the great outdoors

I'm not what you would call an "outdoorsy" person. I don't like to hike. I don't like to garden. I pay a guy to mow my lawn (which is just slightly larger than a postage stamp.) The thought of camping  makes me cringe and is probably the main reason that I bought a house. But there is an exception. I like outdoor concerts.

For the past few years, Mrs. P and I have joined our pals — Consuelo and Cookie for a series of outdoor concerts put on under the auspices of nearby Camden County, New Jersey. Every summer, just as families are returning home from Memorial Day celebrations, Camden County begins hosting a program of weeknight concerts at three different venues across the reaches of the municipal boundaries. These shows feature performers from a variety of genres, levels of fame and appeal. One of the best parts of these shows is they are all outdoors and they are all free of charge. On Monday nights, a line-up of jazz and hip-hop artists are showcased at Wiggins Park — a natural amphitheater on the Delaware River with an illuminated Philadelphia as a dreamy backdrop. Wednesday evenings are reserved for the McLaughlin Norcross Dell — another grassy amphitheater with newly renovated benches and an omnipresent Mr. Softee truck. On Thursdays, the stage is set at Cooper River Park, which, coincidentally, is around the corner from where I work. Over the years, we have seen the likes of Max Weinberg, Tiffany, The Sugarhill Gang, Richard Thompson, former Barenaked Ladies frontman Steven Page and a host of other performers whose names escape me at the moment.

There's nothing better than sitting out in the cool summer air, in a folding chair or on a blanket, with an overstuffed hoagie in your bag, surrounded by similar-minded folks all gathered for a lovely evening of good — sometimes familiar — music and relaxation. After a particular trying day at work, dealing with unreasonable clients and annoying co-workers, a free show at an outdoor venue hits the spot.

Of course, when you have shows outdoors and you are geographically situated in a place that experiences all four seasons, you run the risk of rain or other unpleasant weather. Many of these shows, over the years, have been postponed because of rain, only to be postponed again when it rains on the rain date. This was the case for a recent rescheduling of a performance by 80s R & B band Color Me Badd, currently featuring just one original member. Color Me Badd was originally scheduled for a Thursday in July. When that day arrived, the Philadelphia/Camden area was in the throes of an oppressive heatwave, an occurrence that has become increasing familiar over consecutive summers. Via the Camden County Facebook page, the show was rescheduled for a date in late August. When the August date rolled around, the dark clouds that had gathered over the Delaware Valley that morning showed no signs of vacating the premises any time soon. Pressed to make a decision, the Camden County "powers-that-be" announced that the show would be moved to the stately Scottish Rite Auditorium — a venerable 1000-seat theater built in 1930 and voted "one of the “150 Best Buildings and Places” by the American Institute of Architects"... for what its worth. While the event would remain free of charge, seats still had to be reserved through the venue's website. 

Now, I certainly do not number myself among Color Me Badd's most die-hard fans. I am not even a casual listener. I can honestly say I cannot name a Color Me Badd song. However, I do know that an evening of songs I do not know is always made enjoyable if it takes place outdoors with friends and food. The thought of sitting in a cramped, seated theater, shoulder-to-shoulder with strangers and the looming uncertainty if outside food would be permitted didn't exactly set the stage for a fun evening. The draw for these shows is "free" and "outdoors." This one was only firing on every other cylinder. A daytime group text between me and Mrs. Pincus and Cookie and Consuelo resulted in the general consensus of skipping this particular show.

A few days later, we found ourselves on the lush green lawn of Wiggins Park, a cool breeze blowing in from the Delaware River, a sandwich and a bag of chips close at hand and the musical stylings of Living Color's Will Calhoun's tribute to jazz legend Miles Davis wafting through the giant sets of speakers. 

This was more like it. 

