sleeping with the television on

Ever since I was a little kid, I have had a wonderful relationship with television. I guess that's why I write about it so much. I love television. I love watching television. I love talking about television. I love reading about television. My parents weren't the type of parents who referred to television as "the boob tube." They never accused television of poisoning my young and impressionable mind. They never restricted my television watching. Hell, they watched nearly as much television as I did. 

I had some friends growing up whose parents insisted that a certain amount of educational programming be watched to counteract the mindless crap that dementated the children's viewing choice. I remember skipping right over the public television affiliate on my way to the channels that showed cartoons or game shows or silly sitcom. In junior high, I discovered Monty Python's Flying Circus which was the only time my family's television ever stopped on PBS for more that just a few seconds. Yes sir, my television watching consisted of some of the dumbest, lamest, mindless selections ever to delight a child's short attention span.

I was lucky enough to marry someone who shares my love of television. We both watched a lot of the same shows when we were younger. Of course, there were shows that she watched and shows that I watched. Mrs. Pincus watched Here Come The Brides featuring dreamy Bobby Sherman and Emergency! featuring dreamy Randolph Mantooth. I watched Lancelot Link: Secret Chimp on Saturday mornings, a spy spoof with an all-monkey cast. Ten-year old Mrs. P would never — never! — waste her precious time watching even a minute of monkeys in trench coats. Nevertheless, we both loved shows like The Brady Bunch, Room 222 and That Girl. Years of watching The Love Boat gave us a skewed view of what taking a cruise would be like, something we wouldn't experience until years later. Mrs. P gained a vast knowledge of medical lingo from watching Medical Center and Marcus Welby (and of course, Chad Everett's and James Brolin's good looks didn't hurt). I, on the other hand, acquired no viable life skills from Yogi Bear. Well, maybe stealing pic-a-nic baskets.

I vaguely recall some of the shows my parents watched. My dad loved the gritty, street-smart adventures of  Kojak. My mom leaned towards the more sophisticated tales presented on Columbo. Both of my parents — my liberal, free-thinking mom and my narrow-minded bigoted dad — watched and enjoyed All in the Family. My mom got the joke and my dad thought he was watching a documentary.

I'm not sure when exactly it started, but, I will walk into a room in my house and  — if there's a television in it — I turn the television on before I turn a light on. As a matter of fact, I cannot go to sleep unless the television is on. That's right. When Mrs. P and I decide to call it a night (which, by the way, gets earlier and earlier as the years go on), we fluff up the pillows, pull up the blankets and turn on the television. Not necessarily in that order. Actually, the television goes on first. Then the pillow and blanket prep. Then, the light goes out and our bedroom is bathed in the warm, comforting glow of my old pal television. I slowly (or quickly) slip into dreamland, lulled there by the calming tones of James Arness wielding his frontier justice on a 60-year old episode of Gunsmoke followed by Dale Robertson keeping things on the up-and-up on an even older installment of Tales of Wells Fargo (later knows as Tales of Xfinity Mobile ....that's a joke that only Philadelphians will get). While I am approaching the REM portion of my nighttime slumber, light-sleeper Mrs. Pincus switches channels to Storage Wars or something more recent, before switching back to an old Western. She just likes to know her options. Changing channels doesn't bother me. The TV going off — that's a problem!

Even though I am asleep, I know when the television goes off. Although my eyes are closed and I am deep into the third or fourth stage of shut-eye, I can sense when the room is immersed in total blackness... and that awakens me immediately. I don't know why. I don't know how. It just does.

The good folks at Xfinity, our cable provider (where — apparently — the WIFI is booming), regularly — and remotely — resets our cable box. Two or three times a week, at around two or three o'clock in the morning, Xfinity flashes a warning on our television screen informing my sound-asleep wife and me that our cable box needs a little routine maintenance. Then... BOOM... the TV goes off for a good long time. I don't know how long, but it's long. Long enough to wake me up. Through my thin eyelids, I suddenly realize that the TV is off. I shoot up in bed and fumble for my glasses so I can get a clear view of  this my TV screen...

It stays there for a while. Mocking me, keeping me awake, Withholding my nighttime viewing (or listening) schedule and holding me hostage. Those three little dots flicker. And flicker. And flicker. Well, now I'm really awake. I check my phone lying by my bedside for the time. I check it again. I try to go back to sleep. I close my eyes, but I know that the room is still dark. I know that glow is just the screen with the flickering dots. I open my eyes and turn my head only to see those dots. My frustration increases.

Then, suddenly, my TV screen is ablaze with horses and cowboys and a black & white episode of Laramie. 

Finally, I can get some sleep.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

I love a man in uniform

I love old television shows, especially the ones from my youth. But you already knew that. Actually, I don't love all old TV shows. There are a few (quite a few, as a matter of fact) that I don't like. Three of them, coincidentally, have military premises... and I don't like any of them.

