sit down, get up, get out

This year — 2025 — marks fifty years that Josh Pincus has been going to concerts. In those fifty years, I have seen a lot of bands. An awful lot of bands. More bands than I can remember. I have seen bands you heard of. I have seen bands you never heard of. I have seen bands I never heard of. I have seen performers from all sorts of varied genres in all sorts of venues. I've seen swing bands and punk bands and classic rock bands — both on their way up and on their way down. I've seen old time crooners and experimental performers. I once saw actress Grey DeLisle (the voice of "Daphne" on Scooby Doo) sing a solo version of "Bohemian Rhapsody" while accompanying herself on the autoharp. Yep, I've seen it all.

Well, almost all.

There's a place in the world
for the angry young man

I am actually surprised by the number of really big names I have never seen. There are bands of which I numbered myself as a fan, that I just plain never saw in concert. Billy Joel, for instance. Growing up in the era of what is now respectfully (or dismissively) called "classic rock," it's strange that I never saw Billy Joel. He played in Philadelphia countless times when I was of prime "concert going" age. But, for whatever reason, I just never saw him. Same goes for Pink Floyd, although missing the Animals tour in 1977, due to a "misunderstanding" with my brother, is still a sticking point. On a smaller scale, I never got to see Shonen Knife, a trio of Japanese guitar-driven punk ladies that give The Ramones a run for their money. Although they have graced many small stages in my hometown over the years, I just was never able to coordinate a time to get to see them. When Billy Joel resumed touring after a brief hiatus from the stage and a permanent end to his recording career, I was encouraged to see him by a few friends. I declined, saying that I want to see cool 1977 Billy Joel, not old Billy Joel in the 21st century.

Old man, take a look at my life

Almost thirty years ago, a concert was announced in nearby Camden, New Jersey at the current Freedom Mortgage Pavilion, the shittiest venue on the East coast. Freedom Mortgage Pavilion has gone through a long list of monikers since its opening as the awkwardly-named "Blockbuster-Sony Music Entertainment Centre" in 1995. The headliner for this show was Neil Young. His supporting act was up-and-comers Ben Folds Five. I was never ever a fan of Neil Young, Crazy Horse, Crosby Stills Nash & Young, Buffalo Springfield or any other band that featured the globally-revered Canadian singer-songwriter. I was, however, a huge fan of Ben Folds Five and their self-titled debut album. I joked, at the time, that Mrs. P and I could buy one ticket for that show. I'd go in to see Ben Folds and company perform their brand of infectious piano-driven rock and roll. When their set was finished, I'd come out and pass my ticket to my wife, where she could enjoy the six-string guitar stylings and high-pitched whine of Mr. Young. (I know. I know. Cheap shot.)

Last night, I checked two performers off of my "never saw live" list. I don't really have a list. I hate making lists. That's just for dramatic effect. I like "dramatic effect" more that I like making lists.

The Dream Police - da da da da da da da

Earlier this year, classic rock icon Rod Stewart — Rod the Mod, if you will — announced the end of the large-scale touring portion of his career with an eighteen-city tour called "One Last Time." Rod clarifies that, at 80 years old, he has no plans to retire. He states he loves singing, he has a full head of hair (famously cut in his trademark choppy shag) and is still physically fit. He will still continue his residency at Caesar's in Las Vegas in the fall when this tour concludes. Mrs. Pincus, besides being a long-time, devoted Dead Head, has been a fan of Rod Stewart for about as long as she has followed Jerry Garcia and his trippy pals. But, as a veteran of numerous concerts, has never seen the soccer-loving singer perform live. Without going into detail, we were gifted two tickets to the Philadelphia stop on Rod's final tour. I was not then, nor have I ever been, a fan of Rod Stewart, but I was happy to attend with Mrs. Pincus... plus Midwest rockers Cheap Trick were opening each date as Rod's special guest. I always liked Cheap Trick. I owned copies of Heaven Tonight, Live at Budokon and Dream Police when I was in high school, yet Cheap Trick was one of those bands I never got to see live.

The night of the show finally rolled around and my wife and I found ourselves in the midst of a sea of old people. We parked and trudged up to the front gates of the venue along with hundreds and hundreds of bent-over folks wielding canes to assist their balance and their walking ability. I marveled at the crowd that was drawn to a Rod Stewart concert in 2025. I scanned the faces of the attendees — shuffling along with their heads down and bumping into other shufflers, lining up to purchase 26 dollar plastic cups of wine and 10 dollar slices of pizza, stopping to look around (right in the middle of moving foot traffic) as though they had forgotten where they were. (According to my wife of 41 years, I obviously haven't looked in a mirror lately.) We found our seats with the help of two unhelpful ushers and one very helpful one. Having arrived particularly early, we occupied our time by playing Wordle on our cellphones, something I don't recall doing in the the minutes leading up to Fleetwood Mac taking the stage at the Spectrum in 1977. The venue seats filled in with people dressed as though they were attending a pitch to purchase a time share, all sporting either sour scowls or slack-jawed stares. Much to my dismay, these people are officially my peers... whether I like it or not.

We're all all right! We're all all right! 