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

shticks of one and half a dozen of the other

When I was little, I had a bunch of kids from my block over to my house for a birthday party. My mom arranged for a bunch of games for my guests to play, like pin the tail on the donkey and musical chairs. For our version of musical chairs, I selected the record that my mom would play and stop during the course of the game. I selected "The Let's All Call Up A.T.&T. and Protest to the President March" from Allan Sherman's second album My Son, The Celebrity. I knew every word to that song. (As a matter of fact, I knew every word to every song on the five Allan Sherman albums that my parents had in their modest record collection.) The kids who came to my party had never heard this song before. You see, in a few years, these kids — the same ones who were jockeying for that last chair in my living room and stuffing themselves with birthday cake — would be made aware of the fact that the Pincus family were Jews and Jews killed Jesus. And, in their naïve eyes, that crime would be pinned squarely on me. But for now, they just listened to the silly song that played on our record player and eyed up the chair that they hoped to snag when the music stopped. The song — as far as they were concerned — was just an upbeat march. They were oblivious to the other tracks on the album. Tracks like "Al n' Yetta," "Harvey and Sheila," "When I Was a Lad" and other titles with a decidedly Jewish slant. None of these kids' parents owned any Allan Sherman albums. Nor would they ever.

My mom introduced me to the songs and humor of Allan Sherman. I thought the songs were funny, even if I didn't get all the references and jokes. I was six years old, for goodness sake! I had no idea who Benjamin Disraeli or Billie Sol Estes were. I had no clue that the tunes to which Allan sang his silly lyrics were actual songs. But, for some reason, these songs — these albums — struck a chord with me. I just loved them.

When  I got a little older, I discovered the Dr. Demento radio show. Along with such novelty classics as "Fish Heads" and "The Cockroach That Ate Cincinnati," Dr. D often played a number of Allan Sherman tunes that I recognized from my youth. I still knew all the words, only now, I was finally getting more of the jokes. I finally was able to appreciate the clever wordplay Allan Sherman put into his parody lyrics. It was like I had unlocked a secret door and I was permitted to enjoy these songs — that were beloved to me anyway — in a whole new light. I was always intrigued by the definite Jewish appeal of Allan Sherman's music. It's kind of like Seinfeld or Mel Brooks movies. You don't have to be Jewish to enjoy and appreciate it, but if you happen to have been born and raised in a Jewish family, there are definitely a bunch of additional jokes you are privy to.

Allan Sherman's debut album was the fastest selling album at the time... and that time was 1962. That means two things. One - I am 64. I am at the tail end of Allan Sherman's first wave of fans. The original buyers of Allan Sherman's albums are dying off and their children, who enjoyed the songs secondhand, are also approaching the twilight of their twilight years. Most people in their 20s, 30s and 40s are not especially familiar with Allan's musical output. And two - Allan's efforts were soon eclipsed by four mop-top youngsters from Liverpool, England, whose infectious songs had far more impact on modern music than that chubby little guy's daffy little ditties. 

A few weeks ago, my son — a DJ on a local radio station — told me of an upcoming Allan Sherman tribute show planned for right here in Philadelphia. Thanks to our combined love of Allan Sherman, my wife and I made sure that our son was well versed in the celebrated satirist's music. The show, entitled Glory Glory Allan Sherman, a play on a play of Allan's Semetic-tinged take on the "Battle Hymn of the Republic" is sort of a preview of a proposed traveling revue with planned performances in other cities. The show would also honor the late music impresario Hal Willner and would be presented in Hal's eclectic and inimitable style. Tickets were secured and we counted the days.

The night of the performance arrived and the audience was just as I had imagined — comprised of collection of folks around my age, some older, not many younger. To be honest, if the event had taken place closer to September, one would have mistaken the entire assembly for Rosh Hashanah services. The roster of scheduled performers were recognizable names from Philadelphia and New York musical circles. After a few brief announcements (hmm... maybe it was Rosh Hashanah services?) the evening kicked off with an uneven and somewhat clunky take on Allan's best known song "Hello Muddah, Hello Faddah." Led by NRBQ's Terry Adams on piano, the otherwise silly song about a sad camper's lament was punctuated by an otherworldly interlude by 101-year old avant-garde saxophonist Marshall Allen of the legendary Sun Ra Arkestra. (Allen has made his home in Philadelphia since 1968.) While Allen's contribution was indeed mesmerizing, Terry Adams' out-of-kilter cadence of the lyrics was a bit disorienting and a lot confounding. A few low discontented grumbles made their way through the audience until the song's conclusion.

