my motto's always been when it's right, it's right

A little while ago, I posted a photo on Instagram that referenced the 70s pop band Starland Vocal Band. Let me tell you a little story about The Starland Vocal Band. It's a story you could have gone the rest of your life without hearing, but here you are, so make the best of it.

The Starland Vocal Band are a prime example of the denigrating term "one hit wonder." In the early 1970s, the husband and wife songwriting team of Bill Danoff and Taffy Nivert collaborated with country music superstar John Denver to pen Take Me Home Country Roads, a song that was eventually named the official state song of West Virginia (narrowly beating out I'm My Own Grandpa by just a few votes). Danoff and Nivert recorded two albums of their own compositions under the name "Fat City," as well as two more using the name "Bill & Taffy." All four albums — released between 1969 and 1974 — attracted little to no attention.

As America was celebrating its Bicentennial, Danoff and Nivert formed the Starland Vocal Band and released their debut album. Now a foursome with the addition of keyboardist-singer Jon Carroll and his soon-to-be girlfriend Margot Chapman, the breezy popsters unleashed the seductively-sweet Afternoon Delight on the Top 40 airwaves. With its light melody, honeyed harmonies and cryptic but obvious euphemisms, Afternoon Delight was a ubiquitous hit across the country, peaking at Number One on the Billboard charts just days after the United States wished itself a Happy 200th Birthday.

Riding the wave of its popularity, the Starland Vocal Band seemed to be poised for greatness. They were given their own variety show on CBS that ran for six weeks as a summer replacement series in 1977. The show, a typical 70s romp with corny comedy and musical numbers, featured comedian Mark Russell and a writing staff that included April Kelly (of later Boy Meets World fame) and a young David Letterman. 

When the Grammy Awards rolled around, the group had garnered four nominations, including the coveted Record of the Year and Song of the Year. On the night of the award ceremony, they won Best New Artist, much to everyone's surprise — especially the heavily-favored Boston, whose debut had moved a whopping 31 million units. They also took home a Grammy for Best Vocal Arrangement for their aforementioned harmonies.

Winning two Grammy Awards had a decidedly opposite effect on the fledgling quartet. Their follow-up album "Rear View Mirror" never broke the Top 100 and their next five singles never even charted. Then things within the band went south. They all decided to go their separate ways in 1981. Carroll and Chapman, who became a couple and married during the band's formation, divorced in 1982. Danoff and Nivert followed suit soon after. Afternoon Delight, at one time a popular hit among the bubblegum set, did a complete 180, becoming a reviled earworm and showing up on "most hated songs" lists compiled by critics and music listeners alike. However, in recent years, the song has been featured prominently on the soundtracks of a number of popular movies.

I was 15 when Afternoon Delight was a radio staple. I liked it. It was a dirty song about having sex in the afternoon. What 15 year-old didn't giggle at the very thought? What 15 year-old didn't stifle laughter when they caught their mom singing "Rubbin' sticks and stones together makes the sparks ignite" as she was making dinner? The song was cute. The band was cute. What was there not to like?  Yeah, yeah... I know. 1976 also brought the world heavy hitters like Blue Oyster Cult's Don't Fear The Reaper and Led Zeppelin's Nobody's Fault But Mine, as well as Blitzkrieg Bop from the Ramones, a bunch of hardened punks who could easily wipe the floor with the Starland Vocal Band. But, I liked the song, no matter what peer pressure dictated.

Now I am 62. I have a subscription to Sirius XM Satellite Radio. With just over a gazillion channels catering to every possible musical niche taste, I find myself listening to the "70s Gold" channel, where favorites from my formative years stream on a daily basis. While I do change the station when certain songs begin, I am surprised by which songs and which bands prompt that action. As soon as I hear the opening strains of any — any! — Who song, I mash that touchscreen button as quickly as I can. I have also caught myself changing the channel away from Van Morrison, Rod Stewart, Bob Seger & The Silver Bullet Band (If I went the rest of my life without hearing another Bob Seger song, that would not be horrible) and The Doobie Brothers. I will, however, stick around for the completion of songs by Chicago (a band I never liked), Led Zeppelin (another band I never liked) and any number of bubblegum-y, pop hits and so-called "one hit wonders." I hear Afternoon Delight at least once a week during the forty minute commute on my way home from work. I still like it. It makes me think of fun times and just how stupid and carefree the 70s were for me.

