ice ice baby

I have been to two professional hockey games in my life. The first one was in 1975. My father, who was (at the time) a main office executive for a chain of east coast of supermarkets, was given tickets to a Sunday afternoon Flyers game. In 1975, the Philadelphia Flyers were pretty hot stuff. They were the defending Stanley Cup Champions and they were the sworn enemy of every other team in the NHL. Tagged with the notorious (though fitting) moniker "Broad Street Bullies," the Flyers were a living punchline for the popular joke "I went to a fight the other day and a hockey game broke out." Because the Flyers were so popular, I watched with feigned interest when my brother would tune the game in at home. I had a Flyers T-shirt, but everyone in Philadelphia in 1975 had a Flyers T-shirt, too. But, I was not a sports fan by any stretch of the imagination, so I can't imagine why my father chose to take me instead of my more sports-leaning older brother, but he did and we went. I remember it was really, really cold inside the Spectrum, the one-time state-of-the-art multi-purpose venue where the Flyers played their home games. I had been to the Spectrum a handful of times prior to the Flyers game. I saw Alice Cooper's "Welcome to my Nightmare" concert a year earlier. I saw the folky pop group America play their greatest hits there and I saw Elton John give a high-energy performance... but I don't remember it being so cold at any of those events. Granted, there wasn't 17,000 square feet of ice at any of them, so that could have played into it. Watching the game, I remember being unable to keep track of the puck as it was fired all over the ice. I also remember having absolutely no idea what exactly was going on. I was there to see a fight. Just like everyone who goes to an air show doesn't really want to see planes fly. If they did, they would just go to the airport and sit all day. You go to an air show to see a crash... and, in 1975, you went to a hockey game to see a fight. On this particular Sunday, the Flyers did not disappoint. Somewhere during the first period, Dave Schultz, the Flyers' infamous left wing (nicknamed "The Hammer" and for good reason) got into a melee with Detroit Red Wings' center Dennis Polonich. After a few minutes of a stoppage of play to allow Schultz to pummel the living shit out of Polonich, the ice was cleared, Schultz entered the penalty box (a very familiar spot for him) and maintenance crews came out to scrape an amount of Polonich's blood off the ice. I don't remember the score, but I remember that.

This past Sunday, I went to my second professional hockey game,  putting a 48-year gap between the two games I attended. A lot had changed since I witnessed my first hockey game. First of all, the venue was the Wells Fargo Center, a new state-of-the art venue that is the current home to the Philadelphia Flyers. The Spectrum was demolished in 2011. The Flyers have retired the uniform numbers of several of the former players, some of whom I saw play in '75. Despite not being a hockey fan, I knew the names of every member of the 1975 team, as well as the coaching staff. Honestly, I couldn't name a single player on the current roster. Or any roster for the past ten years. (Okay, maybe Claude Giroux, who may or may not still be playing. Don't answer, because I don't care.) Why, you may ask, would I go to a hockey game? Well, I suppose, it's because my wife is a Dead Head.

While surfing around the internet, as one does, Mrs. Pincus discovered that the Philadelphia Flyers were having "Grateful Dead Night" at their game on January 8. We had attended a Phillies game last summer when they honored an upcoming concert by Dead and Company, the current incarnation of former members of the venerable 60s jam band still hanging on to a dream. Between innings, Grateful Dead songs were played over the stadium PA system... until they weren't (somewhere around the fourth inning).  Costumed characters of the iconic "Dancing Bears" frolicked with the Phillie Phanatic as sort of an afterthought. Mrs. P thought it would be fun to see what the Flyers would do "Grateful Dead-wise," so she bought tickets. A pre-game concert by local Dead cover band Splintered Sunlight was announced, as well as special "Dead" themed T-shirts for a limited number of special ticket holders. We bought those "special tickets" and they weren't cheap! A few days before the game, we got an email explaining that due to a pre-game conflict with the Philadelphia Eagles (who play right next door at Lincoln Financial Field and are playing much better than the Flyers are), the pre-game concert with Splintered Sunlight would be rescheduled for a Sunday in March. However, because the Flyers are playing so poorly this year and having difficulty getting people to fill the 20-thousand-plus seats in the Wells Fargo Center, we would be given (read: for free!) tickets to that game in March... in addition to the tickets we already held! 