In 1962, the anthology series Alcoa Premiere presented a one-hour drama called "Seven Against the Sea." The show featured Academy Award-winning actor Ernest Borgnine as a beleaguered US Navy Captain dealing with the trials and tribulations of World War II. The character Borgnine played was "Quintin McHale." Someone at the ABC Network got the bright idea to spin the show off into a weekly series and.... make it a comedy... and McHale's Navy was born. All new supporting characters were created except for "Christy" who appeared in the drama (played by Gary Vinson) and was carried over to the series. The show presented the crew of the PT-73 under the command of McHale, whose pursuit is to goldbrick and profit off the war effort. Borgnine was not known for playing comedy. He mostly appeared in films as despicable villains, although he was awarded his Oscar for his tender portrayal of shy Bronx butcher "Marty Pilletti" in Marty. But broad comedy was not his forte... and it showed. Borgnine delivered his lines with stammering confusion. Luckily, he was professional enough to let the real comedians handle (what passed for) comedy in the show. Veteran comedic actors like Tim Conway, Billy Sands, Carl Ballantine and the irascible Joe Flynn did the heavy lifting for Borgnine while he did double-take after poorly-executed double-take and mugged for the camera in wide-eyed bewilderment. The show ran for four seasons, including the final season set in a liberated town in Southern Italy featuring another comedy heavyweight, Vito Scotti. I suppose ABC felt they could sustain the show and cover up Borgnine's lack of comedy chops by hiring real comic performers to act funny around him. It worked, I guess. The show was pretty popular in first run and perennial reruns. According to Borgnine's wonderful autobiography, McHale's Navy was the cause of his marriage to singer Ethel Merman to end. Borgnine explained that they wed at the height of McHale's Navy's popularity. He was far more recognizable than his movie star/Broadway star wife and she couldn't deal with someone being more popular. Their marriage lasted 42 days.

McHale's Navy has enjoyed a long and prosperous run in syndication and is currently shown on the Antenna TV nostalgia network. I like the theme song, but I change the channel when it ends. The series spawned a 1997 unnecessary big-screen remake that featured Tom Arnold as Quinton Jr., Tim Curry as the Russian villain and... of course...  Ernest Borgnine in a cameo.

There's a scene in the 2002 biopic Auto Focus that sums up the incredulous premise of Hogan's Heroes very succinctly. It depicts actor Bob Crane (as played by Greg Kinnear) being pitched the idea for the comedy by a network executive (played by Ed Begley Jr.). As the executive eagerly explain the setting as a POW camp in World War II Germany, Crane — with eyes wide and mouth agape — interrupts several times to confirm that this is, indeed, a comedy about Nazis. A comedy. About Nazis. I have watched Hogan's Heroes and, much like McHale's Navy, the show is supplemented with real comic actors to make up for the shortcomings of the lead. For me, Hogan's Heroes is hard to watch for a few reasons — Nazis notwithstanding. Knowing what I know now about Bob Crane, I have an unpleasant mental picture that I just can't shake. Little did we know that his trademark knowing looks to the camera held a much, much creepier meaning than just his outsmarting the inept Colonel Klink. I liked the supporting cast, specifically the long parade of Jewish actors consciously portraying Nazis as halfwit buffoons. But the overall tone of the show was tedious, repetitive and, for me, difficult to swallow. 

Two episodes of Hogan's Heroes air nightly on the MeTV network. I rarely watch.

I love The Andy Griffith Show. I've seen every episode of its 8-season run countless times. I liked most of the characters and the folksy sentiment of the series. Jim Nabors joined the cast as slow-witted, annoying, meddling "Gomer Pyle" in season 3 as a recurring character. I disliked that character almost immediately. Gomer stuck around in a smattering of episodes in season 4, with the final episode of that season serving as a pilot for a new series starring Nabors. His "Gomer" character enlisted in the US Marines. At the heated peak of the Vietnam War and with no consideration for America's feelings at the time, CBS network executives thought this was a good idea. The show made no mention of war during its entire 5-season run. Instead Gomer and his colleagues participated in "maneuvers" and "drills" and "exercises," never "battle." Most episodes focused mostly on simple-minded country boy Gomer and his many conflicts with the insufferable, one-dimensional "Sergeant Carter," as played by the insufferable, one-dimensional Frank Sutton. (Frank Sutton always looked as though he regretted being talked into taking this role.) This show was a mess. Not even brief appearances by Ron Howard, Frances Bavier and Andy Griffith himself reprising their Mayberry characters could salvage the hackneyed writing and poor acting of this ill-conceived series. I felt sorry for co-stars Ronnie Schell and a pre-That Girl Ted Bessell playing second fiddle to the hapless Jim Nabors and his totally implausible situations. If this was Full Metal Jacket, his entire platoon would have armed themselves with bars of soap wrapped in towels and beaten Gomer to a pulp every single night for five years. Unlike McHale's Navy, when I hear the opening chords of the Gomer Pyle theme, I race for the remote control as quickly as I can.

An episode of Gomer Pyle USMC airs Monday through Friday on MeTV, after a double dose of The Andy Griffith Show. Have at it, if that's your thing. It's not mine. 