The lights dimmed at 7:30 on the dot. None of this "we'll start when we feel like it" bullshit for the older crowd. We have self-imposed curfews, you insolent whippersnappers! The PA blared "Ladies and gentlemen, the best fucking rock and roll band - Cheap Trick!" and the four members of the band sauntered out to the stage. (Side note: I have a long-time gripe with bands comprised of one [or none!] original members under the guise of the band you know and love. Cheap Trick currently includes three of the four founders, although bassist Tom Petersson left for seven years in the 80s, but returned. Enigmatic drummer Bun E. Carlos retired in 2010 and was replaced by guitarist Rick Nielsen's son Daxx. Daxx has been keeping the rhythm for fifteen years. In my convoluted rules, they are still Cheap Trick, despite a small adjustment in personnel. Queen....? That's another story.) The volume shot up and Cheap Trick ripped into their raucous cover of The Move's "California Man," a song which they have made their own. This was followed by hit after hit after hit. Rick Nielsen switched guitars about thirty times, each one more elaborately decorated than the previous, and frequently doused the first few rows with handfuls of guitar picks. Lead singer Robin Zander — at 72 — still shows off his pin-up boy good looks and his virtuoso vocals still sound as good as they did in the 70s. Cheap Trick still has regular album releases (A new one is coming in October! Brace yourselves, kiddies!) and tours constantly. As evidenced by certain members of the audience, Cheap Trick is still someone's favorite band. Their set most definitely woke up the Rod Stewart crowd who were counting on a brief nap before the headliner began.

Young hearts be free tonight

When Cheap Trick took their final farewell bows, I noted that signing Cheap Trick as the support band on this — or any — tour was a gutsy move on the part of the tour promoters. They are a tough act to follow. The fact that the overwhelming majority of the audience was there to see Rod Stewart could only be the show's saving grace. Dozens of crew members quickly and efficiently cleared out any remnants of a Cheap Trick performance as they readied things for the elaborate production that would be Rod Stewart's final large scale hurrah. Admittedly, I was never a Rod Stewart fan. I didn't dislike Rod Stewart in the way of a ....say... Dave Matthews. I just never purchased a Rod Stewart album, but I didn't switch the station if I heard a Rod Stewart song on the radio. Rod and his band — a guitarist, a bassist, a drummer, a stand-out saxophonist and a group of six young ladies - fresh from a Robert Palmer video - would provide some lively and complementary backing vocals, as well as a plethora of assorted instruments — kicked things off with a high-energy rendition of Rod's creepy 1984 hit "Infatuation." From then, it was a showcase of Rod Stewart's greatest hits, including highlights from his time as lead singer of Faces and his celebrated solo career. "Ooh La La," "Tonight's The Night," "Maggie May," "Young Turks" — they were all there and punctuated by some very compelling and high-tech staging and imagery. Rod even covered "It's a Heartache," the 1977 Bonnie Tyler hit. This probably furthered the confusion of those who assumed that Rod and his signature raspy vocals was behind the song originally. All in all, Rod Stewart is a true showman. With the exception of the few instances he disappeared for a costume change, at no time was he not the focus of the various antics taking place on the stage. The band, with the six ladies at the forefront, was given a place in the spotlight while Rod retreated backstage for a brief respite and wardrobe refresh. But when he returned, it was all Rod, all the time. Rod Stewart is 80 — 80! — and he's got better moves than performers a quarter of his age. Rod barreled though a comprehensive overview of his seven decade career. He wiggled and shimmied and shook and kicked. At one point, the one-time hopeful professional soccer player, butted soccer balls off of his blond-tressed head into the frenzied audience. (Um... he's 80!) He even plucked a bewildered toddler from the audience — sporting an "I ♥ ROD" t-shirt — and deposited her on the stage  to the delight of her parents and the crowd. The night drew to a close with a heartfelt take on "Some Guys Have All The Luck." A very fitting sentiment.

While this show didn't make me a fan, it was a pretty entertaining night. The company was great. The tickets were free and I got to enter two "checks" on my list.

There is no list.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

try to remember

I have loved television for as long as I can remember. I had my favorite TV shows that I watched episodes as often as possible. Unfortunately, at the time, "as often as possible" was usually twice. Back in the 60s and 70s, TV shows produced as many as 26 episodes per season — some even more! After the initial broadcast of an episode, it was usually rerun one more time in the summer when production went on hiatus until the fall season, if the particular show was renewed. If the series was canceled, that was it, that show would never see the light of day again. Of course there were exceptions. The Monkees, which originally ran in primetime on NBC, enjoyed a three-year stretch as part of the Saturday morning line-up on CBS and later for a year on ABC. But, for the most part, after a series was canceled, that was it! You never saw that show again... until syndication packages began popping up on local UHF channels in specific markets. (Hey kids, ask your parents to explain "UHF" to you.)  

