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

after last night

My wife and I are often asked: "How did you two meet?" It's a story that we have told many, many times over the years — both separately and together. In a group situation, the story usually unfolds as though it's been rehearsed over and over again. We take turns interjecting a crucial piece of the tale, like we are reciting lines from a script that we have been performing on a nationwide tour. Well, this year — this month, as a matter of fact — marks the 40th anniversary since the night we met. So, if you've heard this story before or if you haven't, here it is in all its quirky, typical Pincus glory...

I was a student at a respected Philadelphia art school in 1982. Prior to enrollment, I was informed by my parents — the world's worst handlers of money — that if I chose to continue my education past the tuition-free arrangement of public school, I was on my own. So, just out of high school, I wandered — alone — into a bank and with no prior experience aside from a little savings account (complete with a bank book) I had in third grade, I dove headfirst into the uncharted world of student loans. After a lengthy explanation of terms, I signed a bunch of papers and, a few weeks later, I received a check for tuition made out jointly to me and the school. I would have to begin repaying this loan (and subsequent loans I would contract over the next three years) six months after graduation. I had a job as a cashier at at discount department store near my Northeast Philadelphia home, but I needed to find something a little closer to the Center City location of my new school. Well, I did — at my cousin's health food restaurant. While his establishment did a brisk lunchtime business, he was looking to open a few nights a week for dinner. With my beard, ponytail and bohemian "art school" attitude, I would fit right in — despite the fact that I ate cheesesteaks and meat-filled hoagies. Not exactly the expected diet of someone who would be serving tofu and various vegetable-based entrees to a bunch of hippie holdovers that comprised the restaurant's clientele. (This, of course, was years before I latched on to the vegetarian lifestyle I currently practice.)

Three days a week — Wednesday, Thursday and Friday — I would leave school a few minutes early and rush across downtown Philadelphia to my cousin's restaurant. When I arrived, I'd stash my bag of art supplies, don a green apron and dish out salads and brown rice and tempeh and any number of foods that, if I wasn't getting paid to handle, I wouldn't touch with a ten-foot celery stalk. The restaurant was cafeteria-style and from 3 pm to 9 pm, I'd force a smile on my face and dispense plates of meatless food for an assortment of patrons that ran the gamut from hardcore vegans (before the concept was popular) to the "what's this all about" crowd. At 9 on the dot, I'd lock the door and begin the clean up process. I'd wipe down countertops and tables and mop the floor, while my co-worker would wash the pots, pans and serving utensils in the upstairs kitchen. We had the process timed down to approximately 50 minutes, if we weren't distracted. And by "distracted," I mean cordially, but firmly, guiding any straggling diners out the door before the clock struck 9. 

On February 26, 1982, I was distracted... and my life changed forever.

It was a Friday and I was ready to go home. Around 8 pm, I attempted to get a jump on my regular closing time ritual by covering some of the food that had gone untouched with plastic wrap. The restaurant had been pretty slow since the "dinner hour" ended around 7. Suddenly, the front door swung open and three — ugh! — customers walked in. A tall, dark haired guy in a preppy sweater and two pretty young ladies. I was just a few months shy of my twenty-first birthday, and — truth be told — every girl was pretty, in my opinion. I had a lot of "one dates" with a lot of different girls. Admittedly, I was always on the prowl — as they said in the promiscuous 80s. Tonight, however, I was in no mood to flirt. I wanted to get home and three customers were now standing in my way.

One of the girls approached the serving counter and perused the array of offerings in the salad section and the adjacent steam table where the evening's hot entrees were displayed. She pointed to a container of shredded cheese sandwiched between a container of sliced bell peppers and one of julienned carrots. She smiled and asked, "Does the cheese have rennet?"

I looked at her. She was pretty, but — like I said — I wasn't looking to hit on a girl right now. I was anxious to lock up, mop up and hit the road. I wrinkled my face at her question and replied with five words that — I assume — charmed her like a Shakespearean sonnet.