 

The show was put back on track and went full-speed ahead when Eric Bazilian, founding member of hometown rock heroes The Hooters, took the stage to offer an inspired interpretation of "Seltzer Boy" from Allan's My Son, The Folk Singer, complete with jarring percussion and Bazilian's soaring, plaintive vocals. One by one, Allan Sherman's joy was brought to fresh life by a stable of talented singers and musicians. The audience clapped, and in some cases, sang along to unforgettable bits of comedy like "One Hippopotami," "Sara Jackman," "Harvey and Shelia" and a slew of others.

A dapper Wesley Stace (the former John Wesley Harding), clad in a slick tuxedo, stirred up his British roots with a hilarious reading of "Won't You Come Home, Disraeli." The always unpredictable Rodney Anonymous (of esteemed Philly anarchists The Dead Milkmen) prowled the stage as he offered up a raucous assault with "A Waste of Money." (Rodney told me later that he really wanted to do "Pop Hates The Beatles," as he shares the same "distaste" for a certain Beatle drummer with me.) Low Cut Connie's piano-pounding Adam Weiner rendered an eloquent recitation of "You Need An Analyst" following an hysterical commentary about how half the audience were seeing therapists and the other half are therapists. Eric Bazilian then returned to the stage and strummed out the pseudo-Western "The Streets of Miami" while delivering the tale in a spot-on Old World Yiddish accent. (Perhaps, some day, he'll give us an "All You Zombies" with the same inflection.) The highlight of the evening was the incomparable Robert Smigel stealthily operating the endearing but vicious Triumph the Insult Dog as he "barked out" Allan's familial sing-along "Shake Hands with Your Uncle Max," replete with an endless supply of reappearing cigars. 

The whole cast appeared for the finale, "The Ballad of Harry Lewis," a tale of a brave garment worker would "went down with the ship" and the source of the show's title, followed by a few rousing choruses of "Don't Buy The Liverwurst." Afterwards, the entire cast happily mingled with guests, exchanging stories and anecdotes and precious memories. Everyone was there — whether on the stage or in the seats — to celebrate their shared love of Allan Sherman.

Eric Bazilian, Rodney Anonymous, Adam Weiner, Wesley Stace — all love Allan Sherman

And celebrate they did.

* * * * * * 

BONUS! Here is Wesley Stace, Eric Bazilian and Rodney Anonymous onstage together — something you will never ever see again. Allan Sherman's music is capable of magical things.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

song sung blue

Let me preface this story by saying I really dislike "tribute bands." While I certainly am a fan of live music, I draw the line at bands that feel it's okay to ride the coattails of an established and beloved (by some) act by imitating every last move, note and lyrical inflection for a few bucks (actually way more than a few bucks). Even if the object of "flattery" is a band I like, I feel angered by and embarrassed for the performers, as well as the actual band. A few years ago, Mrs. Pincus and I were given tickets to a Queen tribute band — the "ultimate" Queen tribute, if I recall correctly. We broke our promise of staying until the end of the show. I loved — loved — Queen in my youth and still hold a soft spot for them (except for my recent contempt for Brian May). However, I couldn't stomach any more of their "America's Got Talent" caliber of prefab presentation. A former co-worker regularly cajoled me to see a Genesis tribute band that plays almost monthly at a nearby venue. He constantly sang their praises, to which I constantly rebutted. "Not only wouldn't I go to see them," I would explain, "but the fact that they performed Wind and Wuthering in its entirety, my least favorite Genesis album, was absolutely not helping the argument." He eventually let up when the company let me go.