To be honest, we were just looking for an excuse to see the inside of the Wells Fargo Center. Neither my wife nor I had been inside to see an event, except for a post-season sale of sports team merchandise held on the floor of the facility. We really had no intention of staying for the entire game. We are not hockey fans and don't expect to be hockey fans in the future. Our main goal was to check out the place, get something to eat and, possibly get a glimpse of Gritty, the most reviled mascot in the NHL and the second most popular mascot in the city. I had scanned the food offerings available at the Wells Fargo Center. Most were decidedly "meat-heavy." I am a vegetarian and my wife follows a strictly Kosher diet, so we had to look very closely at what was to be had for two people with specific dietary requirements. Surprisingly, there was quite a selection. Several concessions offered Beyond Burgers, the hit trend in meatless hamburgers. One stand had falafel (although it was closed for this particular game). A stand selling tacos and such had a mushroom and kale version that looked tempting but, we settled on something called a "Za’atar Cauliflower Cheesesteak." New this season, the Za’atar Cauliflower Cheesesteak was touted as a vegetarian-friendly alternative to the Philadelphia staple. Instead of thin strips of steak, a mixture of cauliflower and spices was the main ingredient, complimented by caramelized onions and harissa (a peppery condiment from the Middle East) Cheez Whiz. Now, before you stick your tongue out in disgust, remember, not everyone is you. Not everyone likes what you like. I happen to love cauliflower and I have actually had a similar sandwich at a little hole-in-the-wall steak and hoagie shop in Atlantic City.

We wended our way through a knot of typical Philadelphia traffic, parked and walked excitedly towards the Wells Fargo Center. Once inside, we passed through the obligatory metal detectors (where Mrs. P found a quarter on the floor!) and started our trek around the brightly lit concourse. Our seats were on the top level of the arena, but we were in no rush to get to them. We were having a better time seeing the sights, the excited fans and taking in the whole electric atmosphere. Near a free-standing souvenir stand (where Flyers sweatshirts were selling upward of a hundred bucks, a small table was set up with an array of Flyers logo items. My wife approached and asked the young man about the items. He smiled and began explaining all about purchasing Flyers season tickets. My wife politely listened to his pitch, nodding on and off as he ran down the various options and price points. I stood by silently. "Are you interested in purchasing season tickets?," he asked. My wife convincingly replied, "Sure!" She was not interested in purchasing season tickets. She was, however, interested in obtaining some of the Flyers promotional items displayed on the tabletop. As Mrs. P filled out an electronic form on an iPad, the young man turned to me and asked where our seats were tonight. I just pointed skyward. "Top section," I said with a sheepish frown. He dug into the pocket of his sport jacket and said, "How'd you like to sit closer?" He handed me two tickets for seats just behind the goal, in, what we would soon discover, one of the coldest sections in the place. Now, upgraded, we were off to find that faux steak sandwich.

Actual.

We located First Line Steaks behind Section 110, just a section over from our new, upgraded seats. We approached the counter and ordered two Za’atar Cauliflower Cheesesteaks and two bottles of water. I was not convinced that the fellow behind the counter actually worked there. He stared at us expressionless as we ordered. We had to repeat our order several times before he fully grasped what we wanted, my wife confirming, "That's cauliflower, right? No meat." He did not acknowledge. He asked if we wanted onions, to which we both replied in the affirmative. He returned from the order pick-up counter with two cheesesteaks. Two of meatiest meat-filled cheesesteaks I have ever seen. It may have even still been "moo-ing." We looked suspiciously at the sandwiches. 

"These are cauliflower?," we asked in unison. 

He stared at us and said, "Cheesesteaks." 

"Yes," Mrs. P continued, "I understand. We wanted the cauliflower sandwiches."

I examined the sandwiches a bit closer and determined that they were filled with meat, with not a trace of cauliflower anywhere. "This is meat." I said, coming to an informed conclusion and pointing to the evidence.

"Huh?," shrugged the fellow behind the counter.