"What the hell is rennet?"

She explained that she observed the ancient laws of kashrut — "keeping kosher" to you and me. If the restaurant was truly vegetarian, then the cheese would contain a vegetable-derived rennet, instead of the commonly-used meat-based rennet employed by most commercial dairies in the manufacturing of cheese. "Kosher?," I exclaimed, "I don't know anyone under the age of 80 that 'keeps Kosher!' My grandmother keeps Kosher, for chrissakes!" Slowly but surely, I was winning this young lady over.

Soon, she was joined by the man and the other young lady. The trio asked some more questions and eventually made their dinner selections. They explained that they were headed to a movie and didn't want to be late. Once they chose a table in the otherwise empty seating area, I made sure that they didn't stay one second longer than they had to. Uninvited, I took a seat at a nearby table and struck up a conversation. I started with the obligatory "How is everything?" before moving on to questions about the movie that was in their plans. Then, assuming that the "rennet" girl was a few years too old for me, I relaxed my "let's hurry this along" strategy and asked the other girl for her phone number... just like that. She frowned and refused. The "rennet" girl, however, asked if I had an older and taller brother. "Hmm....," I thought, "she's not with this guy after all." (In reality, she had grown up with the male member of their party and always figured she would marry him one day. However, until that time came, she was open to other possibilities....) Coincidentally, I do have an older — and yes, taller — brother. I happily accepted her hastily scribbled phone number to deliver to my brother.

I made a few additional smart-ass comments to the group as they finished up their dinner. Actually, my intention was that my commentary would help in hurrying them along. A little before 9, they gathered their coats and belongings and headed for the door. But not before the "rennet" girl told me that I was the most obnoxious person she had ever met. She wasn't the first person to tell me that. She wasn't even the first person that day.

Early Saturday morning, I called my brother to tell him I got the phone number of a girl for him. My brother was in a long-term relationship with the woman who is currently my sister-in-law. But the Pincus brothers were the Pincus brothers and — prior to the meaningful and solemn commitment of marriage — anything was fair game. He did ask a favor of me, though. He requested that I call this prospective girl first and explain that he was going to call. He hated to go through the awkward formality of jogging someone's memory. What if they couldn't remember giving out their number or even the entire encounter at all. He wanted that all out of the way, leaving plenty of time to ply the patented Pincus charm that won over so many defenseless members of the fairer sex.

So, I called her. She answered the phone and I launched right into identifying myself. "You know, the obnoxious guy from the restaurant." She laughed... and that began a lovely, natural and engaging conversation that lasted three hours. Three hours! Finally, I told the "rennet" girl — Susan — that I would not be turning her phone number over to my brother. I would like to ask her out myself. She accepted and a date was planned for the following Saturday. By December of that year, we were engaged to be married.

... and it all started when Susan walked though the front door of that restaurant. 

Footnote: One of our early dates was to my brother's 25th birthday party. This was the first time Susan met my brother and other members of my extended family. Later in the evening, Susan confided to me that if the original plan of events had transpired and she, indeed, went out with my brother, that would have been the last time any member of my family ever saw her. Oh, Susan and my brother get along just fine... just not in that way.

And the two other people mentioned in this story? Well, the have both been written about elsewhere on this blog.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

I want to see the bright lights tonight

In our house filled with things, my wife came across a cache of concert ticket stubs, some dating back to the middle 1970s. I had actually been looking for this collection of memories for some time. I honestly thought they were long gone, tossed to the trash when we made the move from our newlywed apartment in Northeast Philadelphia to the suburban house that has been our home for over thirty years. 

Wild nights are calling.

Curiously stored in a Barnum's Animal Crackers box, these torn paper testaments were in surprisingly good shape. Time had faded some of the early-computer printed particulars, but the ones that escaped total destruction at the hands of some minimum-wage earning ticket-taker were still legible. The band names were clear enough to read - some consisting of careless, though comical, misspellings. (The opening act for a 1977 Queen show at the Philadelphia Civic Center listed the supporting band as "Thin Lizzie," as though it was an emaciated ballerina.)