On the way home from picking up dinner, I took this picture of my dashboard at a stoplight....

...and later posted it on social media. It received 10 "likes" and several comments, including one person who felt it was his internet-policing duty to tell me the song was about fornication. But, another of my connections — one who I don't know personally, but who "gets" my slightly skewed sense of humor — noted very astutely...

I couldn't have said it better myself.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

* * * * * * * * * 

If  you like the Starland Vocal Band as much as I do, why not get a t-shirt and show the world!

You can order one RIGHT HERE! 

hold me

I have had this blog for fourteen years and, admittedly, I have written about some pretty mundane (read: dumb) stuff. Today's blog post is no exception and might possibly be the dumbest subject I have ever tackled. You have been warned...

Loyal followers of this blog (all three of you) know that I purchased a new car recently. It was a major upgrade over my previous car which was twenty years old. I remember when I bought that car in 2004, one of my biggest concerns was that it had a CD player. My new car doesn't not have a CD player... which is fine because I don't know the last time I actually played a CD. (Probably in my last car.) 

Like a lot of you, I carry an insulated water bottle to work with me everyday. The "bottle" is made of aluminum and keeps water cold for the entire workday and beyond. At the end of the day, when I get home from work, I empty it out and there are still fully-formed ice cubes that I put in it that morning. However, the bottle is too big to fit into any of the cupholders in the small console that sits between the two front seats of my car. So, for my morning commute, I reluctantly place my water bottle on the passenger's seat. It stays safely on the seat for most of my drive. Every so often, if I have to quickly hit the brakes to avoid one of my fellow drivers, my water bottle rolls forward, swoops slightly upward from the angle of the seat and — after experiencing a brief moment of "hang time" — slams into the floor mat and rolls under the passenger-side dashboard. Then it will roll to and fro as though it is on board a ship — coming in and out of my peripheral vision as I try to keep one eye on the road. At the next red light, I'll reach down to retrieve the water bottle and place it back on the seat, where I run the risk of  the entire episode playing over and over again. After too many close calls in traffic, I decided that something had to be done.

I searched Amazon for "2024 Subaru Crosstrek Oversize Cup Holder Insert," making sure I covered every conceivable key word I could think of. I expected the search result to show me two or three or maybe even five options from which to choose. It yielded 103. One hundred and three! Granted, in typical Amazon fashion, some of the results were totally unrelated to car cup holders. One listing was for a retractable cover to conceal the cargo storage space behind the rear seats.. Another was for louvre inserts for the car's rear windows. Once I whittled out the unrelated items, I was left with about ninety car cup holder options.

I figured on paying around ten bucks for something that would keep my water bottle from rolling off my car's passenger seat and possibly contributing to a nasty collision. I thought that, in itself, was worth ten bucks. I was shocked — shocked, I tell you! — that the prices for, what was essentially the exact same device, ranged from $6.99 up to $45.00 for a very fancy, multi-compartment, full console divider. I just wanted a simple little plastic insert that fit securely into my existing cup holder with a wide opening to accommodate my water bottle.

Once I narrowed my choices down from the many available (and eerily similar) options, I chose the trusty TYKOR-53 Cup Holder Extender for Car with Adjustable Base. This baby was an economical $9.99 and boasted an Amazon customer approval rating of 4.4 out of 5 stars, with 70% of those reviews offering such glowing praise as "Perfect!," "Exactly what I needed!" and the one that almost brought a tear to my eye: "It's more satisfying than I expected!" I made sure I read the negative reviews as well. Those are always entertaining, especially after seeing that most buyers were very pleased with their purchase. I enjoy reading disgruntled buyers' petty complaints and the ones for the TYKOR-53 were indeed petty. One unhappy buyer stated that "it does not fit the 2003 Honda Odyssey." Well, this does not apply to me, as I do not own a 2003 Honda Odyssey. Besides, buying an ill-fitting cup holder insert is not going to solve the problems of a 21-year old car. Another disappointed buyer was miffed that it "does not fit foreign cars," only to specify later in the review that is did not fit in their Italian-made car. Well, my internationally-challenged friend, Italy is not the only country that exports cars. You should do better research before publicly denigrating the poor TYKOR-53 for something that is clearly your own shortcoming. (If I may interrupt my own train of thought for a moment, if you really want to be entertained, read the one-star reviews for The Diary of Anne Frank on Amazon.)