"Meat!," I repeated, slightly raising my voice. Mrs. Pincus, a bit calmer, added, "We wanted the cauliflower sandwich." She pointed to the illuminated menu above our heads, but I don't believe this guy could read. He went back to the pick-up window and had a few words with the man at the preparation area. He nodded towards us and may have even given us a confident wink. He scooped a big serving of what was definitely cauliflower into a long roll. With a shiny pair of tongs, he added long strips of browned onions and topped it all off with a ladle full of orange cheese sauce from a different dispenser than the other guys were using. The fellow behind the counter took the two original meat cheesesteaks and deposited them in a nearby trash can. 

"Oh!," sighed Mrs. Pincus, "That's a shame."

"Huh?," shrugged the fellow behind the counter.

Cauliflower.

My wife pointed in the direction of the now-discarded steak sandwiches. "What a shame you had to throw those away.," she clarified

"Oh," shrugged the fellow behind the counter. (This fellow shrugged a lot!) He pushed our two cauliflower sandwiches towards us and plopped two $5.25 bottles of water right behind them. We found our way to our seats and I passed out the fistful of napkins I grabbed, as I knew this would be a messy undertaking. I was right, but — boy! — was it good. Yes, my friends, it was actually very good. 

Soon the lights dimmed and starting players were announced. Gritty made his first appearance to a mixture of cheers and boos. The players skated around the ice. The Zambonis smoothed out the playing surface while two scantily-clad young ladies — wielding snow shovels — scooped up loose ice crystals, mostly for show. A horn blew and the game began.

And, within seconds, I lost interest. I didn't recognize a single name on either team's roster. The action moved way too fast for me to keep tack of who had control of the puck. I don't know anything about hockey, but I could tell — I just had a feeling — that the poor Flyers were definitely being out-played. Gritty came to visit our section, messing with some fans, relaxing in an empty seat (there were a lot to choose from) and posing for pictures. But, it wasn't enough to keep us there for the whole game. We left midway through the last inning..... I mean period. And not a single mention of the Grateful Dead was made by anyone in an official Flyers capacity.

We have one more game to go.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

yahoo! hoop-dee-doo!

There's a blog called Tips from the Disney Divas & Devos that I follow. The blog publishes information and personal experiences for the Disney fan — both die-hard and casual. It is chock full of tips and reviews of rides, food, hotels, activities and experiences available at domestic and overseas Disney theme parks, cruise lines and other destinations. It's pretty comprehensive and offers guidance to those who need a place to start planning a Disney vacation, as well as helpful and interesting information for the seasoned enthusiast. And my friend (who goes by the name "Canadian Diva") is a contributor to the blog... and no, that's not a plug.

Different Devos

Recently, the Tips from the Disney Divas & Devos blog published a story about the Hoop-Dee-Doo Revue, a long-running dinner show that is performed nightly at the Fort Wilderness Campground in Florida's Walt Disney World. The story gave a brief overview of the show, mostly as a helpful "should we do this on our trip?" summary for folks who are planning a visit and may not be aware of this sensational offering. Considering that the Hoop-Dee-Doo Revue (or "Pioneer Hall Revue," as it is officially known) has been staging three shows nightly since its debut in 1974, it is surprising that even the most knowledgeable Disney traveler hasn't heard of it. I admit, when it was first proposed to me, I had never heard of it. But "Disney Magic Diva's" blog post got me thinking and I realized that I had a decidedly different Hoop-Dee-Doo Revue experience almost four decades ago.