In 1985, Nick at Nite changed everything. Boasting a kitschy line-up of television favorites from the 50s and 60s, Nick at Night kicked off a nostalgia trend and spawned a variety of other cable channels to purchase the rights to beloved — and forgotten — shows and rerun them over and over and over again. Nick at Nite showed Mr. Ed, Donna Reed, Dennis the Menace and Route 66. Soon, they were supplementing their library with The Andy Griffith Show, Get Smart, The Dick Van Dyke Show and others, allowing the fledgling network to expand its broadcast day from a few hours at night to a full 24-hour schedule. Nick at Nite's rivals were showing Leave it to Beaver, Burns and Allen, Jack Benny along with other forgotten favorites like My Favorite Martian, Mayberry RFD and other popular shows with a surprisingly limited number of episodes like The Munsters (70 episodes) and Gidget (32 episodes). With other "retro" networks showing up on cable line-ups, series that were long forgotten found a new home, new exposure to a new audience and a new lease on life. Hey! Who are we kidding? There was no new audience. These revivals were geared exclusively to folks who watched them in their original run. Being the trivia fan and nostalgia enthusiast, I loved watching shows that I watched — or barely remembered — in my youth. I saw a show called Good Morning World for the first time when Antenna TV brought it back for a short run a few years ago. The series surrounded a morning radio show and the wacky antics of its hosts (played by Joby Baker and sitcom vet Ronnie Schell.) The show featured Billy DeWolfe, exercising his classic uppity fussbudget character, as well as an early career performance by Goldie Hawn. It was the creation of Sam Persky and Bill Denoff, the creative team who got their start under Carl Reiner's wing on The Dick Van Dyke Show. Good Morning World was the pair's follow-up to the success of another of their creations — That Girl. You've no doubt heard of That Girl and you probably never saw an episode of Good Morning World. There's a reason for that.

As technology advanced and the act of watching television evolved from three networks to a variety of streaming services offering original content and old favorites, more and more "forgotten shows" have surfaced — whether we like it or not. A whole new generation is enjoying The X-Files. Sitcoms like Seinfeld (whose infamous final episode was broadcast over thirty years ago) still can be found in syndication and ready to binge on Netflix, thanks to a lucrative, long-term licensing deal. Sure there are plenty of shows that have not been seen in years and probably will never be seen again. But, thanks to the internet and the good people at YouTube, a quick search will have you wallowing in the nostalgia of your youth with one or two episodes of a "Oh yeah! I remember this!" show. Recently, my wife and I watched a few installments of the late night music showcase The Midnight Special, which ran for a decade on NBC after the Friday night edition of The Tonight Show. I never thought I'd ever see this show again, but... here we are getting misty-eyed while viewing a performance by Loggins and  Messina and scratching our heads while an obviously stoned Paul Williams trips over his lines.

YouTube is a treasure trove of content for those — like me — seeking long forgotten shows available for a curious viewing. I stumbled across one such show a few nights ago, one I had never heard of before. The show was called Normal Life and it ran for 13 unremarkable episodes from March until July 1990. It was a 30 minute sitcom starring Cindy Williams, giving television another shot after the embittered end to her successful role on Laverne and Shirley. Her costar was Max Gail, looking vastly different from his youthful "Detective Wojciehowicz" on the critically-acclaimed Barney Miller. The series was very loosely based on the homelife of eclectic rocker Frank Zappa. It even starred two of Zappa's children — Moon Unit and her brother Dweezil — essentially playing themselves. There is one episode of Normal Life available on YouTube, thanks to user "VHS Captures" who uploaded it, noting they discovered it on an old VHS tape. A little research revealed that the episode — entitled "It's Only Rock and Roll" was the fifth episode in the series, originally broadcast on April 18, 1990. So, we watched.

It was awful.

It was typical 90s sitcom fare, chock full of unnatural acting, trite dialogue, terrible jokes, exaggerated physicality and a lot of mugging for the camera. Poor Cindy Williams looked as thought she really wanted to make this show succeed. Max Gail looked as though he needed to have a firm talk with his agent. The two Zappa kids rolled their eyes and acted as though they had signed on for something different. The entire show ran for the standard 22 minutes with commercials. Ten minutes in, my wife asked if the show's runtime was an hour, as she felt that how long we had been subjected to it.

Look, I love television and I will watch things that most people will not. I will watch Gilligan's Island. I will watch Hazel (even though I do not like it). I watch Dragnet to laugh at the purposely stiff acting, as well as nostalgic vistas of 1960s Los Angeles. I even like to watch little curiosities like Normal Life. But, one episode was enough to satisfy my curiosity.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

let me entertain you

It's no secret how much I love television. It has been claimed — though never truly documented — that I will walk into a darkened room and turn on the television before I will turn on a light. When my wife and I moved to our home in the suburbs, years before cable television was available within the Philadelphia city limits, I made sure that our access to the wonderful world of cable TV was secured before I called the electric and water companies for their services. Television took top priority.  I wasn't going to be nearly as entertained by watching water come out of our kitchen faucet or — as previously established — by flicking a light switch.