I checked the specs for the TYKOR-53 and found "2024 Subaru Crosstrek" among the cars that it professed to accommodate. I read about the ease of installation (no tools required!) and that was good enough for me. I placed my order and in a couple of days my brand-new, water bottle-securing, easy-installation, non-2003 Honda Odyssey-fitting TYKOR-53 arrived. In a matter of minutes — nay! Seconds! — it was in place in my car, ready to hold my water bottle comfortably, safely and securely.

Now I will call my insurance company to see about the possibility of  a cup holder discount.

(Hey... I told you at the very beginning this was gonna be dumb.)

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

long ago and oh so far away

I recently read that there is not a single "Opening Day" attraction still operating at Disney Hollywood Studios in Florida. I find that fascinating, considering the theme park opened its doors to guests in 1989 — just 35 years ago. (Granted, I have been a Disney enthusiast for years and you may not find this little tidbit of trivia the least bit fascinating or even interesting... but I do and it's my blog.) Even though I have not been to a Disney theme park in almost a decade, I still like to read about and keep up with changes, developments and memories... especially memories.

Disney Hollywood Studios was originally conceived as a working movie studio ala Universal's popular operation in California. Disney had vast plans to shoot films and television shows and produce their signature animated movies in its planned Florida theme park, with guests peeking over the shoulders of the action as it actually unfolded. Believe it or not, it was already determined to be a so-called "half day" park before the first brick was laid or the first drop of cement was poured. Disney signed a licensing agreement with MGM Studios to use various aspects of their branding at the proposed them park. However, Disney was irked when MGM opened a mini theme park in Las Vegas. Specific stipulations were laid out as to which MGM properties (and how much of them) were featured in Disney's "Great Movie Ride." On Opening Day, there were two major attractions at the park — The Great Movie Ride and That Backstage Studio Tour. It was indeed a "half day" visit. In the years to follow, more and more attractions were opened and Disney's Hollywood Studios (then called "Disney-MGM Studios") became a destination and proved just as popular as the other two theme parks on Disney's Florida property. 

My first visit to Disney Studios was with my family in the 90s. By this time, the park had undergone some major changes since its opening just a few years earlier. A large extension had emerged as an offshoot of the main entranceway. Keeping with the "Golden Age of Hollywood" theme that overarched most of the park, the new Sunset Boulevard section boasted two big thrill rides — The Twilight Zone Tower of Terror and the Rock 'n Roller Coaster (the first inverted loop roller coaster on Disney property). However, the Disney Studios was still trying to figure things out. There were smaller "show" attractions focusing more on audience participation rather than the tried-and-true "sit in a vehicle and watch stuff around you." Trying to evoke the "you're in a real live studio" atmosphere, guests were often selected to participate in the action. A few folks were selected, hastily costumed and thrust onstage at the "Indiana Jones Epic Stunt Spectacular." Their participation wasn't close to dangerous. They'd just "ooh" and "aah" and point from the safe sidelines while Disney professionals avoided fireballs and out-of-control jeeps.

One of the more interesting "audience participation" attractions at the Disney Studios was Superstar Television. Hosted in the 1000-seat Superstar Television Theater (later renamed "Hyperion Theater" and current location of the "Frozen Sing-Along"), this purposely-campy performance attempted to recreate a typical broadcast day at at typical television studio. Before each session, a number of guests were recruited from the massive queue line that formed outside the theater doors. On the day of our visit, my family and I joined the already large group just as Disney cast members were beginning to scan the crowd for volunteers. My wife and my then-eight-year old son enthusiastically "whooped" and yelled and pointed to hapless Josh Pincus until a smiling cast member grabbed my hand to lead me backstage. As I was "dragged" away, I caught a parting glimpse of my family in incontrollable hysterics.