Let me also preface this story by saying that I will rarely turn down free tickets to anything. Case in point: my wife and I have seen Donnie and Marie, Tony Orlando and suffered through numerous bad experiences at the now-notorious (by way of this blog)  Movie Tavern — all for free. But, free is free and, as a good friend likes to remind us: "If it's free, it's for me." Words and sentiment couldn't ring truer.

Let me offer one final preface to this story. I love..... no wait..... let me rephrase that. I marvel at people's public behavior. I think since the advent and prevalence of social media in people's everyday lives, most folks have forgotten simple rules of public decorum. They have forgotten that there are other people in the world and sometimes their pursuit of a good time can impede on other's pursuit of a good time. Also, I believe that nobody owns a mirror anymore.

That said....

Free.

Mrs. Pincus obtained two tickets to Jay White's performance at the Xcite Center showroom in Parx Casino, a gambling venue just outside of Philadelphia. Parx's showroom has surprisingly attracted some fairly big names. Not the current superstars that could easily fill a stadium, but headliners in, what I would call, the "twilight" of their careers. Acts like Air Supply, John Fogarty and Reba McEntire — all recognizable, but perhaps no longer at the height of their popularity, yet still popular enough to fill a 1500-seat venue. Well, fill it three-quarters of the way anyway. Between the actual name acts, are scattered several "tribute" acts, including the noted Australian Pink Floyd Show, allegedly blessed by the remaining members of Pink Floyd (Hmm, there's one thing they can still agree on.) and the aforementioned Jay White. (I also saw ads for something called "Ian Anderson presents Fifty Years of Jethro Tull." I'm not quite sure in which category that show falls.)

Jay White calls himself "America's Diamond" and performs songs made famous by popular (dare I say "legendary") singer-songwriter Neil Diamond. (Technically, this moniker makes zero sense as the real Mr. Diamond was born in Brooklyn, New York... and you don't get more American than that, baby!) Not only does Jay White sing with a very, very close approximation of Neil Diamond's imitable Sprechgesang style, but he looks uncannily like Neil Diamond to boot. I can just imagine White marching into the office of a record executive and belting out a few tunes, only to be halted with suspect scrutiny. "Mr. White.... you're okay, but we already have a guy who sounds and looks like you." "Fuck it," I imagined White's growling retort, "I'll do a goddamn tribute show then!" And that's exactly where Jay White's career has brought him, playing such illustrious towns as Gulfport, Mississippi, Kokomo, Indiana and a week-long residency in Delavan, Wisconsin.

I was a little apprehensive about going to this show, but, as I said earlier, I won't turn down free tickets to pretty much anything. And this show had all the promise of "pretty much anything." Mrs. P and I had nothing to do and the venue was air-conditioned, so... what the heck! Besides, Neil Diamond has announced his retirement from the stage, giving Jay White the opportunity to perhaps fill a void that I was not aware needed filling.

...and then there's this guy.
(That's Jay White on the right.... or left.
I'm not sure.)

We drove the twenty or so minutes to Parx Casino and located the venue at the rear of the bustling gaming floor. We were a bit surprised by the configuration of the showroom. It was flat, not sloped at all, and was reminiscent of my elementary school auditorium, except the stage seemed to be built unnaturally high. (A Trip Advisor reviewer seems to agree with me.) The pre-show music piped in over the PA was a standard mix of songs that would appeal to the decidedly older crowd. (classic light rock and a smattering of country). Just before the lights dimmed, however, Lee Greenwood's chest-pounding, flag-waving, heart-stirring "God Bless the USA," came blasting through the venue speakers, offering just the right blend of nauseating, rabble-rousing, redneck faux-patriotism and faux-religion to an all-white audience, all of whom apparently had checked their handguns and MAGA hats at the door. A woman a few rows in front of us stood at her seat and dramatically waved her arms at the audience as though she were the choirmaster at a school recital. The room erupted in thunderous applause at the song's conclusion — a recording from thirty-three years ago by an artist who was not in the fucking room!

The crowd loved it... especially the old guy
 with the two-foot braid.

