tonight I'm gonna have myself a real good time

This post is purely self-indulgent. It is 100 percent for my enjoyment. You may like it. You may not, but I'm telling you right now. It's just for me. So, if you want to skip this week's entry on It's Been A Slice, that's okay. Next week, I'll write about some old television show or a movie or some bit of day-to-day tedium that pissed me off. But this week, it's just a little "me" time.

One evening in the late fall of 1974, thirteen year-old Josh Pincus was up in his bedroom in his home in northeast Philadelphia. I had my radio tuned to WFIL, the radio station in Philadelphia for all the top pop hits of the day. Everyone listened to the "boss jocks" on WFIL and I was no different. I was probably avoiding getting my homework done when I heard a very very unusual sound coming from the radio. Among the glut of Olivia Newton-John and Mac Davis and America and Tony Orlando and Dawn, the song I was hearing sounded like aliens. I was stunned. I was motionless. I was mesmerized for a full three minutes. When it was over, the DJ announced to me and the entire Delaware Valley that we had just heard a new song called "Killer Queen" by a British band called Queen. I was an instant fan.

The following year, I became a concert goer. Going to concerts at 14 years-old was no easy task. I wasn't old enough to drive and I wasn't familiar enough with the intricate and often unreliable public transportation system in Philadelphia. Fearing that the wrong bus or subway train would deposit me in a different country where I'd never see my family again, I was not above securing (read: begging) my mother to provide door-to-door car service to one of the two (maybe three) major concert venues in the city. My mom was only too happy to drive my friends and I. My father... well, I never asked my father. If we weren't going to see Al Jolson, my father was not driving. Besides, he had to get up early the next morning for work... even if it was his day off.

In the winter of 1977, Queen released A Day at the Races, the follow-up to their international hit album A Night at the Opera. Somehow, some way, I had missed Queen when they brought their A Night at the Opera tour to the Tower Theater for three nights in 1976. But I was not going to let that happen again. Queen had become my favorite band and I was determined to see them live. Based on their new-found popularity, the natural venue, after playing the 3000-seat Tower Theater, was the self-proclaimed "America's Showplace" — The Spectrum. The Spectrum, an 18,000-seat multi-purpose facility, was the home to the Philadelphia 76ers and Flyers. It also hosted a wide variety of musical acts — all presented with the worst acoustics one would expect from a place more suited for hockey games. But — no! — Queen was relegated to the Philadelphia Civic Center, another multi-use venue. (The Beatles played there in 1964.) Alas, The Spectrum was hosting Electric Light Orchestra on February 11, 1977, so Queen drew the short straw. Nevertheless, I purchased a ticket for $7.50.

The night of the show, my mom graciously drove a friend and me to West Philadelphia. We made firm arrangements where to meet my mom at the show's conclusion. My friend and I nervously maneuvered our way through the general admission crowd. We decided that a viewing point on the second level would be optimum. I really didn't want to fight the crowds stage side. So we spotted and laid claim to two empty seats in the balcony and waited for the lights to dim.

Irish rockers Thin Lizzy kicked things off. They buzzed through a quick thirty minute set highlighted by "The Boys are Back in Town," their current big radio hit. After a brief intermission, Queen burst on to the stage to the shrieking guitar strains of "Tie Your Mother Down," the lead track on their A Day at the Races album. From there, they tore through 22 more songs, each one more exciting than the last. Their four-song encore included "Hey Big Spender" from the Broadway musical Sweet Charity and a "queen-sized" take on Elvis Presley's "Jailhouse Rock." Freddie Mercury stalked and swirled and pirouetted his way right into my teenage heart. I thought my head was going to explode... and that would have left my friend without a ride home. 

Despite touring in support of A Day at the Races well into the summer of 1977, Queen released News of the World, their sixth studio album in October of the same year. Where did they find the time? The album boasted a rare double-A sided single in "We Will Rock You/We Are The Champions" which was already charting ahead of the album's official release. Two Queen shows were announced at the Spectrum for late November 1977. I bought tickets to the first night. At the time, it was unheard of in my social circles to go see a band on more than one night of a multi-night stop in your city. Except if you were a Deadhead... and I surmised that Deadheads only went to more than one show in a tour because they were so stoned that they had forgotten where they were the previous night. Besides, the night of Queen's second show was Thanksgiving, and there was no way my mom would have allowed me to go to a concert instead of spending the evening wrestling a turkey drumstick away from my Aunt Claire. 

