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

out of touch

This is my favorite time of year! No more snow. No more cold weather. And a whole season of free concerts in nearby Camden, New Jersey. 

For the past few years, Mrs. P and I, along with some friends, have been going to this free outdoor concert program sponsored by the good folks at the Camden County Board of Freeholders... or something like that. Although Camden gets a bad rap as one of the most dangerous areas in the region, these free events are peaceful get-togethers where folks can enjoy a wide variety of musical genres in the throes of balmy weather at several easily-accessible outdoor venues. The acts presented range from local performers to nationally-recognized names... although some of them haven't had a hit record in years and often evoke head-scratching inquiries of "Are they still alive?" Over the past several seasons, we have seen Sheila E., The Sugarhill Gang (though the "gang" now just consists of Guy "Master Gee" O'Brien, the self-described "baby of the bunch"... who is 64 years-old), Arrested Development, Joan Osbourne, Richard Thompson and a Barenaked Ladies-less Steven Page. Also included were a bunch of bands whose names slip my mind at the moment. But they were free to see... so we saw.

It's all free, kiddies! All free!

This year's line-up boasts a similar array of old and new, famous and not-yet-famous. The music ranges from classical to classic rock to folk to Polynesian and island melodies to jazz to boy bands. And, once again... it's all free!

On Thursday evening, with the almost summer sun still high in the evening sky, we met up with our concert-going buddies Consuelo and Cookie, where we descended upon the grassy section of the Cooper River Park running track for a night of free entertainment. We set up our chairs alongside hundreds of other attendees. A pre-show DJ was playing selections that appeased the crowd. As I scanned the area, I noticed that the overwhelming majority was comprised of women at least twenty years my junior. But, of course! Tonight was another stop on the current Pop 2000 Tour, a multi-band bill featuring big names from the hey-day of boy bands. As a 64 year-old man, I am about as far from the target demographic for this tour as you can get. But.. free is free. So, here we are.

A different O-Town.

The show kicked off with the first of several performers whose body of work is foreign to me. A young man (at least from where I was sitting he looked young) with a high pompadour and a tank top revealing some heavily-inked biceps stepped up to the sole stage microphone and introduced himself as Ryan Cabrera. I can tell you more about Miggy Cabrera, the celebrate Detroit Tigers infielder whos name is spoken in the company as Hank Aaron and Willie Mays... but Ryan? Sorry, I never heard of him until he identified himself to a throng of squealing 40 year-olds. Ryan strummed a big acoustic guitar, cracked a few self-deprecating jokes and serenaded the audiences with a short set of innocently-poppy tunes (which all sounded the same — pleasant — but the same) before yielding the stage to a band called O-Town.

Confession

O-Town — according to a lengthy Wikipedia entry entitled "O-Town" — is a vocal group formed as a result of the first season of the reality show Making the Band. The group was originally assembled and managed by piece-of-shit par excellence Lou Pearlman, the sleazebag behind the development and marketing of Backstreet Boys and *NSYNC. They eventually ditched Pearlman in favor of new, less scummy, representation. I am not familiar with O-Town's musical output. Their debut was released in 2001, the same year they won the coveted Teen Choice Award for "Favorite Breakout Artist." In 2001, I was listening to Nick Cave, eels and Wilco. My only familiarity with "O-Town" was as the hometown of Nickelodeon cartoon wallaby Rocko. Even my then-14 year-old son steered clear of the whole "boy band" scene. As O-Town took the stage, I texted my son (now almost 39) to ask if he ever heard of them. He replied that he knew exactly one O-Town song. It goes "something something ALLLLL OR NOOOOOTHING at all." I think they sang it. They did perform a lot of very cute choreography, much to the approval of the shrieking soccer moms scattered across the grass.

The great O-Town debate was followed by another band — heretofore unknown to me — LFO. Formed as a trio in 1995 and now performing as a duo since the death of founding member Rich Cronin, LFO's two albums and seven singles are totally off my radar. However, true to my belief that "every band is someone's favorite band," I caught nearly everyone around me mouthing the words to "Summer Girls," their Number 3 hit from — fittingly — the summer of 1999. Via more texting, my son said he heard that LFO like girls who like Abercrombie & Fitch, a reference I didn't get until I heard those particular lyrics blasting through the PA speakers mounted on either side of the stage.