The theme song for my senior prom was "Do You Know Where You're Going To? (The Theme from Mahogany)" by Diana Ross and a more fitting song could not have been chosen. When I graduated from high school, I had no idea what I wanted to do. I really didn't want to waste my money on a college program that held no interest for me. (My parents had already informed me that they would not be contributing a dime towards college tuition, if I chose to go.) So, while all of my friends went off to college, I worked as a cashier in a women's clothing store while I figured out my life. I saved my money and when the first summer after my friends' freshman year loomed ahead, we made plans for our first trip without our parents. My pals, Alan and Scott, campaigned for Walt Disney World, the then ten-year old East Coast counterpart to Walt's successful California theme park. I was set against it, opting to convince my friends that Fort Lauderdale was the place for us. I heard sorted tales of the streets overflowing with beer, girls and more beer... and that's where I wanted to be. I didn't want to be in an amusement park going on rides and rubbing elbows with a giant mouse. We debated and argued until finally, it was two against one and I lost. Resigned to the fact I was going to Walt Disney World, we began to plot out our trip. Since this was 1980 and Al Gore had not yet perfected the internet, we consulted a local travel agent who detailed and arranged our week-long adventure. We were booked into a room at the International Inn, a multi-story hotel dead center in the bustling, 24-hour party that was Orlando's International Drive. We also finagled a car rental, carefully skirting the "over 21" rule. We were told by Fay, our maternal yet shrewd travel agent, to "play dumb" if and when the rental agency asked our age. Our park passes were secured and, as expenses mounted, the three of us realized we needed a fourth to bring the costs down. After mulling over our options, we settled on Wayne, a friend of Alan's that Scott and I knew, but were not particularly fond of. However, his inclusion brought our individual price tag way down, so Wayne was welcomed. We continued our planning, talking to people who had actually been to Disney World and finding out what there was to do, besides rides. One of Alan's parents' friends told us about the Hoop-Dee-Doo Revue, an Old West dinner show that featured singing, dancing, comedy and all-you-can-eat food and all-you-can-drink alcoholic beverages. BINGO! Now, I was interested in this trip. For the somewhat exorbitant fee of $21.00, this all-you-can-eat-and-drink deal could be all-I-can-eat-and-drink! We were told that the event fills up pretty quickly and that reservations could be made thirty days in advance, by phone... and not a day sooner. With all of our arrangements wrapped up, we ticked off the calendar and  soon gathered around Alan and his telephone exactly thirty days out from the commencement of our trip. Alan dialed and spoke to someone who was actually in Walt Disney World. We got reservations for the latest (8:30 PM) seating. As Alan replaced the big receiver into the cradle mounted on his kitchen wall, the excitement grew.

Home away from home.

We landed in Orlando (my first ever plane ride) and found our way to the airport car rental desk. Not only wasn't our age questioned, but they inexplicably allowed us to rent a brand new Chrysler Cordoba, the same car that Ricardo Montalban seductively promoted on television, enticing the viewer with its "rich Corinthian leather." We would make sure that the rental agency regretted this decision for years to come. We loaded our luggage into the spacious trunk and followed the complementary map to International Drive. As Scott guided the luxury vehicle past the first of several IHOPs that dotted International Drive, we spotted our hotel just ahead... directly across the street from a 7-11 that sold beer. As a matter of fact, it seemed every store sold beer, a concept foreign to those of us from Pennsylvania, the land of steadfast and antiquated liquor laws. We stopped at the 7-11 before checking into to our hotel and stocked up for the week. Eventually, we settled in at our hotel only to rush out again to get a taste of vacation.

Our destination was Disney property to check out the Lake Buena Vista shopping area, a quaint, quiet little oasis with cute stores and a few restaurants that has since evolved into the themed-heavy, tourist sponge Disney Springs. We discovered a lounge just inside the majestic Empress Lily, the faux steamboat/restaurant that was permanently docked shore side in man-made Bay Lake. Taking velvet covered seats, we ordered beers and watched a lively banjo player deliver American songs and corny banter to the delight of the small crowd. We stayed for a long while, basking in the early wave of what has come to be known as "chillaxing," a term that would not exist for another thirty years.

All you (or I) can eat

The week continued with our first immersion (of the allotted two) in the Magic Kingdom. We would make the most of our two-day passes (this was two full years before the opening of EPCOT). The night after Magic Kingdom Day One spent at the Luau on the beachfront theater at the Polynesian Resort. My friends and I ate and drank as a warm-up for the Hoop-Dee-Doo Revue the next evening. I was pulled up onstage by a bevy of grass-skirted hula dancers who selected me, I supposed, based on my slowly failing physical coordination.

JPiC and
the "Oh, Shenandoah" Girl
(I think she's holding me up.)