I got a ride to the concert with my brother, who also had tickets. His seats were in the front row to the right of the stage, but the view was obstructed by a giant speaker. My seats were in the fourth row but dead center. Queen hit the stage with a fast, hard version of "We Will Rock You" and immediately segued into the epic "Brighton Rock" from Sheer Heart Attack. They packed a whopping 31 songs into their evening's set. The night ended when Freddie Mercury disappeared backstage and reemerged with an armful of  pink carnations. One by one, he nonchalantly tossed them out to the crowd... and I caught one. (I took it home and - almost fifty years later - I still have it.) My brother watched a speaker and the top of Brian May's head.

Almost a year to the day, Queen returned to the Philadelphia Spectrum in support of their album Jazz. This release, again, was supplemented by another double-A sided single "Bicycle Race/Fat Bottomed Girls." I honestly remember very little about this show. I was sitting seventeen rows from the stage, which, in the scheme of the Spectrum, might as well have been in the parking lot. In between the time I bought my ticket and the day of the show, I contracted a bad case of pneumonia. It was bad enough to keep me out of school for a few days... but not nearly bad enough to stop me from seeing Freddie and company live in concert. At one point during the show, I thought it would be a good idea to stand up on my chair like everyone else in my section. It turned out not to be a wise decision at all. As soon as I stood up, I lost my balance and fell backwards. Luckily, my friend who I was attending the concert with, grabbed me and kept me from hitting the floor. I suppose the show was really good. I read about it in the newspaper the next day.

After a two-year hiatus, Queen returned to Philadelphia for The Game tour. For some reason, I don't remember who I went to this concert with. I don't remember how I got there. By 1980, I had a driver's license. I may have borrowed my mom's car. I really don't remember. I have seen a set list and read about the show. I remember seeing Freddie Mercury come out on stage perched upon the shoulders of Darth Vader. I remember him referring to my beloved city as "Filthydelphia." I even remember being confused by their choice of opening song - "Jailhouse Rock." I remember being surprised by the inclusion of an opening act, something they had dispensed with for the previous two tours. I just don't remember being there. 

In 1982, I met the future Mrs. Pincus. She walked into the restaurant where I worked. After a few dates and "getting to know you" conversation, I revealed myself as a Queen fan. She was a Deadhead. She didn't have to tell me. It was apparent by the stickers on her car and the music in her apartment. In April of 1982, against my better judgement and despite my long history of concert-going, I was taken to my first (of many) Grateful Dead shows. Let's just say... I love my wife a whole lot more than I love the Grateful Dead. I only thought it would be fair to take my soon-to-be wife to a Queen concert. (Turnabout is fair play.... isn't that how the saying goes?) So I did. Queen was coming back to Philadelphia in the summer of 1982. I bought three tickets — one for me, one for the future Mrs. P and one for the original Mrs. P... my mom. My mom had developed into quite the avid Queen fan. She bought Queen albums before I did. She turned up the volume when she heard Queen songs on the radio. (Oh, she recognized Queen songs on the radio, unlike my dad who... well, my dad didn't.) So, that summer I took the two Mrs. Ps to their very first Queen concert. One was ecstatic. The other, not so much. 

The show — in my very biased opinion — was great. My mom cried the moment Queen took the stage. (She loudly voiced her dismay with opening act Billy Squier, commenting: "Well, he sucked!") My mom was just beside herself — dancing and singing along and squealing like a teenager. Mrs. P-in-waiting, however, was unimpressed by Freddie Mercury's descent to the stage on a flower-covered swing, citing that Jerry Garcia never did such a thing. My future spouse questioned the band's numerous costume changes, asking if that was a ploy to cover for their lack of talent. I noted that Jerry Garcia had been wearing the same black t-shirt since 1968. We remained quiet for the rest of the show.

While Queen mounted several more tours before Freddie Mercury's death, they never returned to the United States after 1982. 