I assumed the rest of the audience was admitted to the theater, my family included. I was taken (along with my fellow volunteers, whether willing or not) to an area backstage. The place was exactly what I had seen on TV, strewn with cables and fake backdrops and rolling racks of colorful and mismatched costumes. A young lady was outfitted in a pink dress and hairnet, similar to the one worn by Lucille Ball in the classic "candy conveyor belt" episode of the I Love Lucy show. A little boy was given a New York Mets jersey as he prepared to be interviewed in a pseudo-post-game sports segment. My t-shirt was covered with a false tuxedo front that Velcro-ed in the back. A rubber, but realistic-looking cream pie was attached to my hand with a hidden elastic strap. The Disney cast member informed me that I would be playing a butler in a Three Stooges short. I even had a couple of lines as well as a yet-to-be explained "action" sequence. At a particular cue, heard via in-studio playback, I was to announce "Dinner is served" in a gentlemanly tone. As I watched the action in an off-stage monitor, my next line was to be "Gentlemen! Please!," offered as a reaction to the beginning of a notorious pie-throwing spectacle. Finally, I was instructed to raise the prop pie as though I was about to launch it across the room, while snidely growling "Why you....!" At this point, the cast member said, I would be smacked in the face by a real pie.

What?

The cast member repeated the instruction, my line and the creamy consequence I was to expect. She also suggested that I remove my glasses to avoid possible damage. Her smile never waned. She had obviously explained this entire scenario to dozens and dozens of Dads whose family had volunteered them for the same fate. I folded my glasses into a case in my pocket. I adjusted the rubber pie to a more comfortable fit and squinted my eyes in hopes of putting the giant blur before me into better focus. I listened to the other "volunteers" as they performed their parts and watched the awkwardness from a nearby monitor. The audience expressed their collective approval with each new segment — the I Love Lucy bit, a take-off on the Gilligan's Island opening. Through the "magic of television, costumed Disney guests, plucked from the crowd, were inserted into clips of General Hospital, Cheers and The Golden Girls. The audience was delighted. Finally, it was my turn.

I was guided to my mark (as they say in show biz) and I said my first line. With my chin up and nose at an appropriately "snooty" position, I announced "Dinner is served," as I had heard the late great Bud Jamison say so many times. (It was his role I was subbing for.) At the designated cue, I lamented "Gentlemen! Please!," trying to convey real concern for the Stooges turning a dignified dinner party into a pie-hurling free-for-all. Then, after delivering my "Why you!" at my menacing best, the Disney cast member — the one who had been so nice and sweet and helpful — slammed a hefty cream pie square in my kisser. I heard the audience roar with laughter. I, however, couldn't see a goddamned thing, as my already myopic eyes were thick with whipped cream. A minute later, I was led out to the stage with my fellow "performers" for a group bow and one last moment of the patented theme park humiliation that Disney prides itself on.

Backstage, the cast member thanked me for my participation and handed me a bottle of shampoo and a towel she pointed to a sink similar to those found in a beauty salon. She explained that the pie that was now dripping from my face and hair was a real, dairy pie. I was further advised to thoroughly wash my hair, because the combination of unrefrigerated dairy ingredients and the 90+ degrees of the afternoon Central Florida sun would produce a result that can only be described as "funky." She also handed me a coupon for a free dessert at a Disney Studios restaurant, an ironic reward. I asked if I would be hit in the face with that one too. She laughed and replied, "No." I suspect she had heard that before.

The cast member left the room. I looked at the shampoo and the towel and the sink. I audibly emitted an "Pfft!" to no one in particular. I thought to myself: "There is no way I'm going to wash my hair. I'll be fine." I folded the "free dessert" coupon and stashed it in my pocket. I found my way out of the backstage area and joined my family. My son and Mrs. P laughed and hugged me and patted my back. They told me "I'm a good sport!" and laughed some more. I unfolded my official park guide map and we began to discuss what we would do next.

As the afternoon progressed and the Central Florida sun rose high and large in a cloudless sky, the Disney cast member's words of warning echoed in my mind. Suddenly, I was surrounded by the unmistakable aroma of a power failure in the dairy case at the local supermarket. As we stood in various queue lines or wandered around gift shops, I could see frowns and displeased looks from other guests in my peripheral vision. My family, not worried about tactfully offending me, told me: "Jeez! Your hair stinks!" Panicked, I searched for a water fountain. I found one and splashed handful after handful of water over my scalp. After a considerable amount of time* (*a period of time that would have to suffice until we returned to our hotel room at the end of the day), I had washed out a good portion of old pie remnants as well as the accompanying scent of spoiled milk.

I never did redeem that coupon. I think I had enough dessert for one day.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

try a little kindness

Contrary to popular belief, I am a nice guy. Sure there are some people who will disagree with that statement, but, they are wrong. I am a nice guy. And I'll prove it.