In the darkened theater, I could see a number of musicians filing in and tuning up. Still in the shadows, they launched into the opening bars of "Soolaimon," a popular, but lesser-known song from the Neil Diamond canon. Jay White, clad in a sparkly shirt and high-waisted tuxedo pants, his helmet of hair fashioned into the signature Neil Diamond 'do, strutted and posed and pointed his finger for the next ninety minutes, as he bounced around from "Cracklin' Rosie" to "Cherry Baby"  to "Holly Holy"... all executed with the dead-on precision of the respective recordings. The band was comprised of obviously talented musicians and White is definitely in possession of a strong set of pipes. But, there was still something that didn't sit right with me. While I do love and appreciate cover versions of songs, someone making a career out of someone else's act is no different than an artist duplicating the Mona Lisa or a writer plagiarizing Hemingway. If you have talent and creativity, then use it and be creative. Don't sell yourself short and take the lazy route. I know I was in the overwhelming minority. The crowd that evening, much like the audience gathered at the "Ultimate Queen Tribute," was eating it up like candy-coated candy. They thought they were actually seeing Neil Diamond at a fraction of the cost of a Neil Diamond concert ticket. They stood. They swayed. They sang, They cheered. One woman was welcomed stage-side while the pretend Mr. Diamond offered a personal and seductive serenade with "Girl, You'll Be a Woman Soon." It was greeted with palpable adoration. I found it embarrassing.

The evening closed with a participatory "Sweet Caroline" punctuated by the recent obligatory "so good so good so good" chorus that has ruined that song for me. Thank you Red Sox fans. I hate you even more. The last song was an epic rendition of "Coming to America" from the soundtrack of the 1980 version of "The Jazz Singer." My wife noted that if the crowd realized that this song was about a Jewish cantor emigrating to the United States, they may not be singing along with such gusto.

The house lights went on and the audience filed out — some still dancing as out of rhythm as they were clapping.  Jay White was in the lobby, cheerfully posing for pictures with his adoring fans. We passed.

If I learned anything from this experience, I realized that I know a lot of Neil Diamond songs. More than I thought.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

get it right the first time

An historical event took place last Sunday, February 4, 2018. Sure, the Philadelphia Eagles — those scrappy, but determined, "underdogs" of the National Football League — defeated the mighty (and mighty arrogant) New England Patriots in a gripping Super Bowl LII, loosening the Pats' "New York Yankees"-like stronghold on football championships. It was a terrific game (I'm told) that shattered all sorts of league records (I'm told), in both regular and post-season play (I am also told).

You see, the Super Bowl is not the historical event which I referenced in the opening sentence, although it is closely related. Sunday — Super Bowl Sunday —  marked the first time I ever watched a complete football game. Ever.

The OG Pincus

I grew up in a house with two die-hard sports fans. First, there was my dad. He was the typical fair-weather fan. My dad was born in West Philadelphia (42 years before the Fresh Prince was shootin' some b-ball on the playground of Overbrook High) and loved the Phillies as a kid. As an adult, he loved to tell a tale of how he cut school to see his beloved Phils play in the days before illuminated night games. He claimed to have seen a rare no-hitter and couldn't tell anyone because he would have gotten in trouble for blowing off classes. It was a great story, but a little research revealed that my dad made the whole thing up... 'cause that's what my dad did. My dad loved watching, reading about and talking sports — baseball, football, basketball and even wrestling, if that is considered a sport. (But not hockey, because, as he often explained, "it moves too goddamn fast for me.") His attitude towards all Philadelphia teams was "Love 'em when they're winning; hate 'em when they're losing." He would often holler "You lousy bums!" at a television broadcast of an Eagles or a Phillies game, only to change his tune when the score turned in the home team's favor.

The other sports fan I shared my house with was my brother. Four years older and way more athletic than I (in fairness, there is furniture that is way more athletic than I), my brother lived and breathed sports — all sports — hockey and wrestling included. My brother was more of a student of the game. Not to say that he couldn't give his peers a run for their money in his playing prowess, but he loved stats and comparisons and probabilities and theory and speculation, in addition to savoring each moment of each game he watched. My brother analyzed and reanalyzed plays and suggested alternative moves that could have been attempted, while my dad just sucked down the nicotine of one Viceroy after another and cursed.