Finally, our adventure reached its pinnacle. We drove out to the Contemporary Resort, fibbed to the guard at the gate that we were meeting some family members at the resort (at the time, Disney was very, very strict about allowing non-guests the use of their transportation system). We parked the Cordoba in the Contemporary's lot and made our way to the hotel's small marina. We boarded a water taxi (the first time I had ever heard that term) to take us to the Fort Wilderness Campground. We followed a dirt path to the rustic Pioneer Hall, a strikingly majestic structure built from logs (probably fake Disney logs). We checked in with the hostess at the podium outside the entrance. She was decked out in typical Western garb — overalls, flannel shirt, red bandanna, straw cowboy hat. We were granted admission and led to a table midway on the first floor, very close to the stage. Our table was outfitted with pewter place settings upon a cheery red tablecloth. A large hammered pewter vessel held great chunks of cornbread and another similar container was filled with a simple salad, glistening and visibly inviting (even for us non-salad eaters, a status that has since changed). Our waitress arrived, introduced herself and asked our beverage order. We requested sangria — one full pitcher each — with the added request to "keep 'em comin'." Our first round (of four thousand) of sangria arrived and we got to work drowning our cornbread and salad in sweet fruity wine. The show's cast arrived, barreling trough the hall's rear doors and explaining that they just got off the stagecoach, apologizing for their lateness. The cast of six was comprised of three pretty women, similarly costumed, but with enough differences to establish individual personalities — a sassy blond, a demure brunette and a spunky redhead all in color-coordinated gingham. The men were two ruggedly handsome, square-jawed fellows and a dorky guy tagged for comic relief. They all joined in on some rousing, crowd-pleasing renditions of Americana staples, including a riff on "She'll Be Coming 'Round the Mountain," while asking random guest from where they hailed. Then, the cast announced that "Mom" was out in the kitchen preparing a "mess o' vittles" that would be out shortly. A song or two later, our waitress was dropping (literally dropping) overflowing pails of fried chicken and barbecued spare ribs onto our table, along with corn, baked beans and some green vegetables that no one touched for fear it would cut into our fried chicken and spare rib capacity. As we stuffed ourselves, the brunette in yellow serenaded the diners with a soaring take on the traditional 19th century folk song "Oh, Shenandoah," her powerful voice shaking the (possibly) wooden rafters. The food continued to come out and we accepted the challenge, rising to the age-old test of every all-you-can-eat format restaurant — to make them rue the day they ever made this offer and to put this place out of business once and for all. We packed the food in as only 19 year-olds are capable. The chicken and ribs were doused with an overabundance of sangria and refills remained plentiful.

My very un-PC stage debut.

Some members of the cast mingled through the dining room/show floor tables, greeting and chatting with families. They were also recruiting supplemental players (read: willing or unwilling audience members) for the next act of the show, a slapstick version of the Davy Crockett story. The brunette "Oh, Shenandoah" Girl daringly approached our table and, after a bit of friendly exchange, grabbed me, in my inebriated state, to portray a 1980, insensitive, politically-incorrect Indian (a part I cannot imagine is still included in current incarnations of the dinner show). I was hustled backstage, told to roll up my pant legs and fitted with a buckskin loincloth and a headband with a single feather. I was part of a group that included a young lady that was given a saloon dancer costume, a bald man who was forced into a tutu and translucent fairy wings, a little boy who had a comically giant cowboy had put on his head and an equally giant lawman's badge affixed to his shirt. We were all assigned a few lines of some simple stage instruction. Luckily, I was told to merely growl and grunt. This was good for me, since I was so filled with sangria that my attempt at memorizing complicated dialogue would have been disastrous. The skit started and I was pushed out onto the stage. I grunted and growled and tried to keep myself from taking a header into the front row of tables. The little boy in the giant cowboy hat approached me from the opposite side of the stage and fired off a couple of shots at me from his cap gun. As previously instructed, I hit the stage... but that would has probably happened in a few minutes anyway. The little play continued with the young lady doing an embarrassing dance to the whoops and hollers of her nearby family and the bald man uncomfortably flitting around the stage in his tutu. I, however, spent the entire length of the play (save for my brief "growling" bit) face down on the floor (and my friends had the pictures to prove it). At the conclusion, I was helped to my feet and escorted back to my table... where I unwisely consumed more sangria.