There you have it. My opinion on the three 1960s-era military comedies. It may differ from your opinion of these shows... but it's my blog. We now return you to your regularly scheduled programming.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

say your piece and get out

"This post ain't gonna make some people too happy." – JPiC

Considering I am very familiar with their musical catalog, seen them over a dozen times and can name every member of the band – past and present – I would not really consider myself a fan of the Grateful Dead. My wife, however, is a fan. A true fan. A longtime fan. Based on that, I suppose my status could be best summed up as "DeadHead-in-law."

When I was in my record collecting heyday back in high school, I would often be found perusing the "cut-out" bins at the supermarket-sized Peaches Records, a now-defunct retailer near my Northeast Philadelphia home. "Cut Outs," for the uninformed, were records that had been dropped from the label's regular catalog for lagging sales. Their sleeves were punched with a hole or sometimes the cover of the jacket was clipped or notched to prevent the retailers from returning them to the label for reimbursement. These records were sold at a deep discount. I discovered some great finds in the cut-out bins, like the prog-rock classics Fox Trot and Nursery Cryme by Genesis, Tales of Mystery and Imagination, the debut effort by The Alan Parsons Project, Lodger, the final release in David Bowie's Berlin trilogy and Steal Your Face, a live recording by the Grateful Dead and the final release on Grateful Dead Records. I was not familiar with the majority of the Grateful Dead's musical output at the time, but I noticed that Side Three boasted "U.S. Blues" and I remembered that song from The Grateful Dead Movie, which I saw at a midnight showing that I'm still not sure why I attended. So, I bought the album for a mere four dollars, if I remember correctly. I took it home, listened it to once all the way through, listened to "U.S. Blues" a few more times and never played it again. It was boring, filled with seemingly endless meandering guitar sections and an aimless drum solo. At the time of this purchase, I was a fan of Jethro Tull, Pink Floyd, Queen and other popular "big rock bands." No one I knew was a fan of the Dead, save for a few older cousins who would follow the band to every performance across the country and were often the brunt of whispered disapproval by aunts and uncles. After one album, my Grateful Dead experience was quickly over, as I soon discovered the punk rock and new wave trends that were infiltrating modern music, leaving no room for 60s relics.... like the Grateful Dead.

In early 1982, a young lady came into the restaurant when I worked to earn art school tuition money. Little did I know, that – in two year's time – she would be my wife. Now, she was just a pretty girl with long hair that thought I was the most obnoxious person she ever met. (She actually told me that.) Well, after some lengthy "getting to know each other" time, we began dating. Future Mrs. P and I went to the movies and to dinner for the first month or so of our budding relationship. As nicer weather approached, so did the annual Grateful Dead Spring tour. I was not aware of such a perennial event, but to the DeadHead community, you could set your bong by it. My future spouse bought tickets to both shows scheduled for the Philadelphia Spectrum, one of which I would be attending – whether I liked it or not. I would be seeing my soon-to-be wife in her natural element.

The night of the show, we found our seats at the venue. I had been to the Spectrum – the preeminent concert facility in the city, that also served as the home of the Philadelphia Flyers and 76ers – many times before. The place was big and cavernous and more suited to hockey games than concerts. In previous visits, I had never been subjected to a crowd like the crowd at a Grateful Dead concert. The seats were packed with tie-dye clad throwbacks to a time that had – as far as I knew – become extinct decades ago. There were guys with beards like unkempt bird's nests tripping over their own feet as they staggered down the aisles. Young women in long batiked dresses, obviously heeding Scott McKenzie's plea of "be sure to wear flowers in your hair," despite the fact that we were on the opposite coast from San Francisco, swirled and twirled to music only heard in their own ears. The future Mrs. P introduced me to my future brother-in-law. He fit right in with his wild auburn hair, untrimmed beard and colorful T-shirt. The lights soon dimmed. The crowd roared and, after a minute or two of tuning, the band launched into "Jack Straw," their opening song. As the show progressed, I asked future Mrs. P the titles of the songs, since I was unfamiliar with the Grateful Dead canon. She was accommodating, whispering the titles to me so as not to disturb her fellow devotees. Twenty-five minutes later, I asked the name of the song the band was currently playing. Future Mrs. P leaned in and said "Same song." I gulped.

As the years went on, I went to many more Grateful Dead shows, including one where the same guy fell on my lap four times until my brother-in-law literally tossed him down the aisle. There was one where Mrs. P and I sat in seats behind the stage and noticed – halfway through the performance – that the entire section next to ours was asleep. I even saw a few Jerry Garcia solo shows, which were no great departure from a Dead show, right down to the song selection and audience members. Although I saw my fair share of Dead concerts, I still never became a fan. I didn't hate the band, they just never occupied a special place in my heart the way other bands did.

Jerry Garcia, the iconic leader of the Grateful Dead, passed away in 1995, leading most fans to believe that this signified the end of the "golden road" for the band. Sure, they had gone through several keyboardists (as famously parodied in This Is Spinal Tap), but the loss of Jerry had to be the death knell for the Grateful Dead.