Needless to say, my dad and my brother butted heads and did so quite often. I overhead many of their heated game day disagreements from the safety of my upstairs bedroom, where I busied myself with drawing, consciously avoiding their confrontation and their sports. I wanted nothing to do with their arguments and I especially wanted nothing to do with their stupid sports. I didn't understand it. I didn't see the entertainment in it. I just didn't get it. Games were always on in my house. And I never watched any of them. Even when cartoons were snapped off (without asking) by my father in favor of some sporting event, I just left the room with no interest in the ensuing contest. Yeah, I went to a few baseball games with my family, but I didn't pay attention to the game. Instead, I watched the guys selling pennants and popcorn and marveled at the size of Veterans Stadium. I went to one hockey game and one basketball game when I was in high school and neither event made an impression on me (I remember the hockey game was cold.)

I did, however, number myself among the crowds at two parades honoring back-to-back Stanley Cup wins by the 1974 and 1975 Philadelphia Flyers — the infamous "Broad Street Bullies." I went to the parades, but I didn't watch a second of any game — regular season or playoffs. Five years later, I blew off a day at art school while the rest of the city was celebrating the Philadelphia Philles' 1980 World Series Championship. I had worked as a soda vendor at Phillies games in '77, but most of the time, I had no idea who they were playing. When the Phillies came up victorious at the end of the 2008 World Series, I watched from the middle of a cheering crowd, as the celebratory parade passed by my office building — then went back to work when the last parade vehicle was a dot in the distance.

This year, I was dimly aware of the buzz the current Philadelphia Eagles team was creating. I read the news. I keep abreast of current events. Living in Philadelphia, it was kind of tough to avoid. As the 2017-2018 season went on, the focus on the Eagles moved out of the "sports" portion of nightly newscasts into the "top story" slot. One Sunday evening, I was quite surprised when my wife, who I thought was just working in the third-floor office in our house, came downstairs to tell me she just watched the end of the Eagles-Vikings game and now she was looking forward to watching the Super Bowl. "What? Football? In our house?," I questioned, as I looked up from an Andy Griffith Show rerun flashing across the 43-inch television screen in our den. But, just two weeks later, there we were, with folding snack tables set up in front of the TV and big bowls of homemade chili steaming before us — I was about to watch my very first football game.

And watch it I did. Every minute. Every time-out. Every kick-off. Every pass. Every field goal (and the missed ones, too). Every tackle. Even that dreadful half-time show. I watched. Aside from the basics, like a guy carrying the ball into the area painted with a team's logo means a six-point touchdown and a kicked ball sailing through the goalposts means... um... some points, but not as many as a touchdown, I had no idea what was going on. I don't know what an "offsides" is... or are. I don't know what any of the penalties mean. I don't know where "the pocket" is. (I know it's not on any of those tight pants the players wear. Maybe it's near "the crease" in hockey.) Despite my lack of knowledge of the fundamentals of this game, almost immediately, I was able to assess that the Eagles (in green uniforms) were definitely outplaying the Patriots (not in green uniforms). And in the end, I was right. I even found myself getting a little excited and emotional towards the riveting final moments. When the game was over and elated Eagles players climbed all over each other in celebration of winning their first Super Bowl (an accomplishment made sweeter by their besting the five-time champion Patriots), I could hear firecrackers exploding right outside of my suburban window. As I write this piece, the live broadcast of the Eagles parade is on a television screen just a few feet away from me. Every so often, I glance up from my keyboard to see a sea of (an estimated two million) joyful fans flooding the streets of my hometown and to hear a beefy player (that I cannot name) screaming about bringing the Lombardi Trophy to Philly. I love this city and I am happy for the Eagles' success. Unfairly derided, these guys rose to the challenge and delivered for their fans. Looking back, I really enjoyed watching that game. It was stirring and its aftermath was even a bit inspiring.