My affinity for watching television isn't anything new. I've been watching since I was a little kid and now, I go out of my way to watch a lot of those same shows that I enjoyed in the early 60s and 70s. Some are good and have stood the test of time, like the timeless, sophisticated humor of The Dick Van Dyke Show or even the topical fun of Barney Miller. Some, like Dennis the Menace and Car 54 Where Are You?, are just awful, but I watch them just the same because they give me a warm, nostalgic feeling. I understand that the generation after me doesn't share the same pleasure I get from a decades old episode of Family Affair or The Beverly Hillbillies. Or maybe I don't. I have tried to get my son to watch some of the shows that reside in a soft spot in my heart and memory. While he appreciates the enduring wit of Jack Benny and George Burns and even the broad antics of The Honeymooners, he cringes at Don Knotts' jittery ineptitude as the hapless "Barney Fife" on The Andy Griffith Show. ("Why doesn't Andy just fucking shoot that moron?" my son has asked. "That's the reason Andy doesn't carry a gun," I'd explain.)

My wife and I have found ourselves watching reruns of The Ed Sullivan Show, broadcast nightly on the Decades channel, one of the many retro programming networks available through our cable provider. Ed Sullivan, an uptight fellow with no discernable talent, snagged the top names in show business to appear on his show — a show that lasted an incredible 24 seasons. It was a staple on Sunday evenings, with nearly every household in the country tuning in to watch. Ed's formula for each episode was to present a wide variety of acts that would appeal to every member of the family. A singer, a dance troupe, a comedian and acts straight from the circus. Over the years, tastes changed and soon the top rock groups of the day were featured alongside opera singers and fully-staged scenes from Broadway musicals. In the 1990s, a syndication package of The Ed Sullivan Show was made available to re-introduce the show to a new audience. The package condenses the original hour-long shows into 30 minute compilations featuring the same variety of acts that made the show so popular. There is usually a singer of contemporary (for the time) fame, a current (again, for the time period) rock group, a comedian and some sort of novelty act, like a  magician, a tightrope walker or a couple of guys juggling flaming batons while switching top hats with each other. Some segments are in black and white, as it wasn't until 1965 that The Ed Sullivan Show was broadcast in living, garish color.

We have enjoyed watching Ed Sullivan nervously introducing acts, mispronouncing names and clumsily greeting guests post-performance. We like seeing countless performances by The Supremes, amused by the obvious perturbed expression on Florence Ballard's face behind Diana Ross's back. We like seeing early stand-up appearances by a crewcut-sporting George Carlin or a fresh-faced Richard Pryor, along with forgotten names like Jackie Vernon and Guy Marks. We marvel at the appeal of two young ladies, on their backs, juggling full-size dining room tables with their feet or a genteel-looking Asian man diving headfirst through a tiny ring of blazing scimitars. Among these many episodes, Mrs. P and I discovered an act — one of Ed's trademark novelty acts — that we must have missed as children. (The show left the airwaves when I was 10.) It was a man by the name of Arthur Worsley.

"A bottle of beer, a bottle of beer"

Ed Sullivan (or his representatives) scoured the globe for acts to present to the American television-watching public. They came across Arthur Worsley in his native Great Britain. Worsley, a ventriloquist, was quite popular on British television, as well as a regular performer at The London Palladium. By the time he made his first of a dozen appearances on the Sullivan show, he was a pretty big name in many parts of the world. But Arthur Worsley was not an ordinary ventriloquist. Well, sure, he had a dummy — in this case — a pug-nosed little wiseacre named "Charlie Brown." And, yes, he made ol' Charlie "speak" while his mouth remained perfectly still. But, the true novelty in Worsely's act was how he — Worsley — stood silent while his dummy screamed and berated and abused him. Worsley himself barely spoke a word. Sometimes he didn't even look at the dummy, which made the dummy even angrier, prompting an even more virulent barrage of insults. The act would culminate with a meta take on the act itself. Charlie would explain that certain letters are difficult for ventriloquists to pronounce without moving their lips, the most arduous being the letter "B." Arthur's gaze would wander as Charlie would demand his attention and acknowledgment of the fact that "B" was particularly challenging to say without moving this lips. Then Charlie would spew, in rapid-fire succession, a stream of "B" words, all articulated and very understandable — while Arthur stood by with a disinterested expression on his face. The act concluded with Charlie repeating "A bottle of beer, a bottle of beer, a bottle of beer" over and over, eloquently enunciating each demanding "B" sound with no effort at all while Arthur's lips displayed nary a quiver — all to the delight of the theater audience. It was highly entertaining — and very funny. Over the years, Worsley did variations of the same act on The Ed Sullivan Show, all to similarly approving reaction. Ed Sullivan called Arthur Worsley "The Greatest Ventriloquist in the World." In reruns of The Ed Sullivan Show, Mrs. Pincus and I have seen the same "Arthur Worsley and Charlie Brown" act many many times and every time, it is just as funny as the first time we saw it.