Bye bye bye bye bye bye bye

The night wrapped up with *NSYNC founder Chris Kirkpatrick at center stage, backed by members of all of the other bands. As the 54 year-old Chris wailed what I can only assume were beloved favorites from the *NSYNC catalogue, the boys/men behind him vogued and posed and pirouetted to the crowd's delight. I actually recognized a song during the set. It's that one where say say "bye bye, bye bye, bye." I think its called "Bye Bye" or "Bye Bye Bye." I honestly thought that was a Backstreet Boys song, but I stand corrected.

After the final number, the performers offered their thanks, as well as several pleas to visit the merchandise tent. Obviously, everyone can't be Justin Timberlake.

We disassembled our chairs, gathered up our trash and looked forward to the next free show... that's free.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

joyful noise

On Mothers Day, Mrs. P, our son and I went out for breakfast. We went to a good, old-fashioned diner in South Philadelphia, not too far from our son's house. Apparently, we were not the only people to have this idea, as the parking lot was full, the place was packed, there was a lot of people waiting to be seated standing in a line that was winding out of the entrance. But we waited. After a surprisingly short amount of time, a hostess grabbed a handful of menus and led us to a cozy booth in the far back corner of the multi-sectioned dining room.

Our little booth was adjacent to a large table, at which was seated a group of women. With little deduction, it was very obvious that the women represented a multi-generational family. There were young women snapping photos on their cellphones. There were older (and by "older," I — of course — mean "my age.") women posing for those pictures, snuggling up to one another and flashing wide and happy smiles. There was one woman seated next to an aluminum walker. She was smiling, silently taking in all of the hustle and bustle going on at her table and the tables surrounding. 

My family perused our menus as a waitress brought over huge plates, overflowing with typical breakfast-y foods and placed them before each woman at our neighboring table. Every so often, the sound of silverware clinking against ceramic plates was drowned out by loud, joyous singing. These women burst effortlessly into song as though they were the cast of a 1940s big-screen musical. They sang a few choruses of Motown classics. They sprinkled in some rhythmic selections from the 70s disco era. A few of the women — those seated at the accessible ends of the table — stood up and danced in place, waving their hands in the air like they just didn't care! When the waitress returned with refills of coffee and a few side dishes that were late from the kitchen, several of the women grabbed the staff member to pose for a picture.

During their meal, they all exchanged colorfully-wrapped gifts and beautiful bouquets of flowers. And there was more singing and more photos and more laughter and more joy. At one point, one of the women asked my son if he could take a group picture of everyone in their party posing with the owner of the diner, as though he was some sort of celebrity. Even the quiet matriarchal woman was included in this shot, her chair turned to face the camera. Her smile grew impossibly larger than it was before.

Our breakfast arrived and our meal was accompanied by the loud elation from our neighboring diners. Their singing, their outbursts, the tone of their conversation erupted in pure delight. It was infectious. I made a quick scan of the surrounding tables and everyone appeared to be enjoying these women enjoying themselves.

While we ate, I shot a look across the table to my wife and she shot the same look back at me. We have known each other for 44 years. We've been married for almost 42 of them. We sort of know each others thoughts at certain times — without saying a word. This was one of those times. The meaning of our "silent glances" was confirmed later during the drive back our son's house. We both believed that my father — who died over thirty years ago — and her father — who just celebrated his 90th birthday — would have both been furious! They both would have complained loudly about the women seated next to us. They both would have felt this behavior was inappropriate, disruptive, rude, undignified and unwelcome. They both would have asked for a different table, far out of earshot of these inconsiderate women. And once moved to a different table, they would have continued their complaints. They both were from a different, less tolerant generation.