Last Sunday — February 4, 2018 — was historical in one more respect. It also marks the day I watched my last complete football game.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

you'll never walk alone

It almost happened, but luckily, it didn't.

Last week, I had long-standing plans to go to a concert with my son — something I do quite often. This time, we were seeing Puddles Pity Party, the acclaimed "sad clown with the golden voice" who has been gaining attention and popularity (of the cult variety) thanks to his many YouTube videos, particularly his collaboration with Post Modern Jukebox and an unusual take on Lorde's anthemic "Royals." Puddles, a six-foot-eight clown, is, admittedly, not for everyone — especially those with a deep (or even mild) fear of clowns. While Puddles does have a beautifully rich, almost operatic voice, his performances are "in-your-face" and heavy on audience participation.

The day before the Puddles show, the Philadelphia area was hit by a blast of winter weather that could only be described as "inconvenient." Instead of the twelve to eighteen inches of snow that was forebodingly predicted, the city was merely covered with a cold wintry mix that blanketed lawns, streets and sidewalks with around four inches of hard, crunchy snow, making travel — either by car or on foot — difficult. The morning of the show, my son set out for work, a trek that ends on the other side of the "center city" area from his South Philadelphia home. In the course of his walk, he slipped on some unshoveled ice and fell. When he hit the ground, his legs involuntarily twisted in a position to cause him the most amount of pain. After downing Advil all day, he decided that staying off his feet for the remainder of the day would be his best course of action. So, we passed on the show, hoping to see Puddles on his next trip through our fair city.

To make up for it, my son got me on the guest list for a local bunch of raucous garage rockers that go by the moniker "Scantron." They are a five-piece band comprised of three-fifths of the band Low Cut Connie. My boy, a DJ and producer at a Philadelphia radio station, would be unable to join me, as he was busy engineering a broadcast, followed by a recording session with another band. I was on my own to find someone to accompany me. Of course, Mrs. Pincus would be the obvious choice, but, alas, my spouse and I do not always see eye-to-eye with our musical tastes. Having been to the particular venue before, I didn't think she would enjoy... well, any of it. The close quarters, the seedy atmosphere, the turned-up-way-too-loud sound system, the near-primitive bathroom facilities and the nothing-more-than-cheap-beer menu. Within a few minutes, Mrs. P would have headed for the door. So, I spared her the trip, although I did offer an obligatory, yet half-hearted, invitation (which she obligingly declined). Via Twitter, I contacted my pal Cookie. I know he goes to a lot of shows, based on the photos he posts on his various social media outlets. Cookie hemmed and hawed a bit and offered a non-committal reply with a solid "maybe." I told him that I'd be going, no matter what his final decision would be.

I have been going to concerts for forty-one years. Since the first time I anxiously entered the (now long gone) Philadelphia Spectrum to see Alice Cooper spill his "Welcome to My Nightmare" tour across the stage, I have seen hundreds of shows at dozens of venues. However, I went to every single one of those shows with someone — never alone. Never.

I came home from work, ate a quick dinner with my wife, then headed down to the show. As I wound my way through the congested streets of North Philadelphia, I thought about parking, about how late I was gonna stay — everything except the fact that I was going to be at this show without anyone I knew. I'd be that guy standing in the corner — or worse — up in front of the stage, all by himself. I'm sure you've seen that guy. I didn't want to be that guy at this show.

I parked and walked up the venue. I began to explain to the dude at the door that I was on Scantron's guest list. Suddenly, George, Scantron's second guitarist, ran from the restaurant across the street to confirm my inclusion on said list. He recognized me from previous introductions. It was pretty cool. I've been the "plus one" on my son's guest list inclusion, but never on my own. I entered, as George smacked my back and told me he was going back to join his band mates for dinner. I took a spot inside and watched two guys stumble their way through a game of pool. I quietly fiddled with my phone and was resigned to that fact that I was gonna be at this show by myself.  Until I got a text from Cookie saying that he was on his way.