Acknowledgement of my performance

A very cute interactive song was performed by the troupe announcing the strawberry shortcake that would be served for dessert. Not being a fan of strawberries, I downed more wine until I was ultimately carried out of Pioneer Hall by my travelling companions. My friends dragged me down to the Fort Wilderness pier where they tossed me into a waiting water taxi before climbing in themselves. Then I was helped back through the lobby of the Contemporary and to our rental car then back to our hotel. (We did have a slight delay as we nearly turned into the entrance of the Florida Turnpike.) When we arrived at our hotel, Alan realized that we forgot to tip our waitress. We collectively (well, not me... I was passed out by this point) decided to return the next day and deliver the proper tip. We didn't want to be "those guys." With a pounding hangover, I forced a few pieces of toast into my mouth while my friends chowed down on a full buffet breakfast. We, once again, piled into our car and drove over to the Contemporary, then the water taxi, then the dirt path and right up to a calm (and closed-looking) Pioneer Hall. Alan tapped lightly on the huge wooden door a few times until it ominously creaked open. A woman stuck her head out and asked if she could help us. We explained that we felt bad about not leaving a tip for our waitress the previous evening, but we were otherwise occupied. With that, my friends all turned and shot me a collective dirty look. I shrunk sheepishly. The woman at the door popped her head back to summon our waitress. She was pleased and humbled by our return and happily accepted our generous wad of folded bills (actually more than we would have left the prior evening, had I not been a giant monkey wrench). We were thanked again and we left, looking for more vacation adventure... or trouble... whichever the case may be.

I returned to the Hoop-Dee-Doo Revue on subsequent trips — on my honeymoon and several more times with our son (including a short-lived breakfast hour version of the show). By this time, my family and I no longer ate meat outside of our home, as we observed the laws of kashrut (keeping kosher). The folks at Disney were very accommodating, offering us extra helpings of vegetables and salad that were just as satisfying. And I no longer drink alcohol.

It makes me do funny things.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

no static at all

My son E. is employed at a local Philadelphia radio station. In addition to his various on-air shifts, he is a producer, engineer and a host of other titles that fall in to the category of "multi-tasking." On Saturday afternoons, he hosts an "all-request" show. That is exactly what is sounds like and it hearkens back to the simple days of my youth when you could call in your request to your favorite radio station to hear the latest hit single by your favorite band-of-the-moment. If you were lucky enough to get through to your favorite "boss jock," he would tell you what pre-selected song to request, if you'd like to hear your voice on the air. However, things have gotten a bit more involved in the age of rapidly-advancing technology. Requests are now delivered via Facebook, Twitter and email, in addition to the old-fashioned telephone. And, the requests, at least on my son's radio station, are legitimate requests from the listeners. The station, an NPR affiliate, prides itself on its eclectic mix of off-the-beaten-path singer-songwriters, classic and stalwart rock, local artists and the occasional surprise, maybe a 60s bubble gum nugget, a funky hip-hop groove or an out-of-left-field, indescribable something... or sometimes a strange combination of the above. Noticeably absent from their unwritten playlist is Top 40 mainstream artists of the American Idol and The Voice ilk (although they may slip in every once in a while just to shake things up, depending on who is manning the proverbial turntable).

Earlier in the month, E. made plans to record a session with self-described internet pop music "cult" Hussalonia for a later feature on his Friday evening showcase of independent artists, The Indie Rock Hit Parade (listen at wx.pn/listen. you will not be sorry). Since I am a fan of the enigmatic Hussalonia, I invited myself to witness the session. I also planned to arrive early and sit in the studio to observe my boy at work as he spun the dials and slid the levers for his weekly Saturday afternoon request show.

I stood at the building's entrance on Walnut Street and waited for E. to arrive. In the bright noon sun, I could see someone turn the corner at 30th Street that I thought was him. When I realized they were wearing shorts (he doesn't own a pair), and were approaching a car parked at a meter (he doesn't drive), I knew it wasn't him. Also when I realized it was a girl, my inkling was again confirmed. Soon, a cab pulled up and E. bounded out and greeted me.