But it was joyous! Very joyous! Very very joyous! The thought of complaining never even crossed our minds. If perhaps it was a screaming infant... maybe. But even Josh Pincus can't complain about joy.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

get out the map

Among the many interests that I share with Mrs. Pincus (my wife of nearly forty-two years), is a love and appreciation for kitsch. We like pop culture, especially roadside attractions placed along our country's interstates and throughways for the sole purpose of quaint entertainment for families crisscrossing the land and looking for a little distraction — and perhaps a place to grab a bite to eat and a needed visit to a rest room (not necessarily in that order).

While traveling by car on our honeymoon (almost four decades ago), we stopped at arguably one of the most famous "roadside attractions" on the east coast — the notorious South of the Border. Taking up roughly 350 acres across the intersection of I-95 and US 301, South of the Border has been a welcome respite for harried vacationers and weary truckers since it opened its faux Mexican door over 70 years ago. I had never been to the Hamer, South Carolina refuge before this stop with my new bride in 1984. I had only been aware of the day-glow bumper stickers I'd seen plastered on cars that advertised the campy oasis. My father, who wouldn't dare drive further south than Cottman Avenue, would never ever afford his family the pleasure of an out-of-state excursion (Atlantic City, New Jersey being the sole exception). Mrs. P, on the other hand, was an experienced patron of South of the Border, having stopped countless times on car trips to Miami Beach in her youth.

In reality, South of the Border's popularity and staying power is a true headscratcher. Comprised of crappy gift shops, crappy convenience stores, crappy motels, crappy fast food counters and a store the size of a supermarket that only stocks the most dangerous of fireworks, South of the Border has questionable appeal. However, with clever billboards placed hundreds of miles before a single neon light is visible, South of the Border has made itself a "must stop" destination — by way of appealing to your kids' sense of curiosity and ability to whine. The first time I visited South of the Border (and every subsequent time), I've had the same feeling. "What on earth am I doing here?" And, if you look around at the other folks, wandering aimlessly across the parking lots and through the various retail outlets, they all appear to be asking themselves the same thing. Yet, people have been stopping for years, so they must know what they're doing. In recent years, South of the Border has faced financial difficulty and has been forced to sell off land and property, yet, every day, cars filled with travelers flood Instagram with duck-faced selfies posed before a backdrop of brightly-painted buildings and giant fiberglass "Pedros" (South of the Border's suspiciously-racist mascot).

On the same trip, a little further south, Mrs. P and I chanced upon our very first Cracker Barrel. This corporate recreation of the old time general store was also brought to our attention by a series of homey billboards placed enticingly along the roadside of the narrower portions of I-95. Cracker Barrel was kitschy in a different way than South of the Border, but kitschy just the same. Boasting the promise of authentic Southern cooking (including pork ribs, cornbread smeared in bacon drippings, a puzzling dish called "chicken fried steak" and other selections that were off-limits to a couple of kosher-observant Yankee newlyweds), Cracker Barrel featured a retail area chockful of tchotchkes that looked as though they were absconded from Drucker's General Store or Aunt Bee's living room. Although we didn't actually eat in a Cracker Barrel until years later when we were assured that their "world famous" pancakes did not come in contact with sausages during the cooking process, we did make several small purchases from their store and did partake of their surprisingly clean bathrooms.

Just this past weekend, Mrs. Pincus and I found ourselves driving south on Interstate 81, traversing the scenic Shenandoah Valley. Our eventual destination was a lovely bed and breakfast in Waynesboro, Virginia. This would be our accommodations while we attended the wedding of Mrs. P's cousin Veronica. If you like to see trees and mountains and trees and mountains — endlessly — for close to four hours, I highly recommend a leisurely drive on Interstate 81. Personally (and I believe I speak for my spouse as well), I prefer a more interesting journey, with stuff to see and places to stop... or at least the promise of places to stop. I-81 has trees. A lot of them. However, somewhere south of Zenda (you know where the Bethel Church of Brethren is?), we spotted a billboard in a clearing behind the proverbial "white picket fence." The ambiguously risqué sentiment announced the location of a Buc-ee's just ahead... well if you call 120 miles "just."  Buc-ee's, from what I have heard, is right up our kitsch-loving alley.