It was not.

A three-year hiatus of uncertainty yielded something called "The Other Ones," a reforming of the surviving members of the Grateful Dead doing what they do best – performing Grateful Dead songs. This assemblage morphed into "The Dead," which begat "Furthur." In spite of a grandiose "farewell" tour in 2015, the current incarnation of what was once "The Grateful Dead" still tours and performs regularly as "Dead & Company," comprised of aging original members and supplemental younger blood. Former bass player Phil Lesh tours independently from his one-time band mates, but has no problem including the same songs on his set list.

Although I am not a fan, I recognize this as a poignant epilogue to The Grateful Dead story. Once mighty in their stature as a pioneering, influential and respected contributor to the history of rock music, they have evolved into a cover band – sadly covering themselves.

Honestly, what else are they supposed to do? Although most of the faithful don't seem to mind.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

brothers in arms

One of my favorite shows has always been "Leave It To Beaver." Although the show debuted before I was born and completed its six-season run when I was 2, I happily watched it in reruns on local channels, decades before the Nick-at-Nite concept was hatched. The show was pitched as a warm family comedy, offering a glimpse into the problems faced by kids, followed by gentle lessons in parenting. Its goal was light humor, regularly shunning the broad slapstick of "I Love Lucy." According to co-star Tony Dow: "If any line got too much of a laugh, they'd take it out. They didn't want a big laugh; they wanted chuckles."

Lumpy, Eddie and Wally.

The one thing that always intrigued me about "Leave It To Beaver," was how the conflict was created in each episode. Most of the time, it followed the same formula. You see, Beaver (played by Jerry Mathers) and his big brother Wally (played by Tony Dow) were pretty good kids. They were polite, well mannered and respectful. However, their judgement was questionable. Specifically, their choice of friends. Both Beaver and Wally had friends who were total assholes. Every one of them. They were a pack of lying, conniving, two-faced con artists whose main goal in life was to make life miserable for the Cleaver brothers. Most famously, there was Eddie Haskell, Wally's slimy "best friend" played with oily creepiness by future LA police officer Ken Osmond. Eddie was always sucking up to Mr. and Mrs. Cleaver, only to mock them behind their backs. Then, he would invariably steer good-hearted Wally in the wrong direction when tapped for advice. Eddie would routinely convince Wally to hide a dent in the family car, to doctor a low grade on a test or to forge his father's signature on an important document. For some reason, perhaps as a testament of his loyalty to an undeserving friend, Wally would follow Eddie's direction and get himself in a bigger predicament that could have been avoided if he had only not listened to Eddie. By the episode's end, a humbled Wally would have to swallow his pride and own up to his actions, only to be forgiven by his dad, though Eddie Haskell's ass would remained unkicked. Wally's other friend, Lumpy (played by the late Frank Bank) was a typical, knuckle-headed dope who would jump off a bridge if Eddie Haskell told him to. Yet, Wally, a bright, popular, good-looking young man, somehow let his insecurities get the better of him and heeded every underhanded suggestion from Eddie and Lumpy, those sneaky bastards. Wally always forgave them for their bad advice and still came back for more.

Beaver, Gilbert, Whitey.... and Larry.

Beaver was also a victim of his lousy friends' double-dealing actions. Beaver's pals rivaled Wally's in every shifty and despicable way. Larry Mondello, Beaver's idiotic acquaintance was a sloth-like, slow-witted moron who led Beaver astray at the same rate that he stole apples from the Cleaver kitchen. This character was written out of the show in the third season when actor Rusty Stevens moved out of the Los Angeles area. His position as a bad influence was taken by Gilbert and Whitey, two minor characters that were given bigger roles. Gilbert and Whitey were just as weaselly and scheming as the departed Larry, repeatedly leading a naive and trusting Beaver down the primrose path. It was Whitey who famously dared Beaver to check if a giant steaming bowl on a billboard really contained soup. Instead of telling Whitey to find out for himself, Beaver climbed up a ladder, fell into the bowl and... well, it wasn't good. Parents were called, Beaver got in trouble and Whitey, that backstabbing little shit, got off scot-free. And Beaver still hung out with him and continued to take his advice. Gilbert convinced Beaver to make a funny face in a school picture, promising that he would as well. Of course, Beaver made a face and Gilbert didn't. Beaver got reprimanded and, as usual, Gilbert concocted some excuse that made it look like it was Beaver's idea from the start. And poor Beaver clammed up so as not to rat out his friend.

In addition to getting Wally and Beaver into trouble, these so-called friends were always borrowing money and toys and comic books and sporting equipment from the Cleaver boys. They mooched dinners by taking advantage of Mrs. Cleaver's hospitality. In the case of Wally, they moved in on girlfriends. In Beaver's case, they taunted him for having a girlfriend. These "friends" had no redeeming qualities whatsoever. So why did Wally and Beaver keep them around? There wouldn't have been a show otherwise. And that's what makes television television.

Don't worry Wally, I won't ever let you down.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

hello darkness, my old friend

Uh-oh. Here we go again. How, after so long, did I end up here? Well...