A lot of the ticket remnants were from 70s-era Grateful Dead shows, many of which were from shows staged at the Philadelphia Spectrum, the self-proclaimed "America's Showplace," which boasted some of the worst, sound-deadening acoustics this side of the $64,000 Question's isolation booth. Despite being the home base for both the Philadelphia Flyers and the 76ers, the Dead managed to find time to fit in 53 concerts at the venue, more than any other musical act. That allotment of tickets, of course, belonged to my wife — as my first experience with the psychedelic San Francisco troubadours was in April 1982, when I was taken (abducted? dragged?) to a spring concert by the future Mrs. P. I recognized my concert tickets by the decidedly un-Grateful Dead band names that were printed across the colorful Ticketmaster branding. Again, most were from the Spectrum, as it was the biggest and most popular venue in the city, but a smattering were from shows at the smaller Tower Theater, a converted movie palace just outside the western city limits.

My brother, older by four years, was a veteran concert-goer, having seen performances by Rod Stewart, Cat Stevens, The Moody Blues, George Harrison (reporting that the former Beatle was "awful" and the show was stolen by energetic keyboardist Billy Preston) and others of that ilk. He witnessed the now-legendary marathon at the remote Widener University gymnasium by an up-and-comer that he mistakenly identified as "Bruce Springstein.*" Some of my friends at middle school had toyed with the idea of actually seeing some of our favorite singers live when they came to our town. But I broke the proverbial ice when I scraped together a hard-earned six dollars and fifty cents for a single, general admission ticket to see Alice Cooper (and leather-clad guitar slinger Suzi Quatro) on the local stop of his "Welcome to My Nightmare" tour when it touched down in Philadelphia in April 1975, the twenty-second date on its five-month, multi-city trek across North America. That night, after seeing the wiry Mr. Cooper dance with giant spiders, cavort with tuxedoed skeletons and lop the head off a menacing cyclops, I was bitten by the concert bug. I left that show rabid — anxious to see another concert. And fast! It wasn't until a full year later that I was able to attend my second concert. Forking over a steep seven-fifty, I spent an evening at the back of the cavernous Spectrum, watching bland folk-rockers America deliver one boring song after another as they promoted their newest release — a greatest hits compilation culled from their five-album catalog on which every song sounded identical. I can't figure out what exactly I was doing there. I was not a fan of America — not even in the most casual sense. I didn't own any America albums. I suppose I just wanted to go to a concert.

I made better choices (in my opinion) as the years went on. I saw Elton John when he brought tennis star Billie Jean King onstage to join him in a chorus of the terribly shitty, yet hometown beloved, "Philadelphia Freedom." I saw the electrifying Queen several times, including once with pneumonia (me, not them). Freddie Mercury was a showman like no other. I even took my DeadHead future spouse to Queen's final American tour where she questioned the numerous costume changes and lighting effects. After all, the Grateful Dead had not changed their clothes since 1969 and their fans usually visualize their own lighting effects.

I saw Elvis Costello a few times as well, watching as he made the jump from new-wave pioneer to the elder statesman of his bygone "angry young man" genre. The late Warren Zevon, a short-term Philadelphia resident while he was between record deals, gave impromptu recitals at the wonderful, yet now-defunct, Chestnut Cabaret on the campus of the University of Pennsylvania. Mrs. Pincus and I were in the audience for several of those intimate shows and they were a memorable treat. Along the way, I got to see The Boomtown Rats, Tim Curry (yes, that Tim Curry), They Might Be Giants, Fleetwood Mac, Duran Duran, Squeeze, even Barry Manilow.