Buc-ee's is the new trend-setter in the competitive world of interstate travel stops. Leaving old stand-bys like Stuckey's, Flying J and Love's in the dust, Buc-ee's has emerged as the place to stop on your way from here to there... especially if your "here" and your "there" are in Texas. Currently, there are 55 Buc-ee's in the United States, with its Luling, Texas location deemed the "World's Largest Convenience Store," taking up a whopping 75,000 square feet. In 2018, Buc-ee's expanded outside of Texas, with its Rockingham, Virginia location (the one we were 120 miles from) welcoming excited travelers in the summer of 2025. We decided to stop at Buc-ee's on our way home... and we did.

After a weekend of nuptial-related activities, Mrs. P and I said our familial "goodbyes," loaded our luggage into our car and headed home — with a stop at Buc-ee's in our near future. Taking the Frieden's Church exit on I-81, Buc-ee's is located on 74,000 square feet on — of all places — Buc-ee's Boulevard (what are the chances?!?) We drove past the 120 gas pumps and selected an unoccupied space in the lot of 600 available spaces. The place was bustling with activity. Groups of leather-clad bikers hovered around their cycles as they enjoyed various edible offerings from Buc-ee's extensive menu. Families with kids in tow breached the entrance and scattered in all directions — Mom perusing the crafty housewares, Dad eyeing up the fresh carved brisket, bro and sis gazing hungrily at the hundreds of flavors of fudge made fresh in the store. Buc-ee's is a happy combination of South of the Border, Cracker Barrel, Walmart and Wawa — all the best of each establishment, but with a decidedly redneck appeal. (That's not an insult. That seems to be exactly the way Buc-ee's likes it.) Under Buc-ee's enormous roof, you can find practically everything you'd want to eat, wear or give to someone to prove you were there. They have shirts, playing cards, bottle openers, stickers, postcards, hair ties, frisbees, dog bowls, party decorations (who wouldn't want a Buc-ee's-themed birthday?), pajamas, socks, license plates, drink bottles, plush characters, key rings and so much more. Hungry? Buc-ees makes sandwiches, tacos, chicken, potato chips, candy, as well as pre-packaged snacks — all emblazoned with the friendly Buc-ee's beaver mascot right on the label. Plus, there's a whole section of national products arranged in easy-access aisles and cooler after glass-doored cooler filled with water, soft drinks and beer. And the place was hoppin'! Everywhere you looked, folks were filling shopping carts with dozens of Buc-ee's branded items. Families were selecting piles of foil-wrapped sandwiches from the massive self-serve stock, debating whether to get the pulled pork with or without sauce. There was an entire wall covered — floor to ceiling — with every possible configuration and flavor of beef jerky imaginable. The restrooms — the self-proclaimed "world famous" ones — were also bustling centers of movement (No pun intended. Well, maybe a little.) Attendants hustled their sparkling, cleanser-laden carts in and out of the discreet entrance as dozens — nay, hundreds — of travelers answered the call of nature with the chain-wide pledge of "the cleanest bathrooms in the world!" 

I stood and marveled at the operation unfolding before my eyes. It was positively fascinating. Everywhere you looked, someone was buying something, There were dozens and dozens of cashiers busily ringing up purchases. There were employees wearing Buc-ee's vests stocking Buc-ee's products on Buc-ee's shelves. It was like watching a ballet being staged by the local Chamber of Commerce.

Mrs. P and I sampled their store-made roasted peanuts. We posed for a photo with Buc-ee himself and tried to remember where we parked our car.

Interested in seeing a spectacle? Buc-ee's is a spectacle.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

the first time ever I saw your face

I have always loved stand-up comedy. I remember seeing forgotten funny men like London Lee (not particularly funny), Jack Carter (not particularly funny) and others on the Ed Sullivan Show. I was sometimes permitted to stay up late to watch George Carlin or Albert Brooks on the Tonight Show. One summer, my family was vacationing in Atlantic City. ("Vacationing" for the Pincuses was a weekend - about all my father could take.) One night, my usually disagreeable father followed my mother's lead and we all went to see Totie Fields at Steel Pier. My mom loved Totie Fields and my father sort-of feared my mother.