I got to see Queen five times. This week was the forty-ninth anniversary of that very first show. Time sure does fly when you get old you're self-indulgent.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

comfort and joy

There were a series television commercials when I was a kid that fascinated me. They were commercials for Cream of Wheat, the hot breakfast cereal, perennially overshadowed by its more celebrated oaten comrade. The commercials all depicted approximately the same premise and message. A boy or a girl — or, sometimes a boy and a girl — are seated at a typical family breakfast table, spooning heaping servings of Cream of Wheat into their hungry maws while an authoritative voice expounds on the nutritional value of the less-popular, bastard cousin of breakfast stalwart oatmeal. Then came the most exciting part of the commercial. After slurping down the last vitamin-filled glob of Cream of Wheat, the child would tie on a scarf, zip up a jacket and head out for a day filled with running and jumping and other stuff kids were expected to do in the early 70s before their eyes were glued to a video game or a smartphone screen. But — and here's the part I loved — before they left the house, a ghostly bowl of steaming Cream of Wheat would rise off the table and float eerily about the child's head. When the child left the house, there was that bowl of Cream of Wheat, animated tendrils of warmth swirling above its cartoon rim, hovering protectively just inches from the child's head. The announcer reassured us that the vitamins and energy packed into each delicious bowl of Cream of Wheat followed your child and stayed with them throughout the day.

Well, I was sold. I begged — begged! — my mother to buy Cream of Wheat. And, she did... along with a big cardboard canister of Quaker Oatmeal for my father, because my father.... well, my father wanted what he wanted...and that was oatmeal.... and not that "creamy wheat" shit.... oh, and cigarettes. On weekends in the winter, and sometimes if I got up early enough before school, my mom would make Cream of Wheat for me. There was no instant Cream of Wheat when I was a kid. No instant boiling water and certainly no microwaves. My mom would actually cook the Cream of Wheat in a pot on the stove, closely following the detailed directions printed on the side of the box. She'd carefully measure each precise quantity of water and dry grainy Cream of Wheat in a large glass measuring cup. She'd bust out her jailer's ring of aluminum measuring spoons to dole out the exact amount of salt the recipe called for. I'd wait impatiently, watching my mom stir and stir and stir the contents of that little pot until the allotted time had passed (again, according to the recommendation from the good folks in the trusted test kitchens of Nabisco's Cream of Wheat Central). My mom would grab a bowl from our kitchen cabinet. Setting it down on our kitchen table, she'd tip the pot slightly, allowing the golden gloppy mixture to lazily flow into the bowl. Then, she'd add a pat of butter, a few generous teaspoons of sugar and a splash of milk, again, adhering to the "serving suggestions" from the hot cereal authorities at Nabisco.

I ate that Cream of Wheat and I really liked it. I liked the creaminess (hence the name!). I liked the sweetness, not realizing that it was due to the ridiculous amount of sugar my mom added. I liked the smooth texture (what they call "mouth feel" now, thanks to a slew of pretentious Food Network programs) and I liked the warmth it provided as it made its way to my stomach. I was, however, very disappointed that I didn't have a ghostly bowl follow me for the rest of  the day, like in the commercial. Oh, believe me... I looked. I looked a lot. I tried to spot it in my peripheral vision. I tried to spy it lurking above my head or ducking behind a tree as I walked to the school bus stop. After a while, I resigned myself to the fact that the floating bowl only followed those kids on television. But, I still ate Cream of Wheat.

Now, I am almost 65 years old. I hate winter. I hate the cold. I hate snow. I hate shoveling snow. I hate driving in the snow. I hate worrying about other people driving in the snow. I hate going to work in the dark and coming home in the dark. The only thing about winter that I do like is Cream of Wheat. When the temperatures start to drop and Canadian winds blow cold air down to our area, that's when I buy a box of instant Cream of Wheat to supplement my regular breakfast of cold cereal. Unlike the days of my youth, when my mom would avail herself of the elaborate ritual of Cream of Wheat preparation, I can just empty a premeasured envelope of dry Cream of Wheat into a bowl, add two-thirds of a cup of water and pop it into the microwave. One minute and thirty seconds later, I have a hot bowl of Cream of Wheat, all ready to receive a small scoop of non-dairy margarine (instead of butter) and two packets of Splenda substituting for the sugar my mom insisted on adding. That first spoonful brings me right back to my childhood kitchen table. When they talk about macaroni and cheese and real mashed potatoes being "comfort foods," I always think of Cream of Wheat as my "comfort food." I am still comforted by Cream of Wheat. Remember that climactic scene in Ratatouille when surly food critic Anton Ego is mentally transported back to his childhood by a single taste of a dish from his distant past? That's me and Cream of Wheat! It reminds me of a time when my biggest concern was which cartoon to watch on Saturday morning. It takes me back to a time when I didn't have to hear some asshole supermarket owner tell me to make the price of blueberries in his store's ad three times its current size and to move that can of soup just a skosh* to the left. It's simple. It's calming. It's comforting. 