My wife has always enjoyed visiting Atlantic City, the famous Jersey shore resort. When casino gambling was introduced, Mrs. P found another reason to drive the 90 minutes from Philadelphia. She enjoyed playing slot machines. I don't know if it was the flashing lights or the cute characters that decorated the spinning reels or the cha-CHING! of coins, but something about those so-called "one-armed bandits" held her attention. I wasn't particularly worried about her frequent trips to Atlantic City. We were able to meet our financial obligations, so that wasn't an issue. But soon, the casinos, Harrah's in particular, began offering an assortment of gifts for frequent players. Gifts like small kitchen appliances, costume jewelry, Harrah's branded clothing and accessories — all for just showing up at an appointed time and presenting a voucher. She began receiving two or three pieces of promotional mail from Harrah's every day, including offers for show tickets and discounted — then, eventually free — buffets. On weekends, when I could accompany my wife on a trip to Atlantic City, I'd stand by her side and watch as she'd blow through the "free slot play" that Harrah's used to entice her to the casino, followed by a few hundred of her own money. Sometimes she'd come out ahead and sometimes she wouldn't. We'd cap our visit off with a complementary meal at Harrah's bountiful buffet, then head home.

In 2009, Mrs. P and I celebrated our twenty-fifth wedding anniversary in Las Vegas. This trip had been in the planning stages for a while and we let friends and family know the dates, hoping some would join us in our celebration. Seventeen members of our collective families met us in Sin City for a pre-planned dinner at the lovely Mon Ami Gabi at the Paris Resort, overlooking the always-interesting Vegas Strip. When we first arrived in Vegas, we checked in at the Camelot-themed Excalibur Hotel, our pre-booked accommodations for the week. My wife and son signed up for Excalibur's Slot Player Club and each received personalized cards on the spot. These cards, when inserted into a selected slot machine, track a players activity and reward various levels of comps based on play. After a week of intense tourist-y stuff and a significant amount of slot machine play, we were ready wrap up our vacation and head to the airport, Mrs. P inquired about accumulated comps at the Slot Player Club customer service desk. The helpful woman behind the counter scanned my wife's card and her eyes lit up at the results glowing on the computer monitor before her. She instructed us to go to VIP Services when we were ready to check out. We skirted the line at the hotel front desk, swarming with angry masses of guests, and passed through a set of gold-trimmed glass doors. Once inside, the sound from the lobby and  near-by casino was blotted out by lilting classical piano. The floor was covered with sparkling white carpet and several plush, upholstered chairs invited VIPs to rest until their name was called. We took a seat and soon, a tuxedoed man beckoned my wife to the counter with a graceful wave. The Pincus family approached and Mrs. P handed over her slot club card. The man nodded, smiled and swiped the card across the card reader. His monitor lit up and he examined the results, noting each line with an index finger. A printer spit out a single sheet of paper. The man made a few notations on the paper and drew a large circle at the bottom. He handed it to my wife with a gracious "Thank you." We looked at the bill. He had circled the grand total. And that total was "$0.00." A week's hotel stay, meals, snacks and a couple of drinks at a hotel bar. Zero. Nada. Nothing. My wife and I exchanged glances, then looked at the man in the tux. "Is this correct?," we said, nearly simultaneously. 

"Oh yes," he replied, "based on your play."

I turned to my wife and whispered, "How much did you play?"

"A lot.," she said plainly.

Just for kicks, my son passed his card to the man and asked if he had any comps available. The man scanned his card and laughed. He handed my son a voucher and said, "Here. Take your parents out for breakfast."

Astonished, my son asked, "Is this from the points on my card?" The man just smiled and winked.

And that's pretty much where it started. We returned home and Mrs. P continued her regular visits to the casinos in Atlantic City. The more she played, the more we benefited. Soon, Mrs. P's casino activity warranted her very own "casino hostess." This is sort-of a personal concierge, able to quickly arrange and confirm spur-of the-moment hotel reservations and secure show tickets — even for sold-out events. We received free tickets for Penn & Teller, B.B. King, Don Rickles and Tony Bennett. We had countless buffets for which we were comped. We had numerous multi-night stays at Harrah's, with all of our meals included. We were flown to several other Harrah's properties across the country, including Laughlin, Nevada, New Orleans, Louisiana and Tunica, Mississippi, where we enjoyed the same VIP treatment we received in Atlantic City. We were offered free cruises, which we happily took and enjoyed. We were riding high and reaping the benefits. Until one day, it stopped. 

I asked my wife if she could call her casino hostess and get tickets for an upcoming show. Mrs. P called and left a message. No reply. She left another message. No reply. The hostess was unresponsive for weeks. The concert I wanted to see came and went. We got the hint — loud and clear. Granted, my wife's visits to Harrah's had sort-of tapered off, but we were cut off. Cold turkey, as though we were the black sheep family member in a dying rich uncle's will.