In the early 1980s, a couple of entrepreneurial guys opened up a small comedy club on the second floor of a pretty popular restaurant in Center City Philadelphia. They were open practically every evening with featured "big name" headliners reserved for weekend performances. The roster of comics boasted a number of budding Philadelphia-based folks mixed with performers who had graced the stages of similar comedy clubs in New York and Los Angeles. For around eight bucks, a weekend show offered an emcee, three warm-up comics and a headliner. All ages were welcome, but the drinking age of 21 was strictly enforced. I didn't turn 21 until the summer of 1982, so it was Cokes for me and my friends until then.

I don't remember how many times I attended performances at the Comedy Works, but it was a lot. I saw dozens and dozens of comedians. Some were young, anxious souls hoping for a career making people laugh. Others were weekend comics, who went to regular jobs during the week. Still others were "old pros" at the trade, grinding out the same routine on a different stage in a different town, wishing one night a talent scout would approach them after the show and invite them to perform on the stage next to Johnny Carson's desk.

I saw a lot of comedians who went on to bigger and better. Native Philadelphian Tom Wilson was a regular at the Comedy Works and I saw him often. He'd bring his trusty tuba on stage and punctuate portions of his routine with blasts from the big brass horn. After a few years as a familiar face at the Comedy Works, Tom announced that he was leaving the Philadelphia area for a Hollywood destination. I was in the audience for his final Comedy Works performance. Several years later, the opening credits of Robert Zemeckis's Back to the Future listed one "Thomas F. Wilson" as the villainous knucklehead "Biff Tannen." Sure enough, his first screen appearance revealed it was "our Tom."

My friends and I secured front-row seats for headliner Jackie "The Joke Man" Martling, a well-known comedy writer and then-sidekick for a pre-"World Domination" Howard Stern. Jackie's delivery was rapid-fire and his off-the-cuff observations were targeted at the audience before him. My friends and I decided to provide Jackie with a little inspiration. As soon as Jackie was announced and took the stage, we all donned large cowboy hats in full view of "The Joke Man." He got an eyefull of us and let loose with some of the most vile, disgusting.... and hilarious material I'd ever heard. We asked for it and he delivered.

Over the years, I was treated to early career sets from Bob Saget, Craig Shoemaker, Todd Glass and a very unmemorable set from late comedian Richard Jeni. But that wasn't Richard's fault.

The first weekend in April 1981, Richard Jeni was the scheduled headliner at the Comedy Works. In the tiny ad that appeared in the entertainment section of the Evening Bulletin, only the headliner's name was listed, along with the phrase "and support" or "and others," but never their names. In 1981, I recognized the name Richard Jeni, so I contacted my regular "comedy club" friends and we headed down for the show.

The line for admittance wasn't anything out of the ordinary. We paid the small admission fee and were escorted to a table about four or five rows back from the stage — about midway in the 300-seat venue. At showtime, the regular emcee (club co-owner Steve Young) made a few jokes before introducing the first comic. I don't remember who it was — probably someone local. Soon the second performer was welcomed... and I don't remember who that was either. Steve came to the mic and announced the next comedian as a "young man, just coming up in show business and making his Comedy Works debut... oh and you might have seen him on Saturday Night Live." 

Honestly, in 1981, nobody I knew was watched Saturday Night Live. The original cast of "Not Ready for Prime Time Players" were replaced by a cast of unknowns and there was no longer a reason to stay home to watch. So, the young comedian that was just introduced bounded up to the microphone and proceeded to immediately knock the audience. on its collective ass. He was hysterical. Hysterical, like no one I had ever seen. Hysterical, as in laughing so hard that you could not catch your breath. The room was so filled with loud, raucous laughter that half of the guy's material was missed because it was drowned out with laughter from the previous punchlines. People were literally crying from laughing so hard. I have seen a lot of comedians. I had never seen a reaction like this.