Twenty or so minutes later, Cookie and his fiance Consuelo wandered in. We exchanged greetings and, after a bit of chit-chat, I confessed that this was almost my first "alone" show. Ever. Cookie furrowed his brow and gave me a look of scrutiny. "I've been to plenty of shows by myself," he explained, "no big deal. You've never gone to a concert alone?"

"Nope." I said flatly. "Never."

"But I've seen you at...," he started.

I interrupted.  "You were there, so I wasn't alone." Then, I continued, "And now that you two are here, my streak still stands."

Scantron was getting ready to perform and we made our way back to the small stage area. I took a place up close to the left side, within arms reach of the stage. Cookie and Consuelo hung back on the far right. A dozen or so people filed in between us, eventually blocking them from my clear line of vision.

But, I as far as I was concerned, I was not there alone.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

waist deep in the big muddy

When we signed up to be a part of MuckFest 2014, I made it very clear that I don't like to get dirty. Let me tell you, MuckFest is no place for someone who does not like to get dirty.

Mrs. P and I accompanied our neighbors, Rae and O., as they (they, not me!) participated in the 5K run to support the National Multiple Sclerosis Society. Now, I am all for supporting a worthy charity, especially one that benefits from 100% of the funds that are raised (sorry, Susan G. Komen "Race for the Cure"), but, a 5K run is a particularly daunting event for me. Actually, a 5 foot run is pretty fearsome. And 5K (a little over 3 miles to those of us who have not yet adopted the metric system) through rivers of mud is something I don't even wish to think about. The mental image itself has me running for a bar of soap.

We assembled for a pre-run breakfast on my neighbor's back porch, then set out for the site in separate cars. We lost them within seconds of leaving our neighborhood, but met up again at the parking facility in Newtown Square in the southwestern Philadelphia suburbs. We walked as a group — Mrs. P and me, along with Rae and O., their three children and their assorted friends — toward their dirt-clotted fate, passing earlier participants who were coated and caked with the remnants of wet earth — the bulk of which still clung fast despite a thorough hosing down. I gingerly sidestepped the clumps of sludge that trailed behind the filthy and weary runners.

The actual race site was a friggin' pigsty. There was mud everywhere, on everything and on everybody. While my neighbors went to register for their start time, I marveled at the amount of mud surrounding me. I stood by the course's finish line as wave after wave of muck-soaked runners stumbled and slid to completion, some enveloped in so much mud, it was difficult to determine their sex. 

Soon, O.'s family joined the queue for their pre-selected one o'clock start. The crowd teetered anxiously in their muddy shoes until an official ordered the participants down on their asses, as this particular leg of the race would begin with runners inching out of the starting gate butt first — muddy butt first. To add to the "ooziness" of the situation, a shower of water drenched the group as they made their way uphill to the first obstacle. Oh, did I mention there were obstacles? Well, there were.

I stepped back, so not to get splashed. The knot of runners slogged up the muddy incline towards a mass of bungee cords stretched and tangled above a thick pool of chocolate-brown slop. After negotiating a clear path through the mire, they collectively hung a left and disappeared into a wooded area.

They were gone from sight for a long time. A very long time.

Just under an hour after they were last seen, the members of the teenage contingency emerged from the brush — a little sweatier and a little dirtier (okay, a lot dirtier), but still filled with frenetic energy. I was there to snap a few pictures and cheer the youths on as they raced to the last few obstacles and, eventually, the finish line. It would be another hour until I saw their parents.

O. finally appeared, a little winded. He was helping Rae, who looked as though she had had enough of this about thirty minutes ago. But, they soldiered on, pushing their weakened, muck-swathed bodies to the end. Still ahead of them was a mud-filled tunnel, a mud-filled ditch and a mud-covered swing over a trench filled with... you'll never guess... mud.

O. and Rae dragged themselves across the finish line. They caught their breath and headed over to the communal rinsing-off station, taking advantage of some of the free products offered by event sponsor Redken. As we walked to the picnic area for some post-muck refreshments, I noticed that I got a small splash of mud on the bottom of my jeans. 

Ecccchhh!

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