It was fine. We moved on. Mrs. P satisfied her slot machine cravings with a few apps that she downloaded to her cellphone. Otherwise, casinos were no longer a part of our lives, save for the week-long cruises were were still awarded based on casino activity on previous cruises. But, we were done with casinos. Or, rather, they were done with us.

In the time that passed since we last visited Harrah's in Atlantic City, five — count 'em five — casinos have shut their doors permanently. The casino business in Atlantic City was obviously suffering from outside competition. New casinos have opened in Pennsylvania, Delaware, Connecticut, Maryland and New York — all of the places from which Atlantic City drew its client base, So, someone somewhere in the Marketing Analytics Department at Harrah's decided to re-assess their strategies, because, suddenly, Mrs. P was back in Harrah's good graces. She received a multi-page schedule in the mail, highlighting numerous offers tailored specifically for her. It was just like the good old days. Commencing on July 1, there were free gifts and free slot play and free hotel stays and free buffets. And, there we were on July 1, front and center. We are determined to milk this thing for as long as we can. Mrs. P will accept the free gifts and play the slots only on their promotional money, She won't put a dime of her own funds into a slot machine. We booked a weekend in July and will use our free buffets then. Also, that weekend, we will receive a voucher for another free cruise. Of course, all of Mrs. P's casino activity will be tracked and documented. And they must know that Mrs. P has not given them a dime of her own money.

So, we fully expected to be cut off by August, but Harrah's sent a calendar full of offers for September. Who knows how long we can keep this going?

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

my melancholy blues

Not Queen.

I loved Queen, the rock band that shook up radio playlists in 1974 with unique instrumentation and elaborate harmonies on their hit Killer Queen, brought opera to the mainstream, followed it up by reviving the rockabilly genre, then made a left toward funk and disco. Not bad for an art student, an astrophysicist, a dental student and an electronics engineer who stumbled into super stardom.

I saw Queen several times when I was in high school, at the height of adoration for the band. In 1977, I caught one of the coveted carnations tossed to the audience by charismatic front man Freddie Mercury during the encore of the band's Philadelphia date on the News of the World tour. I took my soon-to-be wife and my mother (um, those are two separate people) to see what would be Queen's final US tour in 1982. My mom, a long-time Queen fan experiencing her first concert, was brought to emotional tears. My almost-wife, an unwavering Dead Head, was also brought to tears — but for different reasons.

Freddie Mercury had kept his AIDS diagnosis a secret until the day before his passing in 1991. In Spring 1992, a crowd of 72,000 mourning fans packed London's Wembley Stadium for a star-studded show honoring the late singer. It was the last time the surviving members — guitarist Brian May, drummer Roger Taylor and bassist John Deacon — would perform together onstage. 

Deacon has since retired from the music business to a very non-public life, however Taylor and May have attempted to rekindle the magic of Queen's halcyon days. With May at the forefront, they recruited one-time Free and Bad Company vocalist Paul Rogers to fill Freddie Mercury's shoes (or ballet slippers, in this case). While Rogers' husky voice is typical "rock & roll," it is hardly in the same ball park as Mercury's five octave range. But that didn't deter Brian May from cashing in on the Queen legacy sans Freddie. He latched on to American Idol runner-up Adam Lambert to take on Freddie's vocal acrobatics, touting the young singer with the cringe-inducing blessing: "Freddie would have approved." (I commented at length on my current feelings for Mr. May nearly three years ago.) Needless to say, as far as I am concerned, there is no longer a band called "Queen," nor will there ever be.

Around the time that Mercury and company were telling the world that they were the champions, Broadway was alight with a show called Beatlemania. This multimedia production, billed as "not the Beatles but an incredible simulation," was a meticulous recreation of musical moments from the illustrious career of the Fab Four. It was an exciting and, for the time, unique undertaking, as well as a treat for those who had never seen the Beatles in concert (which was many, since the Beatles ceased live concerts in 1966). The four members of the cast talked like the Beatles, dressed like the Beatles, moved like the Beatles and, yes, sang like the Beatles. It was spectacular, if not a bit eerie. The production, which ran for over 1000 performances, spawned a new show business phenomena — the tribute band.

When I was younger, my friends and I would frequent any number of dive bars in our area. Besides cheap beer, these places would feature a band offering their interpretations of the hits of the day. In addition, some bands would do an entire set of the songs of one band. There was Witness, who did a Jethro Tull set.  There was the all-girl band Rapture, giving their best approximation of Blondie and, of course, local legends Crystal Ship famous for their Doors show. (Crystal Ship are famously mocked by The Dead Milkmen in the spoken intro of their song "Bitchin' Camaro.") These were just a bunch of guys playing songs by their favorite popular bands. But, more recently, tribute bands are big business. They tour regularly and get themselves booked into larger venues. Some even are officially sanctioned by the band to which they offer tribute. With clever (?) names like The Musical Box (a Genesis tribute), Strutter (a KISS tribute) and The Iron Maidens (an all-female tribute to guess who?) and some not-so-clever names like Australian Pink Floyd and 2U, these bands draw a loyal following of both the tribute and actual band.