Eventually, the young man's set ended and the emcee introduced Richard Jeni, the evening's headliner. At least I assume that's what happened next. In reality, I don't remember hearing another introduction and I do not remember seeing Richard Jeni come on stage and I certainly don't remember a single topic that Richard Jeni talked about. I don't even remember a single word Richard Jeni said. I'm not so sure he was even there.

What I do remember is that everyone — everyone in the entire room — was talking about how unbelievably funny the previous comedian was. Everyone was ignoring poor Richard Jeni, as the discussion of the previous act grew louder throughout the venue. At the evening's conclusion, the emcee thanked everyone for coming and, as the crowd made its way towards the exit, lively chatter about comedian number three could still be heard.

The young man who was announced prior to Richard Jeni and stole the spotlight right out from under him was Eddie Murphy.

It was his only Comedy Works appearance.

He went on to bigger and better.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

here we are now, entertain us

I like to watch movies. I like to watch movies with my wife and I like to watch movies alone. Sometimes, I have to do both of those because I don't always share the same tastes in movies with my wife. Recently, I have watched a few recent releases that — in a million years — Mrs. Pincus would not have sat through. One was a fairly graphic horror movie. I know from past experience that Mrs. P has little tolerance for horror movies. I still remember her watching Creepshow through fingers protectively threaded across her eyes and asking how much longer will this go on. The recent movie I watched would have had her exiting the room after the opening scene. I watched another recent release that would not have held her interest at all. It was a very slow build-up until the story started to come together. So, I have — more or less — become the official movie screener for the Pincus household. I will chose a movie for the two of us to watch, based on whether or not Mrs. P will like it. I will happily admit that I'm not always right.

Recently, I suggested a made-for-television movie called A Carol for Another Christmas. It was originally broadcast in 1964 on ABC. It was only shown once until it resurfaced a few years ago on the  Turner Classic Movies network. I thought it was a good choice for us to watch. It was written by Rod Serling and Mrs. P is a long time fan of Twilight Zone. It featured well-known actors like Sterling Hayden, Ben Gazzara, Eve Marie Saint, Peter Sellers, Robert Shaw and Pat Hingle. So, we settled in to watch. It turned out to be a long-winded, smack-you-over-the-head, message-filled piece of anti-nuclear propaganda that was produced, in part, by the United Nations. It was a tedious, repetitive, preachy, self-righteous 84-minutes that seemed twice as long. As we watched, I could sense that Mrs. P was getting "antsy." Fifteen minutes in, her full attention was given to her cellphone. That evening's entertainment choice was a bust on my part. I vowed to be more discerning in future suggestions.

Last night, we interrupted our usual evening's viewing of cartoons (our cable provider recently began carrying MeTV Toons, a 24-hour network devoted to the cartoons of our youth) to watch a movie. I selected a movie that I remember watching years ago. I asked my wife if she had ever seen it. She was unsure. So, we watched.

The movie in question was a 1968 theatrical release called The Night They Raided Minsky's. It was an early production from the pre-All in the Family partnership of Norman Lear and Bud Yorkin. The film had a very interesting and chaotic journey to the big screen, even before a film frame of celluloid was shot. It was based on a 1960 novel about the bygone days of burlesque in New York City. Tony Curtis was originally cast in the lead, but friction over the script caused him to walk. A young Alan Alda was considered as a replacement, but he was locked into a role on Broadway. Jason Robards was tagged just a few weeks before shooting was to begin. Mickey Rooney, then Joel Grey, were pursued for the second lead, but other bookings prevented them from taking the role. British comedian Norman Wisdom was cast despite being relatively unknown to American audiences. Joey Faye, Eddie Lawrence, Dexter Maitland and Bert Lahr — all former burlesque performers — rounded out the cast. Lahr, however, was practically on his deathbed, have been diagnosed with terminal cancer just prior to production. The cast was supplemented by solid performances from Denholm Elliot, Joseph Wiseman, Harry Andrews, Forrest Tucker and Elliot Gould in his motion picture debut. At the forefront was the adorably waif-like Britt Ekland as the object of everyone's affection. William Friedkin, fresh off his directorial debut at the helm of Sonny & Cher's 1967 hippie indulgence Good Times (and several years away from The French Connection and The Exorcist) was tapped to direct. Friedkin, who shot forty hours of footage for the project, had a vision for the final product that differed from Lear's, Yorkin's and the "powers that be" at United Artists. After working — unsuccessfully — with respected film editor Ralph Rosenblum, Friedkin moved on to another project. He called The Night They Raided Minsky's "the biggest piece of crap he was ever involved with." Rosenblum took a full year to recut and reimagine the movie with no input from the director. He introduced period stock footage. He reshot some scenes with a body double substituting for Bert Lahr, who had died during production. Rosenblum's version — which Friedkin had nothing to do with — was released to surprisingly positive reviews. It boasted the biggest budget for a film shot in New York City at the time. Its paper-thin plot, continuity errors and seedy look are all forgivable, as The Night They Raided Minsky's offered a frozen snapshot of a bygone and nearly forgotten period of entertainment history. The film — a complete work of fiction — was a love letter to the bawdy side of vaudeville and — according to the opening narration — the origin of the strip tease.