Yes sir... Cream of Wheat sure is good.

And I'm still looking for that bowl floating behind my head.

* Yeah, that's how it's spelled. I looked it up.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

this is a photograph

I have a box of photographs in my basement. It's been there for over thirty years. It took up residence on a little shelf in a closet in my basement in 1993, just after my father died and we cleaned out his house to make it ready to sell. It was filled very quickly at my father's house (the house in which I grew up). Drawers and closets were opened and the contents were quickly assessed. After the separation of stuff deemed "trash" and stuff which Mrs. Pincus saw as "saleable," photographs — all photographs — were tossed into a cardboard box and brought to my house. You can't throw photographs away!, we thought. They're photographs, for goodness sake!

And there they sat. In a box. In my basement... where no one looked at them. No one organized them. No one cared about them.

My mom was the unofficial historian for the family. She knew who was married to who, whose children belonged with which cousin or aunt or whoever. Her knowledge of the family went back to generations that were around before she was born. She knew about family members that never made the trek to the United States. When she married my father, she even was able to decipher relationships in the mysterious Pincus branch of the family. Unfortunately, my mother died in 1991 and she took the family history with her. There was no longer anyone to ask about the ins-and-outs of uncles and grandparents and "how is he related to us.... again?"

In the early days of the COVID-19 insolation, I found myself wandering around my house, looking for something to occupy the time. I came across the box of photos in my basement. I had just joined a private Facebook group that was set up by a second or third cousin with whom I had lost touch. The group was devoted to my mother's side of the family. I started to rifle through the box of photos and select those which featured people I could Identify. Most of these showed my mother in her teens and early 20s. That was a time when she was — to put it into today's terms — a party girl. My mom was gregarious fun-loving girl, always looking for a good time and a hunky guy to latch on to. It didn't hurt that she bore a passing resemblance to actress Barbara Stanwyck. I uncovered dozens and dozens of snapshots of my mom. In most, she was mugging for the camera, striking poses that rivaled 1980s Madonna. In some of the pictures, her arm was laced through that of a shirtless guy with a swimming pool in the background. In others, she was all smiles as she was embraced by a guy in a snappy military uniform. None of these men, I should mention, were my father. 

I found other pictures, too. I found shots of my brother, me and the rare example of the two of us together in the same picture. Most of these pictures were taken by my father, whose inimitable style was apparent by the amount of space above our heads and the fact that we were not always the main focus of the composition. In other photos, I recognized the faces of cousins who are now in their late 60s and 70s. I found pictures of long deceased uncles and aunts seated on sofas I remembered from my childhood living room. However, there were dozens and dozens of pictures that showed people I did not recognize. Smiling women and stern-faced men peered in the direction of the camera. Laughing girls and awkwardly posed young boys sporting thick-framed glasses stared at me from those warped and faded squares of celluloid. And then I'd pick up a picture of my mom in a fur coat on the Atlantic City boardwalk, letting me know that these pictures all belonged to the same family. It's just I was not able to identify everyone.

Mrs. Pincus and I took a lot of pictures. We have pictures from Walt Disney World, Niagara Falls and Hershey Park. We have pictures from ball games and pictures of our cats rolling around on our kitchen floor. We have loads of pictures of our son, from his first day of school and seeing him off to summer camp to high school graduation and countless New Years Eve celebrations. Some of  those pictures have been neatly arranged in multipage albums, but most are still in their developing service envelopes and stashed in the drawers of a dresser in our guest bedroom. (If you want to stay overnight at the Pincus house, you're keeping your clothes in your suitcase.)

I started thinking....

My wife and I are in our 60s. What on earth will become of our photographs when our time among the living comes to an end? And what will be the fate of that box of photographs in our basement? 

My son (who is in his middle 30s) has a house of his own. I can assure you that he does not want to clutter said house with a bunch of photographs from his parents' house, let alone a box of pictures of people that I can't even identify. I'm pretty sure that all of the pictures in our house will meet the same fate that all that unopened mail in my father's house experienced. That would be "Dumpster City."

There have been a lot of great inventions over the years. The electric light bulb. The printing press. Television.  I think the greatest invention is digital photography. If only digital photography was around in my parents' youth. I wouldn't have a mystery box of pictures in my house. I wouldn't have drawers and drawers of pictures that my son will probably toss sometime after my funeral. 

Yes sir. Digital photography is a true innovation. No boxes of pictures. No waiting for developing. And that all-powerful, all-important "delete" function.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com