Yesterday, my wife called me at work to tell me that her cousins Diahann and Heath (remember them?) were offering us tickets to see a Queen tribute show at The Borgata in Atlantic City. Mrs. P would pick me up near my office after work and we'd drive to the shore for dinner (again, complements of Diahann and Heath) before heading to the show. I did a quick Google search for this particular Queen tribute and discovered an officially endorsed tribute called "The Queen Extravaganza" starring one Marc Martell. The project, produced by Queen drummer Roger Taylor, was described as "much-buzzed-about" and has received much praise. Martell was commended as sounding "as if Freddie (Mercury) was in the room." However, further investigation revealed that the show we would be seeing was not that show. It appears that Mr. Martell has split with the official version, and taken his own rogue band in a similar direction, calling themselves "The Ultimate Queen Celebration." Ultimate, indeed.

After dinner, we entered the sparsely-populated venue a few minutes before showtime and were ushered to our eighth row seats. Mrs. P and I glanced around the room and assessed that the majority of the crowd had at least ten years on us... or perhaps they had all just led hard lives. Soon the lights dimmed and stage smoke enveloped the racked guitars and drum kit. In the dark, a man in our row screamed at the top of his nicotine-roughened voice: "Freddie's in the house!" Mrs. P and I exchanged surprised looks and Mrs. P whispered, "These people think they're at a Queen concert." On second thought, she may not have said "people." She may have said "idiots." Other folks were screaming wildly, bopping their heads and throwing up the "devil horns" (The same ones that KISS's Gene Simmons wants to trademark). The band members emerged from the violet-lit smoke, strapped on their instruments and launched into "Tie Your Mother Down," the lead-off track from Queen's 1976 effort A Day at the Races. Marc Martell, the alleged second coming of Freddie Mercury, stepped to the front of the stage and belted out the song's opening lines: 

"Get your party gown
Get your pigtail down
Get your heart beatin' baby" 

Was he good? He was okay. Was he Freddie Mercury? Not. Even. Close. Bud.

They were a cover band. A band doing other band's songs. Mr. Martell was making a half-hearted attempt at imitating some of Freddie Mercury's signature stage moves, while incorporating some of his own gestures. (Having seen the real Queen, I am very familiar with Freddie's faux ballet, stiff-finger punches in the air and microphone balancing.) The band was average, with the lead guitarist copying Brian May's well-known solos, but not his expression. Actually, he looked as though he had better things to do.

They delivered song after song, feigning excitement with each one. I physically winced at the opening strains of Sheer Heart Attack's "Now I'm Here," one of my favorite songs in the Queen canon. 

Not Queen.

Each new number — "Killer Queen," "Save Me," "Love of My Life," "Play the Game" — merely served as a sad reminder of how good Queen was. I silently reminisced about how much I once loved this band and how I still smile when I hear one of their hits and what a welcome shot of nostalgia it is to hear one of their more obscure songs. But, by Queen — not a cover band. Freddie Mercury oozed a certain amount of arrogance and pomposity, but it was earned. He was beloved by fans worldwide. When he greeted a local audience with "Hello Filthy-delphia! How are you motherfuckers?," it was received with reverence and esteem — especially when it was intoned with his upper-crust British accent. When Marc Martell, with the tiniest bit of smugness, shouted: "How are we, New Jersey?," it was met with a smattering of light applause. This was Queen karaoke by some guys playing rock & roll dress-up.

After a while, I was embarrassed. For the band and for the audience.

I don't know what would have made it better. Would I have appreciated it more if it was closer to Beatlemania, with the band members actually dressing like and imitating the members of Queen? I really don't know. I think that would have made it too close to the stage show We Will Rock You, the Ben Elton-penned Queen musical in the Mamma Mia vein. My son and I saw this ill-conceived debacle in Las Vegas and I hated it. I mean I really hated it. So, I don't know.

Was "The Ultimate Queen Celebration." an interesting evening? Oh sure. Hey, I got a blog post out of it. It also made me want to listen to my old Queen albums — something I haven't done in, literally, years.

The band wasn't bad. The performance wasn't horrible. But, most importantly, it wasn't Queen.

This is:

Queen.

Look, Diahann, I didn't even mention the pretzels.

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

that's entertainment

Television is not evil, no matter what George Orwell or anybody says. I grew up watching television and I grew up loving television and I turned out okay.

We had a big black & white TV set in our den that my family gathered around to watch programs like Bewitched, The Flintstones and my parents' favorite, Gunsmoke. On Sunday evenings, like most Americans, we'd watch The Ed Sullivan Show. On Saturday mornings, I'd plop down on the floor with a big bowl of Froot Loops and watch cartoons. Later in the afternoon, my brother would commandeer the set to watch wresting, so I'd just go upstairs to our shared bedroom and watch the smaller television that we shared as well. We had televisions all over the house!