"You think you could answer the phones today?," he asked. Then he said "Hi" and hugged me. He's still my boy! I couldn't refuse.

We headed into the studio, E. toting his professional-looking headphones and me tagging behind like an eager-to-learn intern (or a puppy). E. got himself situated behind the imposing console. Then, he explained the simple process of answering the studio request line. He showed which buttons to press and how to advance to the next call. He supplied me with a stack of paper and a pen and I was on my own in my new employment in whirlwind fashion.

What would you like to hear?

Suddenly, we were live on the air. E., with headphones perched in position and lips pressed to the huge microphone, slid a lever with his left hand and spoke to his unseen audience. He welcomed listeners to the show and recited the various options of contact for requests. Upon delivery of the phone number, the phone lit up like a little Christmas tree (if Christmas trees were dark gray and decorated only on one side with small green lights). With pen poised at the ready, I sprung into action.

I furiously punched the phone buttons and scribbled the requests as fast as I could, only able to pause to remain silent during E.'s live breaks every twenty or so minutes. At those points, he would announce the titles of the previously-played songs and give out the contact information, upon which the whole frantic process would start up again.

With each call I answered, I clearly stated the stations call letters and asked, "What would you like to hear?"

"Hey! I love your show" most of the calls began, followed by a hesitant and unsure "could you play..." and everyone from Frank Zappa and Isaac Hayes to NOFX and Something Corporate were suggested. As I feverishly jotted down artist's names and song titles in my best legible shorthand, E. scanned the Twitter feed and posts to the station's Facebook page. The dozens and dozens of titles are then assessed by E. and assembled in some sort of pleasing — or even jarring — playback. E. takes pride in crafting an on-the-fly playlist under such pressing constraints. During a three-hour show, he gets at least five hours of requests, so creating a cohesive sound is a pretty daunting task. It was a treat to watch him work. He even acknowledged me by telling listeners that "internet celebrity Josh Pincus" was answering the phones. To my surprise, a few callers recognized my name by my association with E. and my incoherent Twitter rants. He never let on that I am his dad.

The calm before the storm.

Three hours flew by. Hussalonia, whose traveling incarnation includes drums, guitar and bass, arrived for their session. "Can you give me a hand with the session?," E. asked. I was only too happy to help. We met the band at their car which they parked on the street adjacent to the building. E. loaded a rolling garden cart with as much of their equipment as he could, piling bass drums on top of amplifiers. I hefted a canvas bag of cymbals in my left hand and gripped a guitar case in my right. Once in the studio, E. directed me to plug a dozen cables into a multi-outlet electric box and snake them individually to any number of microphones and instruments. E. had a plan in his head and instructed me — his roadie du jour — to help bring that plan to reality. He was a blur as he connected power jacks and arranged mic stands, then ran back to the control room to set levels and check sound feeds. Then, he scaled a ladder to fire up lighting for clearly capturing the moment in photographs (which he would be taking). It was like watching five people at once.

Hussalonia warms up in the studio while E. (far right)
does something "producer-ish."

The band ran out to grab something to eat before the session started, but E. never stopped. He checked and rechecked connections, lighting and sound levels, angles of microphones and a host of other things with which I am not familiar. Situated behind a control board bigger and more imposing than the one in the broadcast studio, E. now directed the band as they tuned up and segued into their first song. They sounded great, but everyone decided on a second take. As a matter of fact, a second take was performed for each of the band's four selections. Afterwards, E. got them to record a few station ID promos and they began packing up their stuff. Over the next half hour, we broke down what we had just set up — meticulously coiling cables, tucking mics back into their protective pouches and setting equipment stands back in their proper storage spaces. Then, we helped the band with transporting their equipment back out to their car. They graciously posed for some pictures on the sidewalk, then we said our 'goodbyes' and they were off to Hussanlonia Land.

E. and I went back into the studio for a final survey of the place, making certain everything was put away properly and anything that needed to be turned off or shut down was turned off and shut down. E. walked with me to the train station where he grabbed a Philly Bike Share bike for his ride back to his South Philly home. He thanked me for my help and hugged me 'goodbye.' I got the feeling I was officially relived of my position in the radio business.