We have told many people about this act. No one seems to remember it. Most people stare at us expressionlessly as our description of the performance evolves into peals of laughter, followed by embarrassed awkwardness. Recently, my brother-in-law (not that one, the other one) came over for dinner with my nephew Tish who is 14 years-old. Before and during dinner, Tish was totally captivated by his cellphone, barely participating in dinnertime conversation. Trying to engage Tish, I began to tell him about The Ed Sullivan Show reruns that we watch. Tish had never heard of the show, so I had to offer a short, sometimes disjointed, backstory of the concept of TV variety shows and who exactly Mr. Sullivan was. Tish seemed nonplussed by my explanation, having grown up in and spoiled by the era of Netflix, YouTube, TikTok and other on-demand, instant gratification outlets of entertainment. Once I was relatively satisfied that he had understood the gist of the "television variety show," I extracted my cellphone from my pocket and pulled up a YouTube clip of a grainy, black & white appearance of Arthur Worsley and Charlie Brown on The Ed Sullivan Show from 1960. I started the clip and turned my phone in Tish's direction. Initially, he looked at me as though I just told him I was about to give him a root canal. Then, with heavy-lidded eyes, he stared at the tiny screen in my hand as if he was watching paint dry. And his reaction to the clip was just about as enthusiastic. His already waning attention was lessening by the second. We didn't even make it to the classic "A bottle of beer, a bottle of beer" shtick. I had lost him. Tish had begun scrutinizing the wrought iron chandelier that hangs above our dining room table. I turned the clip off and The Ed Sullivan Show was not mentioned again.

The last new episode of The Ed Sullivan Show was presented on March 28, 1971. Citing lower ratings, a diminishing demographic and changing entertainment preferences, the show was canceled. I think I witnessed all of that at my dining room table.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

buona fortuna, addio bambina

This story appeared on my illustration blog in 2020.

Sergio Franchi. What a melodic, romantic sounding name! It was very fitting for the Italian tenor with the robust voice and charming demeanor. Sergio Franchi! Throughout the 70s, he sang on The Ed Sullivan Show, filled the big showrooms in Las Vegas and toured the country, enchanting audiences that were mostly comprised of suburban American housewives looking to inject a little Continental excitement into their routine lives.

My mom was one of them.

My mom loved Sergio Franchi. As a teenager in the early 1940s, she was fan of big-band swing and was quite the accomplished jitterbug dancer. She swooned along with her contemporaries to the likes of Frank Sinatra and Eddie Fisher. She could be spotted at the famed Steel Pier in Atlantic City doing the Lindy or on the dance floor at Grossinger's in the Catskill Mountains "cuttin' a rug" with some guy whose name she barely knew. As long as there was music, my mom was there.

She always kept up with musical trends. She fell for Tom Jones in the 60s with his tight, high-waisted pants doing their best to contain his gyrating hips. She listened with heavy-lidded eyes to Bobby Darin and Mel Torme and Vic Damone. And then she discovered Sergio Franchi.

Sergio Franchi! Rugged, chiseled, Romanesque features. Barrel-chested and impeccably groomed — always sporting a simple yet elegant tuxedo, its bow tie usually undone by song number three of his repertoire. In later years, Sergio would display a trendy perm on his previously close-cropped 'do. His easy, but charismatic, personality and his wide smile entranced his audiences. And that voice! Magnificent, velvety tones that could handle popular tunes as easily as soaring operatic arias.

My mom never missed seeing Sergio Franchi at the Latin Casino when he came to our area. "The Latin," as it was colloquially known, was a very popular night club that moved from its original Philadelphia location to a larger venue just over the New Jersey state line. Despite its name, The Latin Casino was not actually a casino, although it attracted the same caliber acts that played the real casinos in Las Vegas. Frank, Dean, Sammy — they all performed there on nationwide tours that stopped in and around the City of Brotherly Love. Ironically, its downfall was the introduction of casino gambling in Atlantic City, putting a clause in performer's contracts not allowing them to appear with a certain radius of the seashore resort — a radius that included the Latin Casino. However, in its heyday, my mom would go with a girlfriend or her sister to see Sergio Franchi — but never with my father. He wasn't interested in going anywhere — especially to see some singer who wasn't Al Jolson. Good thing, too, because my mom was very uninhibited and I'm sure she offered her share of screams and cat-calls along with the other female members of the audience. One morning, after my mom had seen Sergio Franchi the night before, I came into our kitchen to find a red cloth napkin folded neatly on the kitchen table. My mom, with stars in her eyes, explained that Sergio had wiped his face with the napkin and handed it down to her at her stage-side table. It was as though the Lady of the Lake had touched Arthur's shoulders with Excalibur. In later years, Sergio Franchi moved his Philadelphia area stop to the Valley Forge Music Fair, a smaller, in-the-round venue just minutes from where George Washington led troops fighting for our country's independence. As far as my mom was concerned, they fought for her right to sit in the front row to see Sergio Franchi sing. In between songs, Sergio Franchi would address the audience, often remarking about the name of the town where the venue was located. "King of Prussia!," he would say, his diminished, though still present Italian accent rolling the "R". He'd gesture with his outstretched arm in a mock-majestic flourish as he repeated it "King of Prussia! I love to perform in King of Prussia, Pennsylvania!" He'd smile and the audience would giggle and sigh in unison, as though they had rehearsed

Surprisingly, my mom owned just one Sergio Franchi album... but she played it over and over and over again. It was a 1973 RCA Records compilation imaginatively titled This is Sergio Franchi. The cover showed two sketchy drawings of the singer — a close-up and a waist-up action pose — against a very generic 70s-style design and typeface. When she could gain control of the family stereo, she would blast This is Sergio Franchi the way my brother would crank the volume on Physical Graffiti. This is Sergio Franchi earned a place in our family's all-inclusive record collection, even if it looked out of place among the many releases by Queen, Springsteen and Elton John. (Oh, my mom listened to those, too.)