Mrs. P and I watched The Night They Raided Minsky's. It was uneven. It was creepy. It was funny. It was enjoyable. The cast was stellar, if somewhat slightly above the sitcom-level script. The full-length classic burlesque skits that were showcased was like watching a documentary, sometimes overshadowing the main plot of the movie... whatever it was. There was a love triangle of sorts. There was a shifty plot to humiliate a staunch moral advocate. There was an overbearing gangster. There was an angry Amish patriarch searching for his wayward daughter. There was a lot going on and sometimes the story was interrupted for the sake of a barrage of risque jokes. Despite the spot-on performances from Norman Wisdom, Joseph Wiseman, Jason Robards and Britt Ekland, the true stars of The Night They Raided Minsky's were the ladies who formed the disinterested, going-through-the-motions chorus of the burlesque stage. Everything came to a head in a very raucous climax and a very sit-com-y ending. 

Ninety-eight minutes later, Mrs. P and I were entertained. And I don't think she looked at the clock once.

Well, maybe once.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

I met Britt Elkand in 2016. She was very sweet.

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

you're no good

My son and went to our first Phillies game of the 2025 season. I love going to beautiful Citizens Bank Park. It's a great facility. It's easy to get to and (relatively) easy to get out of the parking lot when the game is over. In between, there's a lot to see, a lot to eat and a lot to do, besides the baseball game, which — for most attendees — is the main attraction.

This particular Saturday afternoon game began with Photo Day, an annual event during which fans get a face-to-face encounter with their hometown favorite players, coaches, broadcasters, mascots (the renowned Phillie Phanatic and his mom, Phoebe) and even the ball girls — Megan, Ashely, Ashely, Ashely, Caitlyn, Ashely, Megan, Ashely, Caitlyn, Meagan and,,,, who am I forgetting?... oh right! ....Ashely. Several hours before the scheduled first pitch, fans are invited down the the playing field to stand on cordoned-off plastic platforms (so as not to scuff up the pristinely-trimmed grass), while the team representatives mingle within the safe confines of a thin rope barricade, waving, fist-bumping and even posing for individual pictures to the delight of the faithful. My son and I ventured down with the crowd and — all in all — it was a fun experience. We met some players (who all look like kids), got some pictures and just had a lot of fun.

Then, as the skies darkened with the threat of rain, we found our seats — on the second level Section 243, right in front of the giant scoreboard — and waited for the game to start. 

We should have hoped harder for rain. Right off the bat (no pun intended), the Milwaukee Brewers scored four runs, thanks, in part, to former Phillie Rhys Hoskins. It was all downhill from there. The Phillies lost 17-7, a dubious feat not achieved by the Phils since 1947. It was a brutal, ugly affair and, as a 60+ year Phillies fan who has seen his share of Phillies disappointments, it was still hard to watch.