At least I have that graphic design gig to fall back on.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

out here in the fields

Sunday mornings are sacred for me. No, no — not in the religious, church-going way, but in the sense that I don't like to do a goddamn thing. I wake up, make myself a cup of coffee, flip on the TV, plop myself down on the sofa and prepare myself for a full day of Gilligan's Island, The Brady Bunch and a compellingly hokey episode of The Love Boat. Yessir! Sundays don't get much better than that!

Late Saturday evening, our neighbor Rae called to ask if Mrs. P and I would like to accompany her family on a "pick your own produce" adventure at an orchard in the suburbs just south of Philadelphia. My wife, who loves adventures and loves the concept of "the more the merrier," jumped at the invitation. Rae optimistically asked, "Josh is a 'hayride' kind of guy, isn't he?" My wife laughed. "Yeah, sure he is.," she responded. Hanging up the phone, my spouse asked if I'd like to go on the proposed outing. I smiled and answered the same way I have answered many, many times over the past thirty years, "I will be happy to do anything you'd like."

Sunday morning we arrived and piled into a hay-filled, flatbed trailer that was hitched to a tractor — a real live farm tractor. We were informed by the wizened and weather-beaten farmer that we'd be driven out to the area of the farm where we could pick peaches and corn, two produce commodities that I wasn't aware even knew each other. I reluctantly sat down in the dry hay bedding and the tractor rumbled off along a tree-lined, bumpy dirt path. I checked the time. Yep, right about now Peter was probably breaking Mom's favorite lamp, despite repeated warnings to not play ball in the house. Soon, Captain Stubing and crew would be departing for locales "exciting and new" and here I was in the back of a farm vehicle, covered in what was, essentially, horse feed.

Rotten peaches, rottin' in the sun

The tractor shuddered to a halt and, armed with the cardboard box equivalent of a bushel, we headed down a wide aisle shaded by leafy peach trees. Now, I don't eat a lot of fruit. I was a bit disappointed that we wouldn't have the opportunity to select our own pineapples and bananas. I had swarthy visions of hacking the mighty stems with a machete, until it was explained to me that those tropical fruits only grow in the tropics (hence the name) and that Delaware County, Pennsylvania did not fall into the realm of a tropical clime. Still, I followed my group as they strolled among the trees choosing large peaches, their skin blushing and inviting (the peaches, I mean). Some (like the ones pictured) weren't so lucky to be among the picked. We set forth with the harvest, and satisfied with our haul in the peach department, we crossed a ruddy, dirt path to where a series of corn stalks were compacted into cramped rows. Now, I like corn. It is tops on my "Vegetables I Will Eat" list, followed closely by French fries and more corn. (I know, I profess to being a vegetarian, but that doesn't mean I exclusively eat vegetables. It means I don't eat meat. As a matter of fact, I don't really care for vegetables. But, being a vegetarian does not prohibit me from eating pie and Oreos. And I take full advantage of that.) I uncharacteristically dove headlong into the glut of the corn crop, examining the husk-covered ears clinging to the thick stalks. With an audible crack!, I snapped off some of the larger ears and tossed them into my cardboard carry box where they unnaturally mingled with the peaches. O., Rae's husband, approached me holding an ear of corn, freshly stripped of its protective husk. O. was chomping on a raw piece and offered me a section which he had broken off. "No thank you," I said, as I waved him off, "I prefer mine cooked. I don't want to eat raw corn out here like I'm an escaped prisoner hiding from the warden's guards in a cornfield and foraging for food."

The hay wagon pulled up, ready to drive us back to the parking lot. Our little group boarded, along with a dozen or so others, like migrant farm workers returning from a hard day in the fields, all carrying their spoils of the earth's bounty. As we chugged to a stop at our destination, I turned and announced to my fellow "You Pick"ers that all of this stuff is readily available at a place called a 'supermarket' and little to no effort need be exerted to yield the exact same result.

He Who Walks Behind The Rows

During our little exercise in "let's pretend to be a farmhand," Mrs. P snapped this photo of me and sent it off to our son via text. She included the message, "Look what I got your Dad to do."

He instantly replied, "What? Go outside?"

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