it was apparent that everyone associated with this place was smiling.

"Please have your IDs ready."

Finally, we entered. There was an eerie quiet inside, considering we were just a few feet from the heavily-traveled Vine Street Expressway, a major east-west thruway connecting I-76 with the busy Benjamin Franklin Bridge and all things New Jersey. The foyer sported an assembly of chairs on both sides of the polished marble floor. Straight ahead was a large, dark wood reception desk. Several smiling men and women were scattered around the room... just smiling. Our tour guide explained that once the temple opens, the public would no longer be permitted to enter. As a matter of fact, everyday, run-of-the-mill Mormons could not just enter. Only members "in good standing" (whatever that means) were granted access to the facility. Some mysterious identification card — the details of which were glossed over — must be presented to the Mormon-in-charge to prove "good standing" status. Behind the desk was a giant painting of a smiling Jesus. I would soon observe that Jesus was well represented in the temple's art collection. 

Our group was escorted out of the lobby to a long hallway that ended at a flight of stairs, carpeted and fitted with heavy brass carpet rods at the base of each riser. This was another obvious attempt to mimic the style of the authentic historical buildings that surround the temple. We climbed the stairs to the first landing. We were lead to a room where, again, two smiling young ladies invited us to take seats. They gave a rehearsed speech, mentioning "Jesus Christ" several times in the course of their brief recitation. (I am very creeped out if someone uses "Jesus Christ" more that three times in the same sentence. Sort of like "Beetlejuice".... but I digress.) Before the actual tour began, we were forced invited to watch a short film I think was called "So You Decided to Become a Mormon," though I could have gotten the title wrong. The room lights were dimmed and the ten-minute video began. It featured an abundance of smiling faces — young and old, male and female, white and white — all extolling the basics of the Mormon faith, or as they prefer, The Church of Jesus Christ and Latter-Day Saints. It was, by no means, an overview or introduction to the brand new temple in Philadelphia, the first one in Pennsylvania. No sir! It was a propaganda piece showing that Mormons are just like you, except smile- ier and Jesus-ier. A young couple in the film spoke about how Mormon families remain together forever in life and in death The woman of the couple explained that when a man and woman marry (she over-stressed "man and woman" so their stance on same-sex marriage was made perfectly clear), they will be together forever. This statement prompted her husband to practically do a double take. A confused look came across his face, as if to say, "Wait just a second! Forever? I don't remember signing up for that! Can I read that thing I signed again?" The scene quickly jumped to a wide shot of one of the other Mormon temples.

After the film, our actual tour began. The group was informed that photographs were not permitted. Photos, however, were available on the temple's website. A fervent rule-follower, I stowed my phone in my pocket. Except for two, the photos accompanying this post were culled from the Philadelphia section of curbed.com.

"On some nights, we dip twice."

The hallways were unnervingly sterile, all lined with smiling people. The Eagles tune "Hotel California" played in my head, specifically the line "You can check out any time you like/but you can never leave." There was something inherently cult-like about this place and we all felt it. We entered the Baptismal Font Room. In the center, surrounded by a circular banister broken twice to allow for small flights of tiled access steps, was a round turquoise-tiled pool, its crystal-clear waters faintly bubbling through an unseen filtration system*. The group filed in, each person taking a spot around the railing. Looking down, the pool was supported by twelve immense sculptures of oxen. The tour guide explained that the oxen represented the twelve tribes of Israel. Baptisms, we were told, are very important to Mormons. So much so, that a baptized Mormon can serve as a proxy for a deceased loved one or ancestor that never had the opportunity to be baptized. Without a baptism, you will be locked out of Heaven when you die. That's the Mormon rules, baby. There's evidently a sign on the front door of Mormon Heaven that reads "Your head must be this wet to enter." As we left the Baptism room, I asked Junior, "If you're building one of these places, where do you order a dozen huge ox statutes?" He shrugged his shoulders and replied, "I don't know... The Book of Mormon?" I looked at him. "I don't think that's a catalog.," I said.

We moved on, climbing stairs and parading into a series of brightly-lit, though plainly-decorated rooms. We passed several changing rooms where, as we were told, Mormons shed their street clothes to adorn themselves in plain white garments, so everyone appears the same in the eyes of Jesus. And speaking of Jesus, he was depicted in numerous paintings in nearly every room and hallway of the labyrinthine building. And he was smiling in every one. We were momentarily detained in a so-called Ordinance Room, where religious services are held. In a corner of the room, a large organ pumped out low, ethereal tones without the aid of hand on the keys. I was reminded of the player-less organ in Disney's Haunted Mansion. Pat joked, "There may even be a gift shop at the end of the tour." "I wonder," I asked,"if they have souvenir shirts that read 'I spent eternity with my family and all I got was this lousy t-shirt'?" I must have spoken too loudly, as Junior was forced to stifle a laugh.