My son developed an early love for music, based on the constant albums and radio blaring from speakers all over our house. His interest blossomed into a career, as he is now a host/producer on a local Philadelphia radio station. Even before his current employ, we accompanied each other to a boat-load of concerts. We've seen good bands, bad bands, strange bands and just-about-to-hit-it big bands. We've had band members jump off the stage in front of us. (In one case, a singer fell off the stage on us.)  My son even introduced me to bands (A Giant Dog, Low Cut Connie, Kid Congo and The Pink Monkey Birds... yeah, you read that right) in the same way I gave him his first taste of the Beatles and his mom taught him about Jerry Garcia. Thanks to my son and the numerous concert venues that have opened in Philadelphia (named by one music website as the "best concert city" in North America), my concert calendar is usually packed. I never dreamed that, at 56, I'd still be going to shows, let alone bumping elbows in tiny venues with fans half my age. Conversely, it was funny when my wife and I sat in a sold-out Atlantic City showroom for a Tony Bennett show and, looking around, wondered how many other audience members had also seen The Clash.

It's okay, I'm with the band.

The concert experience has changed considerably since I was perched on the second level of the Spectrum, squinting to make out the color of Sir Elton's glasses. Bands were untouchable and unapproachable, sometimes just an out-of-focus dot bathed in a purple spotlight. Now, in the days of social media, a selfie with your favorite singer is no longer a rarity, it is a requirement. Granted, artists that fill stadiums are off-limits, save for those willing to pony up a few hundred (even thousand) dollars for a one-on-one experience. But, the bands that play 1200-seat (or smaller) venues will often appear at unannounced "meet-and-greets" at their "merch table" where the purchase of a t-shirt or album will net you the bonus of a sweaty hug and the opportunity of a cellphone picture to document the encounter.

This story, of course, is far from over. I love live music and it takes a lot to stop me from seeing it. As I write this, I have at least two concerts lined up in the coming months. And there will be more after that. I guarantee it.

*My brother informed me that he thought the singer's name was "Bruce Bringsteen." Actually, that's funnier.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

we're two ships that pass in the night

I met Jonathan three times. 

The first time I met Jonathan was at the end of February 1982. I was an art student, working at my cousin's heath food restaurant in Center City Philadelphia. Jonathan came in to the restaurant with a date. His date would become my wife two years later. Jonathan and the future Mrs. Pincus were close friends growing up. Their parents were friends. Actually, the first time young Mrs. P laid eyes on him, she was head-over-heels in love. It was a strange bit of "kismet" that Jonathan chose to bring her to the restaurant where I worked on that particular evening. I didn't really have too much to say to Jonathan. I remember he was a good-looking guy, but I was too busy chatting up his pretty companion. She, however, thought I was the most obnoxious person she ever met. I know this, because she told me so. Right then and there.

The next time I saw Jonathan was in 2001. My wife, my son and I attended the bat mitzvah of a classmate of my son. The young lady, Gabby, was Jonathan's niece. After the service, we mingled among the guests. Jonathan approached us. My wife smiled at Jonathan, although he didn't look at all familiar to me. He and Mrs. Pincus embraced. He shook my hand and turned to my then thirteen year-old son and introduced himself. "I'm your mom's first husband.," he said, with a wink. My son, a bit panicked, turned to me and cocked his head in confusion. (Just a note: That is not something you say to a thirteen year-old.) We explained that Jonathan was an old friend and he was, indeed, kidding.

I saw Jonathan one more time. It was a week or so ago, just after Labor Day 2016. Actually, I saw him at the same synagogue that our paths crossed fifteen years earlier. This time, however, it was not for a joyous occasion. We were joining hundreds of other mourners at a post-funeral shiva for Jonathan's sister-in-law Linda, who had passed away after a long struggle with cancer. Mrs. P and I maneuvered our way through the crowd, shaking hands and patting backs, until we came upon Jonathan. Again, like they had done previously, my wife hugged Jonathan. Jonathan shook my hand heartily and said, "How'ya doing, buddy?" I don't believe that he remembered my name, but that was okay. He was friendly enough and exhibited no hard feelings that I was happily married to his one-time date for the past 32 years.