On a recent Friday night, Mrs. Pincus and I, along with our son and his girlfriend, went to a Phillies game. Recently, our onetime baseball-loving family has embraced the "national pastime" after a few years of waning interest. We went to a few games last year and now we have found ourselves buying tickets and attending more games this season. (Our son's girlfriend hasn't quite adopted the Pincus family's affinity for baseball, but she does admit to liking the "vibe" that the ballpark exudes.) 

This season, the Phillies are off to a bang-up start (I don't know how this will read in August of this year, but we shall see...), so tickets are in high demand. Also, on this particular night, there was a give-away of bobblehead figures depicting Phillies youthful second baseman Bryson Stott. The figure was a pretty good likeness, although I am fairly sure that Stott's head is more in proportion to his body, unlike.... say.... Kyle Schwarber. Making a late decision on attending this game, we had to settle for seats high up in the right field stands where the aisles are steep and narrow and handrails are suspiciously scarce. As a former season ticket holder (for eighteen years), we have been spoiled by having reserved seats just fifteen rows from the field that provided a spectacular view of the action.. Up in section 320, the baseball game is just a rumor. You have to rely on crowd reactions to follow progress of the game. Cheers from the lower levels indicate a run has scored. Boos usually mean the Phillies did something wrong.

We rode a steep escalator to the 300 level and climbed even steeper stairs to our seats. At the top of Citizens Bank Park, the seats are arranged on very steep cement tiers and the cantilever angles place your knees at the back of the head of the person in front of you. Folks walking up the narrow aisles to get to seats in the rows above us utilize empty end-of-the-row seats — or even someone's knees — to steady themselves in lieu of missing handrails. 

Prior to the game start time, anxious and excited fans filed into the the ball park. As per usual, they stopped to load up on food and snacks before making their way to their seats. We were no different, stopping off at the only vegetarian concession stand and grabbling some overpriced meatless hot dogs. We got to our seats and chatted while we waited for the game to begin.

Ten or so minutes before the first pitch, a man and a woman emerged from the concourse access just below our seats to look for their seats. The man, decked out in full Phillies regalia, was carrying a cardboard tray laden with an abundance of typical ballpark fare. There were hot dogs, beer, chips and a cup overflowing with Chickie's & Pete's Crab Fries, a local favorite. Popular at the ballpark and throughout the Delaware Valley, Crab Fries are crinkle-cut French fires liberally coated in Old Bay seasoning. The man held the tray of food as level as he could as he slowly navigated the inclined steps with the deftness of a tightrope walker. He wife scooted on ahead, leaving the man to take on full responsibility of delivery of the refreshments. As the steps got steeper, the man's pace got slower and more deliberate. He struggled to climb the steps and keep the tray and its contents in tact. He had his head down and a look of distress crossed his face. Bowing forward, he seemed to peer over the top of his glasses that were perched low on the tip of his nose. As he came up to where I was sitting he stopped and leaned in to me. 

With a quaver in his voice, he said, "Would you be so kind as to push my glasses up further on my nose?" The tone of his request reflected the same helpless plea in his eyes.

I smiled. "Of course!," I replied and I daintily grabbed the corners of his glasses, sliding them up the bridge of his nose and easing them gently into position even with his eyes. When the task was completed, he smiled and thanked me. Then he proceeded on his journey to find his wife and their ticketed seats.

The Phillies won the game that night. Courtesy and kindness won, too.

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 when 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 shows 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

never going back again

Last Sunday, Mrs. Pincus wanted pizza. Sometimes, during the week, I'll get a text from my wife asking if there would be "surprise pizza" when I arrive home from work. That is code for me to stop at the Little Caesar's Pizza that I pass and pick up dinner on my commute home. I have written of my love for all pizza and my declaration that there is no such thing as "bad pizza," so this subject will not be addressed here. If you have contrary feelings about pizza, please.... this is not the time. I have no problem with Little Caesar's Pizza. Yes, I know. it is shitty "chain store" pizza. I am well aware of that. I don't care. As I have stated before, it is pretty hard to fuck up crust, cheese and sauce. Okay? Okay.