Sergio Franchi appeared on the popular morning talk show Regis and Kathie Lee in 1989. It would prove to be his final TV appearance. Afterwards, during rehearsals for a show at South Shore Music Circus in Massachusetts, Sergio Franchi collapsed on stage. He was hospitalized and the remaining dates of his summer tour were canceled. Testing revealed a brain tumor and, despite treatments including radiation, Sergio passed away in May 1990 at the age of 64.

My mom, who was fighting her own battle with cancer, was crushed when she heard the news. When she returned home from her chemotherapy sessions, she played her copy of This is Sergio Franchi until the grooves in the vinyl wore flat.

My mom passed away in October 1991.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

shout it out loud

Mrs. Pincus and I were driving back to Philadelphia after a weekend getaway on the southern coast of Connecticut. Although it's just a little over three hours away and Mrs. P loves to drive, we found that a quick pull-over at one of the many rest stops that dot I-95 would be just the revitalizing respite our little journey needed.

He did not live here.

This particular one was named in honor of noted inventor (and sometime asshole) Thomas Edison and sits at mile marker 92.9 on the New Jersey Turnpike. Once my excitement subsided when I realized that this was not Thomas Edison's boyhood home but just a collection of fast food joints, over-priced New Jersey souvenirs and much-appreciated public bathrooms, I happily welcomed a fresh cup of coffee from a pretentious little counter service foodery called Pret-A-Manger. 

Away in a...

We made our way past the unwashed masses gathered in the queue at the Burger King as we headed towards the unfamiliar Pret-A-Manger, whose offerings, according to the signs outside the building, included "organic coffee." Wow! That sounded pretty good/exotic/expensive. It turns out, it was just one of those. The latter, to be exact. It was burning hot and no amount of cream and sweetener could mask the overpowering bitterness of its taste. Now, my wife and I drink a lot of coffee, but we are, by no means connoisseurs. We like Wawa's coffee (a local legend among the ranks of convenience stores) and we have come around on the coffee from Dunkin Donuts (or "Dunkin" as they now wish to be called). We don't like the stuff that is peddled by java powerhouse Starbuck's. Their coffee always tastes burnt and for six bucks a pop — coffee should not taste burnt. I know we are in the minority on this opinion, but aren't we all entitled to that? (I'll answer for you. "Yes." The answer is "Yes.")

We took our lousy coffee back out to our car. For a Sunday afternoon in the middle of North Jersey, the parking lot was packed! And I do mean packed! There were barely any spaces available for weary travelers to stop, park, stretch their legs and enjoy a terrible cup of coffee. The always-prepared Mrs. P (she was a Girl Scout after all)  had packed a small cooler with yogurt, cut up vegetables and hummus and fruit to serve as a quick mid-day snack before getting back on the road for the home stretch of our trip. 

Little did we know, there would be entertainment as we ate.

Can you hear me now?

Just across from where our car was parked, a man was pacing feverishly while shouting into his cellphone. He was filled with purpose, gesturing wildly with his free hand, as he circled the confines of a rare empty parking space. Several hopeful cars slowly approached his domain only to sheepishly drive off when they saw the threat of confrontation. This guy was pissed about something! And whoever was on the receiving end of his electronic wrath was getting a good chunk of this guy's mind. Or, maybe he wasn't angry. To tell the truth, he was too far away for us to make out any actual words. He could have been happily giving praise and hearty congratulations to whoever was listening on the other end. What we did know is that he was strutting and prancing around that space like a cross between 1970s-era Mick Jagger and Al Pacino in front of the bank in Dog Day Afternoon. And he was yelling at the top of his lungs.

I can top that.

The silver car parked in the space adjacent to his territory, we realized, belonged to him. And the woman who was leaning on the open passenger-side door was his wife — or at least his traveling companion. Guess what she was doing? She was screaming into her cellphone rivaling her male counterpart. Her body language was equally as animated — flailing arms, pacing like a cornered lioness. Watching the two of them was like watching a meticulously choreographed performance. Each participant providing an individual display, yet together, their similar movements in perfect synchronization.

By this time, the man had completed all he needed to say to the party to whom he was speaking/shouting. He walked towards his car and grabbed the door handle... but suddenly let it go to return to its normal position. He then turned in the direction of the rear of his car. Fumbling momentarily with his keys, he pressed a button on a key fob and the car's truck popped open. He leaned into the trunk, obviously searching through whatever was in there to find something specific. And boy! did he. He extracted a large liquor bottle filled with dark brown liquid. He uncapped the bottle and took a healthy gulp  — not a taste or a swig — a big, chugging gulp! He looked around a bit as he replaced the bottle. I don't know who or what he was checking for, because his little afternoon nip was in full view of everyone who was parked nearby, walking to or from their cars or sitting in their vehicles (like us). Satisfied with his little "booster shot," the man got behind the steering wheel and, after a very brief verbal exchange with the woman — who had also finished her phone conversation — sped off at a speed a bit too fast for a busy parking lot filled with weary families anxious for a little rest before the last leg of vacation.