Jonathan took his own life on September 16, taking with him the opportunity to see him again.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

tuxedo junction

Winter is finally giving way to nicer, milder weather. And as the days get longer and the temperature rises on a daily basis, the school year begins to wind down. While most students are contemplating summer camp or a special family vacation, high school seniors are setting their sights on the grown-up world of the future. The future has a looming menace about it. An uncertainty that can be pretty confusing — even frightening — to a seventeen-year-old who spent the last decade in the protective cocoon of book reports and recess. So, the last thing that these adolescents need is another administrative, power-wielding adult telling them what is appropriate attire for the senior prom.

As far as proms are concerned, tradition dictates that the boys wear a tuxedo — and pretty much anything with silk lapels passes as a tux, even if the accessories include a pair of well-worn Nikes. Girls are expected to wear something that falls into the very broad category of "formal dress." Some schools and school districts have gotten very precise about the depth of necklines and the height of hemlines and the form-fitting tightness of the dress itself. For some reason (known only to school board officials), there is more scrutiny of girls apparel than boys. I suppose they are just happy that boys have the decency to put on long pants for a few hours. Girls, albeit unfair, are held to a higher standard. Over the years, school administrators have become increasingly adamant about gender-specific dress codes, asserting that it needs to be reinforced and maintained, lest the delicate balance of society be thrown towards an unspeakable demise. Even if the formal wear is made of an unconventional material (like duct tape), as long as the girl wears a dress and the boy wears a tux, our safety is protected.

It seems that each new "prom season," brings another news story about a girl wishing to wear a tuxedo to the prom. The community is aghast. The school bans the young lady from attending in male-specific clothing. An uproar ensues. The local news station sends out a camera crew. Everyone behaves as though a girl wearing a tux is the harbinger of the apocalypse. Just this week, a story about Claudetteia Love, a student at Carroll High School in Monroe, Louisiana, was initially banned from the prom because of her desire to wear a tuxedo. The school's principal  firmly stated, " 'Girls wear dresses and boys wear tuxes, and that's the way it is." Love, an honor student who happens to be gay, was furious over the decision. Several teachers stood behind Love and, through protest and solidarity, the policy was eventually relaxed.  Love was granted permission to attend the prom – tux and all. Similar stories have crept up every year, some with different outcomes, but always the same controversy.

I don't get all the fuss.

"Come on down,
you'll find me there"

In 1979, as my senior year was winding down, my thoughts turned to my own prom. I didn't have a girlfriend and I wasn't dating anyone on a regular basis, so I knew my prom date would not be of the romantic variety, merely a friend. At the time, I worked as a cashier, and the only male employee, in a women's clothing store. (My mom was the store manager. Never turn your back on a little nepotism.) I had become friendly with the assistant manager, Randi. Despite our constant battles stemming from her love and my abhorrence of disco, we got along pretty well. Randi, who was two years my senior, was a sweetheart. She was also one of those girls who had to go to as many proms as she could. She attended a senior prom when she was a junior, her own senior prom and one the year after her graduation. She made it very clear that she wanted to be my date for my prom. I was her "in" to one more high school gala. She also made it very clear that, instead of buying a dress that she'd never wear again, she wished to wear a tuxedo — one that matched mine, as a matter of fact. Without giving the notion a second thought, and being the die-hard nonconformist that I was (and still am), I just said, "Sounds okay to me."

Together we went to a tuxedo rental store. The place was jammed with guys my own age milling around, looking at the formal offerings on display on the many racks. Randi was the only female there (not counting some guys' mothers). Her inquiry to a salesman about renting a tux was only met with an amused smile and a couple of  side comments of "That's neat!," but nothing derogatory or insulting. Nobody screamed or fainted or told us we were going to hell. They just cleared out an area of the fitting room so Randi could have some privacy while trying on her tuxedo choices. The night of my prom, we danced, laughed, mingled and had fun. We even noticed a few other girls wearing tuxedos.

That was 36 years ago. And, believe it or not, the world didn't end.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com