Sunday is rarely "pizza day" at the Pincus house. But Mrs. Pincus wanted pizza and it was Sunday, so who was I to argue jumped in the car and drove over to the Little Caesar's Pizza that I pass on my usual route home from work. Mrs. P parked the car and I hopped out head to the entrance of Little Caesar's. Once inside, I was taken aback by the amount of people who had the same craving for pizza at the same time. The small customer area was packed with anxious folks. Some were queued up to the counter and others paced anxiously, waiting to be summoned for their already-placed order. I was surprised, because when I stop here on my way home from work, the place is empty and my order is ready in just a few minutes. I guess weekends — or maybe just Sundays — are a different story.

I also noticed that there was one person on the other side of the counter. One. Just one. She was taking orders at the cash register. I could see past the service counter that the pizza preparation area was empty. Apparently, the young lady taking orders was the only employee on duty at this time. I stood in the queue line, quietly waiting behind three other customers, while two more folks took their places behind me. Several people milled around, fiddling with their smartphones while they waited for their respective orders. Three more people came in, interrupting the order-taker to ask if their order was ready. After two transaction with people in front of me were completed, the young lady — her face dusted with flour and remnants of tomato sauce on her apron — announced, "I'll be with you in a minute." Her statement was directed to everyone within the sound of her voice.  She left the front counter and began assembling pizza boxes. At the same time she was eyeing the automated pizza oven and checking the orders displayed on a computer terminal above a stainless-steel prep table. The folks in the queue line shifted and collectively exhaled in frustration. The young lady extracted pizzas from the oven, set out dough and toppings, assembled and filled more pizza boxes — all by herself.

I sent a text to my wife waiting in the car. "This is crazy!," I typed, "My order hasn't been taken yet and there is ONE PERSON working."

Mrs. P replied: "Do you want to go somewhere else?"

"Yes." I responded, "Yes I do." I was already out the door as I typed the last word.

Note to self: Pizza on a weekday? Little Caesar's, please. Pizza on a Sunday? Try some place else. 

I love shitty pizza, but I'm not standing in line for it.

Footnote: I got pizza from Little Caesar's since I wrote this story. It was a weeknight, so the place was customarily empty. However, it was taking a very long time for my order to be ready. When pizza was finally handed over, it was accompanied  by an apologetic 2 liter bottle of Pepsi. This was Little Caesar's way of "making good" on a lengthy wait time. Pepsi, I will tell you, is never a good way to apologize, but I understood the sentiment. When I got home, The pizza was undercooked. The giant glob of cheese was closer to the consistency of the weather stripping that runs along the bottom of my front door than anything remotely edible. The crust was not crisp and very bready. Luckily, we rediscovered a neighborhood pizza place that will be getting our business from now on. I'm going there in a few minutes, as a matter of fact.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

when I go out with artists

When I graduated from high school in 1979, I didn't know what the heck I wanted to do with my life. I had been drawing since I was a little kid, but the thought of making it a career didn't sit right with me and it especially didn't sit right with my father. My father was a hard-working, company-loyal, old-school, narrow-minded, Nixon-loving, World War II veteran who woke up early every morning to go to a job that treated him like shit. But, in his generation, that was the way things were. As far as my father was concerned, being an "artist" was no way to make a living.

My mother, on the other hand, was much more supportive. A free-sprit for most of her single life, my mom encouraged my creativity and natural talent — possibly living vicariously through me, silently pining for the carefree days that were stifled when she married my father. My mom let me know that it was okay to take a year after high school to decide the course my career should take. College would always be there, so rushing into things was not necessary. I toyed with various options. I thought about enrolling in culinary school, but tossed that idea aside when I realized that my "cooking skills" were limited to preparing a bowl of cereal and heating up frozen pizza (the latter of which I didn't do very well). I wasn't a very good academic student. Math concepts eluded me. History bored and confused me. I thrived in art classes, despite some of the older art teachers that were burned out and appeared to be going through the motions. I was motivated by a young student teacher who introduced free-form assignments and offered a fresh perspective. But, I still couldn't imagine making "art" my career. So, at my mother's suggestion, I got a job as a cashier in a retail clothing store in hopes of climbing the proverbial "corporate ladder" and making the wide world of retail my chosen profession. Except, I fucking hated that job. It was enough to send me over the edge and enroll in art school. But not just any art school.

Once my decision to go to art school was made, I began to research and determine my options. Philadelphia boasted several well-respected art schools. Some under the auspices of larger universities. Others were stand alone private institutions. Almost all offered a Bachelor of Fine Arts degree after completing a four-year course of study. One four-year school, however, only awarded an Associates degree. This school required no academic subjects, only art classes. No academic classes? Hot damn! That was the school for me! 