Our next stop was the majestic, yet just as surreal, Celestial Room. Here, Mormons can quietly contemplate, reflect and pray while seated in one of any number of chairs and sofas that look like they came from your great-grandmother's living room. The high ceiling and colossal chandelier are supposed to remind Mormons of the peace and harmony of Heaven. It reminded me of the lobby at the place where my brother's Bar Mitzvah reception was held.

We ascended yet another flight of stairs. I speculated to my co-workers that, at the top of these stairs, there would be a glowing white door labeled in large, raised, gold letters: "God," and below that, in smaller type: "Private." A secretary would inform us that God is booked solid for the rest of the day and will be leaving early to beat the traffic. Even with pleas of "I'm sure he's expecting us!," we would be denied entry. I'm really surprised the Mormons didn't kick me out of this place.

JC and JPiC

After the tour and after descending all the steps we climbed, we departed through a reception area. There were more Jesus paintings and sculptures. There was also information available for signing up to become a Mormon, just in case the tour affected you in a way that it didn't affect me, I did, however, get my picture taken with the Big Guy himself. A little bewildered, as though waking up from a dream that didn't make sense, my pals and I headed back to work.

When I got home, my wife and I talked while we prepared dinner (read: decided which neighborhood restaurant to order from). "Guess where I was today?," I asked.

"I have a few things to tell you first." she said.

"That's okay," I said, smugly, "Take your time. You'll never guess anyway."

Mrs. P told me about an incident at the post office, a strange conversation she had with her parents and a few unusual items that she sold on eBay that day. I patiently listened and commented when appropriate.

When given the opportunity to guess where I was today.... well, she couldn't. Not in a million years.

No, make that an eternity.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

* This thing could very easily double as a mikveh, except there's no way any Jews would be able to get past the strict "Mormons in good standing" policy.

I'll never be anybody's hero now

Steven Morrissey, one-time frontman for the popular 80s band The Smiths, has either postponed or canceled dates on every one of his solo tours beginning in 1991, when the final Australian dates and eleven dates in the United States were canceled on his Kill Uncle tour. Since then, eleven subsequent tours have either been interrupted, totally canceled or aborted before the first show, including hanging David Bowie out to dry. (Tumblr user Torr chronicles the adventures of Morrissey's tours here.) Being the tour manager for Morrissey is a tough, thankless job.

Just last week, Morrissey rescheduled a date in Atlantic City, New Jersey, only to cancel the entire tour several days later. I can only imagine that, after all this time, the planning stages of a Morrissey tour go something like this...

Morrissey: I think I'd like to go on tour, y'know, to promote the new album.

Morrissey's Tour Manager: Uh, sure, Steve, I'll get on that right away.

Morrissey: I want the whole deal. Spare no expense. Full band, lighting, rigging... the works!

Morrissey's Tour Manager: You got it, Moz. I'll get on it straight away. (He does not move.)

Morrissey: Hey, shouldn't you be making phone calls or something?

Morrissey's Tour Manager: Uh, oh yeah, sure, sure. Phone calls. Right. (He picks up his desk phone and pretends to dial.) Hi, yeah. I wanna book... um, yeah.... right, right the big room with the big stage. Yeah, the one with lots of seats! Great! Thanks. (He hangs up the phone.) Alright, Moz! We're all set for the, um ...Palladium in South... I mean, West Texarkana! Two nights! June fifth... fifteen... eighteenth! Yeah, the eighteenth and the nineteenth! (He pretends to scribble on a legal pad using a drinking straw.)

Morrissey: Smashing! Um, shouldn't you be calling some musicians?

Morrissey's Tour Manager: Yeah! Musicians! Of course! Look, Moz, I'll take care of everything. Why don't you go out and protect a cat or something. I have everything under control.

(Morrissey leaves. The tour manager puts his head down on his desk and falls asleep.)

Three days later.

Morrissey: Y'know, I just sneezed twice in the last hour. We better cancel the tour.

Morrissey's Tour Manager: Yeah, sure, whatever.

Morrissey: Don't you have to make some calls to some venues?

Morrissey's Tour Manager (laying his head down on his desk): All taken care of, Moz, all taken care of.

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