People sure can be entertaining. Especially when they don't know they're the entertainment.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

everybody is a star

I have two blogs to which I regularly contribute. I am active on Twitter, Instagram and, now (unfortunately) Facebook. My posts across all social media platforms bear a certain similarity. There are unusual things I see, unusual things I seek out, screenshots of old television shows and an inordinate amount of death references. Over the years, I have had a few people (fans? followers? inmates?) suggest that I do a podcast, focusing on my specific interests. Now, my son makes his living as part of the broadcast field. He is very qualified to do a podcast, from both the content side and the technology side of things. The idea has been suggested to him countless times - waaaay more times than I have received those suggestions. He does not do a podcast. Of any kind. On any subject.

The internet and easy-to-learn, easy-to-access technology has made it possible for anyone — literally anyone — to create a podcast. That doesn't mean that everyone should create a podcast. And If you have listened to a sampling of the plethora of podcasts flooding various podcast outlets, you will soon discover that a lot of these folks should have those microphones wrenched out of their hands and their access to upload immediately cut off. An overwhelming number of podcasts are unscripted with no real focus on a coherent subject. The improvised commentary is fraught with "umms" and "ahhs" and "errs," along with incessant laughing (usually at something that isn't funny). Don't get me wrong. There are some podcasts that are enjoyable, but one has to weed through hours and hours of amateurish tedium to find them.

Which brings me to You Tube, the original "do-it-yourself" production platform for those frustrated documentarians whose stories must be told... even if they really don't have much of a story. I humbly admit that I used to contribute to my own YouTube channel. I would post videos from concerts I went to. After 150 videos, I realized that I wasn't watching them. No one on the internet was watching them and I was impeding on my own enjoyment of the concert. So, I stopped (although the videos are still there).

Like most people, I have watched a lot of YouTube content. I learned how to accomplish some techniques in Photoshop. I have watched full concerts and live broadcasts from some of my favorite bands. I have watched some funny clips from comedians and informative pieces on subjects in which I am interested. But — like podcasts — just because you can make a YouTube video doesn't mean you should make a YouTube video.

With my current situation of having a lot of time on my hands, I have been watching more that my fair share of YouTube videos. I have found there is something for every interest — so matter how obscure. If you are interested in something... anything, someone (often more than one person) has made a video about it. I don't have to remind you of my interest in all things Disney, so I often look for videos about Disney Parks. I also look for content dealing with the area surrounding Walt Disney World. I was in Central Florida for the first time in the early 80s. On later trips, I have driven around looking for changes, improvements and additions to the area — new attractions, closed attractions and other alterations to the Orlando area landscape. Now, I can do that from the comfort of my own home via YouTube. Usually.

Mystery Fun House

In 1980 and '81 (my first trips to Orlando), my friends and I went to a local attraction called "Mystery Fun House." True to its name, Mystery Fun House boasted hours of fun in the form of a walk-thru, multi-room fun house with a hall of mirrors, a disorienting odd perspective room and many standard examples of carnival-level amusement. There was also an arcade and a pizza restaurant. The facade was notable for the giant fiberglass wizard character that spanned the entrance way and loomed high over entering guests. Mystery Fun House shut its doors for good in early 2001 after declining popularity in the shadow of Walt Disney World and Universal Studios. It was used as a Welcome Center for a time-share company until it was converted to its current role as one of many discount ticket centers to entice tourists. Curiously, I am not the only person interested in the path and eventual fate of the attraction.

YouTuber A and YouTuber B

This week, I found not one but two videos on YouTube, surprisingly, dealing with the same arcane subject. Both videos are part of a series by two different so-called YouTubers, each of whom have been posting videos to the site for nearly a decade. These two guys' videos employ nearly identical motifs. They both work alone, using their cellphone to shoot their video and later, do their own editing on a most-likely free piece of software. The videos appear choppy, jumpy, unscripted, unprofessional and poorly thought out. Both hosts seem unfamiliar with the subject on which they are reporting, using off-the-top-of-their-head commentary instead of actual research. Neither host appears to have crossed paths with a bar of soap or a bottle of shampoo since the Carter Administration. I suppose this is a good time to point out that they boast 14,800 and 502,000 subscribers respectively. (I have purposely blurred their identities.)

YouTuber A shoots a lot of scenes through the windshield of his RV. From what I understand, this is his trademark "thing." His narration is unfocused stream-of consciousness, often stumbling over his words while he gathers his thoughts. He also peppers his speech with a distracting amount of "cool" catchphrases that feel awkward and more suited to a person half his age. He injects more personal anecdotes than pertinent information regarding his various subjects. He is the star rather than the topic of the particular video. I found his inarticulate delivery to be both distracting and irritating. A dangerous combination. I can't figure out why he doesn't edit out and re-shoot some of his flubs and missteps. He obviously has the capabilities. I watched one of his videos that included him running to avoid a bee, with footage from his perspective accompanied by shrieks.

Yes... I know... there were windows right here.