I arranged for an interview at Hussian School of Art. I was asked to bring recent samples of my artwork and have transcripts from my high school sent over. No SAT scores were required and they had no interest in what kind of student I was. These were my kind of people! I went to the interview with my mom and I sat across a big desk from the president of the school as he personally reviewed and assessed my work. My portfolio consisted of mostly cartoony drawings along with a few paintings I had done as a high school senior. Mr. Dove, a soft-spoken man in a light suit and flowered tie, quietly examined my work. Finally, with just the tiniest hint of a smile, he told me I would be accepted to join the next class in September 1980. He also added that the school's curriculum would knock this "cartoony stuff" right out of my system. They would teach me to be a real artist. 

Hussian was a very small school. Very small. It was housed on three floors of an office building in center city Philadelphia. They only accepted 80 freshman per year and, as I came to see, almost half would drop out before reaching their senior year. It was a tough school with some difficult assignments and teachers who demanded perfection. Their critiques were often brutal, sometimes sending some of the more sensitive students running from a classroom in tears. I, myself, experienced a smattering of anti-Semitism — some of it from teachers. But everything was done to prepare budding artists for the real world. In my early 20s, I didn't fully understand what exactly we were being warned about. At 62, and after 40 years in this God-forsaken business, I understand. Boy, do I understand!

My class at Hussian boasted a lot of talented artists. There were a wide variety of styles and ideas, mixed with a wider variety of personalities and temperaments. There was a lot of camaraderie and there was a lot of rivalry, bordering on animosity. By the end of four years, my class of 80 was whittled down to 43 — just as predicted. We graduated at an intimate luncheon in May 1984 that my father did not attend. At the conclusion of the ceremony, I was a professional artist. 

I have worked consistently in the general art field for my entire adult life. I've had many jobs and worked for more than my fair share of assholes. Hussian prepared me well. Sure, I have expressed frustration over the unqualified opinions of talentless superiors who couldn't identify a serif with a gun to their head. But, I have also learned that, contrary to my father's beliefs, I could make a living as an artist.

I was surprised to learn how many of my classmates form Hussian chose not to pursue a career in the field of art. Some have successfully gone into such diverse alternative lines of work as home construction, nursing, corporate administration and even music. A handful have followed their chosen course of study and even ended up teaching others. Admittedly, I use very little of what I learned at Hussian in my everyday work, but there is no denying the positive foundation they forged at the very beginning.

from the Hussian website.

Just this week, a surprise announcement broke in the local press. The University of the Arts, a beloved amalgam of creative intuitions dating back to the 19th century, will abruptly close its doors forever in the wake of losing its accreditation. UArts is the second art school to announce a closing in Philadelphia this year (the other, The Pennsylvania Academy of Fine Arts will close at the end of the 2024-25 academic year). Over the past few years, The Art Institute of Philadelphia closed, The Delaware College of Art & Design closed and the suburban campus of the Tyler School of Art closed, although the program still exists on the main campus of Temple University. I was also made aware of the quiet closing of Hussian School of Art in August 2023. With no fanfare, no media coverage and no announcement to alumni, Hussian's board of trustees determined that they were unable to continue, based on the current financial outlook and declining enrollment.

I maintain that working commercial artists are one of the most misunderstood and disrespected groups. If you are not an actual working artists, you can never fully understand that it is indeed a job. It's a job just like a mail carrier or a waiter or a bus driver or even a doctor. It's not just a "fun extension of a hobby." It is work. It takes concentration and effort and energy just like your job. Artists don't want to be presented with a "fun project." If it's done for commercial purposes, it is work. Do accountants think it's a "fun project" keeping financial records for a candy store? Gee! That sounds like a "fun project, Mr. Accountant! On a daily basis, I deal with two inexperienced young ladies — fresh out of marketing classes at the University of Whatever — in the corporate office of a small chain of supermarkets. In designing their weekly advertisements, I am relentlessly instructed to move a photo of a pile of pork chops to the left a little more..... a little more.... a little more.... a little more. Never mind. Delete it.

It is sad that a city the size of Philadelphia cannot support art education. Art is everywhere. Everywhere. And artists are responsible for that art. Mechanics of art can be taught, but an "artist's touch" cannot. 

You'll be sorry. You'll see. 

www.joshpincusiscrying.com