In the eighth inning, with a good portion of the seats in Citizens Bank Park now vacated, a fellow staggered down the aisle that divided Sections 242 and 243. He teetered back and forth as he leaned precariously over the edge of the balcony and screamed, "YOU SUCK!" in a strained yelp that stretched the range of his vocal cords. The object of his succinct derision was Milwaukee left fielder Isaac Collins, who was patrolling the grassy area right in front of us, but on the lower ground level. For the entire inning, for as long as it took Phillies offense to rack up three outs, this guy screamed and hollered and shrieked and wailed some of the meanest and degrading insults at Collins. He yelled about his fielding ability (or lack thereof). He yelled about not belonging in the big leagues, adding that he wasn't even good enough for a Triple A minor league squad. He even yelled when Collins took his cap off to wipe his forehead, advising him to "PUT YOUR CAP BACK ON! IT ISN'T HELPING!"... whatever that meant. When Trea Turner popped out for the final Phillies' out of the eighth inning, the yelling guy ambled back up the steps, gripping a can of Surfside in one hand and fumbling with the bannister with the other. He muttered, "Collins is a BIG NERD!" to no one in particular and he navigated the steep stairs. Once he disappeared from sight, the few folks who remained in our once-packed section, looked around to silently acknowledge the absurdly of this guy and his relentless heckling. I broke the ice, commenting aloud (as one does at a ballgame) that this guy was yelling at a player several hundred feet away, in a outdoor stadium filled with ambient noise and loud music... not to mention that the home team was down by fifteen runs. 

The top of ninth inning saw Phillies' utility man Weston Wilson try his hand at pitching, handily handing the Brew Crew three outs while only giving up a single along the way. When the Brewers' players took to the field to defend their lead and allow the home team one slim opportunity to even up the score, the yelling guy also retuned to his post at the foot of our section. Before play started, the yelling guy addressed my son and me. "You're gonna help me yell at Collins, right guys?," he asked, swigging his Surfside while he waited for an answer. "Sure, we will," we replied with a laugh. "I hate this fuckin' guy.," he said, "He stinks! He shouldn't even be in the Majors!" Without waiting for further comment from us, he turned his head toward the field and screamed, "YOU SUCK, IKE COLLINS!"  Considering how much Isaac Collins is, apparently, hated by the yelling guy, he has given him a palsy-walsy nickname that I cannot confirm has ever been previously applied to the 27-year old outfielder.

The Philles kicked off their half of the ninth inning with a promising flurry of hits and runs, although they came up a dozen runs too short. However, our yelling friend made up for it in spades. For the duration of the bottom of the ninth, the yelling guy's voice cracked repeatedly as he hurled insult after repeated insult at Isaac Collins. Collins, however, appeared unfettered — a reaction that only angered the yelling guy more. His voice grew hoarse, but his mission remained strong. The yelling guy's commentary noted every move Collins made — every shift of his weight, every scratch of his ass, every adjustment of his cap and of his cup, every tug on the laces of his glove. Nothing was spared. The yelling guy yelled and he wouldn't be done yelling until Isaac Collins was out of the Brewers' line-up and on a bus headed back to Maple Grove, Minnesota (population 70,000), never to darken the doors of a Major League Baseball dugout for the rest of the yelling guy's alcohol-sotted life.

With the disappointing final score displayed on multiple scoreboards around the perimeter of the ballpark, fans began gathering their belongings with plans to head for the exits. The yelling guy offered up an open palm for a celebratory "high five," which I uncharacteristically — and reluctantly — completed. As far as "celebratory," may I remind you that the Phillies lost by an embarrassing ten runs.

I never heard of Issac Collins before this game. Granted, have not been familiar with the Milwaukee Brewers roster since the days of Paul Molitor and Robin Yount. A little research showed that Issac Collins was drafted by the Colorado Rockies in 2019. He played in several levels of the Rockies' farm system. He spent the 2023 season in the Brewers' minor leagues, landing there in a Rule 5 draft (look it up, it's kind of complicated), eventually making the big league roster at the end of the 2024 season. From the look of his stats, he just an average back-up fielder and an average hitter at the plate. It seems his biggest accomplishment is raising the ire of a drunken fan on an overcast Saturday in Philadelphia.

And he probably doesn't even know he achieved that.

www.joshpicusiscrying.com