I watched YouTuber B's video entitled "What Remains From Mystery Fun House." The eight-and-a-half minute piece consists of the host wandering the empty parking lot, wondering aloud if he will be asked to leave by employees in the building. Then, he films and points at the building from several different angles, noting the former location of the wizard figure as well as several windows that have been covered up. He repeats this in its entirety with each angle adjustment. A full five minutes in, he ventures up to a Plexiglas-covered sign left from the attraction's early days. He focuses on the sign for a very, very long time. He goes back to pointing out the former window locations again before wrapping things up when he is spotted by a suspicious ticket center employee.

Both videos were torture to watch, like that guy at a party who won't shut up about a movie that no one cares about and interrupts you when you attempt to change the subject. They are both in-your-face and are in possession of a face that you really don't want in yours.

I'm sure there is good and enjoyable content on YouTube. I have actually viewed some. I just have to remember where I left it.

And I won't be doing a podcast any time soon.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

we'll have a gay old time

So, when I came home from work on Wednesday evening, my wife greeted me with an unusual question. She asked me if I wanted to go to “Gay Bingo” on Saturday night. “I guess so.,“ I replied with a shrug, “Sure.” 

I know what those two words mean separately, I just wasn’t sure what they meant put together, in that order. But, apparently on Saturday, I would find out.

A little preliminary research led me to the official website, where it was revealed that, previously unknown to me, Gay Bingo has been going on in Philadelphia for the past 20 years. It is a monthly event, with a different theme every month. The event is hosted by the self-proclaimed BVDs (Bingo Verifying Divas), a troupe of drag queens who perform under the auspices of AIDS Fund Philly, a charitable organization that promotes awareness, while providing comfort and assistance to those living with AIDS. The BVDs inject their adult-oriented, double entendre-filled humor into the evening’s activities. There was singing and dancing and commentary and jokes. Bingo, it seems, was an afterthought.

The perfect combination

This month’s theme was “Judy Garland” and attendees were encouraged to dress in their best approximation to the singer-actress and unlikely gay icon. With only a few days to prepare, Mrs. Pincus put together a Judy-inspired take on the popular “Disney Bounding” trend. (“Disney Bounding” was established by theme park visitors to skirt Disney’s strict rules for adults wearing costumes. Instead, folks sport the colors of their favorite character — blue shirt, white scarf and yellow sneakers for Donald Duck — and accessorize appropriately — like topping off with a sailor’s hat). I wasn’t going to let opportunity pass me by. I dressed in black from head to toe, including a sporty fedora cocked at a jaunty angle. It was my homage to Judy’s role in the musical “Summer Stock,” specifically her performance of the song “Get Happy.” (As I would later find out, our friend Kathy, who actually offered us the invitation to the wondrous world of Gay Bingo, would dress as a pre-“Get Happy” Judy. This was not prearranged and a total coincidence.)

My wife and I drove down Broad Street (no pun intended!) to Rodeph Sholom, a synagogue with origins dating back to the 18th Century, which serves as the unlikely hosting venue for Gay Bingo.

Forget your troubles, c'mon get happy.

To my surprise, the synagogue’s basement utility room was packed with eager bingo players, a generous mix of regulars and newcomers, both gay and "breeders." The long, school lunchroom-style tables were laden with bingo cards and stampers, along with a veritable banquet of various foods that attendees were encouraged to bring. More anxious players filed in to the room. I was disappointed (and, again, a little surprised) that the overwhelming majority had chosen not to attend in costume. However, the hosting queens more than made up for it. Before the rules were reviewed and then games began, we were treated to what can only be described as an overture. The BVDs gathered at the center of the room to grace us with an impressive choreographed performance of the best of Judy Garland featuring lip-syncing to a selection of tunes that spanned Judy’s career. The spectacle was received with wild applause and soon we got down to business.

Tell me more!

Each game had a different predetermined pattern to create from the called numbers. The host, who introduced herself as “Carlotta Tendant,” announced each letter-number combination between some chit-chat with someone from the AIDS Philly family. “BINGO” was shouted fairly quickly during each game, prompting audible groans of dismay, especially after a designated BVD verified each winner. The games progressed at a pretty steady clip. Midway through the proceedings, a brief intermission was called. Players took this opportunity to stretch their legs, chat and mingle. Mrs. Pincus, ever the perfect hostess, offered a sampling of the vanilla brownies that she brought to those seated at nearby tables. She struck up a conversation with a nice young man who was wearing bright yellow sneakers. He explained that they were from the noted designer Christian Louboutin and retailed for thirteen hundred dollars — although the style was now discontinued. He proudly told us that he managed to snag his pair (red soles and all!) for a mere eight hundred. He also tried to convince me that this was a bargain.

The break ended and we were treated to another floor show featuring the BVDs sporting new, Judy Garland-inspired costumes with more lip-syncing to more songs from Judy's movies and recordings. The second half of the evening continued in pretty much the same fashion as the first, except I won a fifty dollar prize in Game Number 8 — coincidentally called by our friend Kathy. (I was hoping that there would be no accusations of “collusion.” There wasn’t and there wasn’t.)

The final game was played and the crowd was thanked. It was a really fun diversion for a Saturday night — a night that Mrs. P and I would have otherwise spent watching reruns of forty-year old episodes of “Password” on Buzzr-TV. We got our “game show fix” anyway… and it was fabulous! 

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