When I was in 9th grade, my mom won a color television in a sales contest at her job. This pleased and excited the whole family, especially my father, who was relieved of the thought of shelling out a portion of his hard-earned salary for a new TV. A color television opened up a whole new world. We marveled at Jeannie's Arabian costume in its full, hot pink glory. We "oohed" and "ahhed" at Lucy's bright red hair. And, during the annual showing of The Wizard of Oz, when Dorothy opened her front door after the twister set her down, the beauty of Oz finally made sense. (Before this, Oz looked a lot like Kansas.)

In the early 1980s, home entertainment took on a new dimension. My parents broke down and bought a VCR, the first piece of advanced modern technology that my father purchased since buying a car with an automatic transmission. Now, we were in full control of what the Pincuses would watch and when we would watch it. We recorded shows and watched them at our convenience. We could fast-forward through annoying commercials and rewind to hear dialog we may have missed. Plus, we could rent and watch theatrical movies (including pornography that my father would sneak in when the house was empty). This was the future and it was happening right now! 

When my wife and I bought a house in the suburbs of Philadelphia, our first order of business was arranging for cable television service. In 1986, cable was not available within the city limits, despite its abundance in the suburbs for over a decade. As movers carted boxes, bureaus and beds into our new home, a technician ran wires and tightened connections to bring us the likes of MTV and the debut of QVC. We also purchased a giant, state-of-the-art VCR, complete with an imposing, multi-button remote control, most of which we never used (or understood).

As the years went on, we supplemented our two televisions with several more, including a TV/VCR combination for our son's room, a 13" TV that nestled next to the printer in my wife's third floor office and a huge, 32" monster — with the enormous, ass-end of the picture tube protruding from the back like the posterior of a hippopotamus — for our newly-renovated basement. That thing weighed a fucking ton and has not moved since the day it was set upon its stand. And that's how the entertainment status remained for years in the Pincus household.

Until recently.

My (much younger) co-workers always joke with me about my television-watching habits. When I start to tell them about movie I saw on TV, they immediately interrupt, asking if it was in color. When asked if I own a flat-screen, high-definition television, I reply, "What's the point? Everything I watch is in black & white and everyone in the cast is dead." But, in an effort to reduce our outrageously high cable bill, my wife called our "pals" at Comcast for a little chat. After a few minutes of automated answering and rerouting of our call, Mrs. P finally got to talk with a real live person. he explained — in perfect nonsensical Comcast logic — that our bill could be lowered if we upgrade our service to their signature X1 platform. Upgrade service to lower the bill? Typical Comcast. Nevertheless, we agreed and after a few service and equipment replacements (and mishaps), we were up and running with the entertainment miracle that is X1. 

The first thing we noticed was that the new cable boxes were automatically switching, whether we liked it or not,  to high-definition (HD) channels. We do not own HD compatible televisions. We still had our our old reliable, giant-backed, picture tube-equipped models — and those tubes were displaying a very blurry picture. So, here we were with brand-spankin' new service paired up with our stone-age TVs. There was only one thing to do. We bought a 43" LG HD flat-screen smart TV for our den and a 32" Samsung version for our bedroom.

Oh. My. God.

43" baby!

I don't know how I manage to leave the house. It's a TV watcher's dream. Bright, vivid colors. Clear, crisp images that are so real you can count the blades of grass on a baseball field, see the few hairs that are left on Matt Lauer's head and examine every pore and imperfection on everyone's face. (Proactiv commercials are the best... I mean the worst!) Not only that, but the new system allows you to stop and rewind live broadcasts. You can start an already in-progress show from the beginning. And, best of all, you can talk to the remote! That's right! Just like the Jetsons! (The Jetsons was a cartoon in the 1960s that..... oh, never mind!) Just push the little "microphone" button and say "Watch Channel 6" and it goes to channel 6. (Actually, it goes to channel 806, the HD version of our local ABC affiliate. It's that smart!) You can also tell the remote to find specific shows by name. This is pretty cool, although as a 55 year-old man, I feel weird asking the remote to watch iCarly. (I think the show is funny. Go fuck yourself.) The system has an expanded and extensive channel guide featuring actors' bios and related viewing, as well as a cool "last channel watched" feature that logs the previous eight channels that were viewed, even from the last time the TV was turned off. It is truly a marvel of entertainment and technology. (This from someone who was instantly fascinated by the now-obsolete fax machine.)

And The Andy Griffith Show never looked better.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

don't stand so close to me

I went to see my friend Sly's band play at a small venue in the nuevo-hip Philadelphia neighborhood of Fishtown on Monday night. Rock shows on Monday nights don't draw a lot of people. That is a fact and there is no getting around it.

I scored the perfect – and I mean perfect! – parking space directly across the street from the club. I ran over to the sidewalk where I admired my car sitting in said perfect space, while I sent a text to Lis (another friend I had planned to meet at the show) to let him know I was waiting outside. Just as I hit "SEND" on my phone, Lis turned the corner and greeted me. I heard his phone signal a message and I told him to just ignore it because that message was from me.

We paid our admission and walked into the club a few minutes before the first band was scheduled to take the stage. There were three or four other people inside, including the bartender. I understand that this particular club has a reputation for starting shows late, but I doubted that the crowd (could it even qualify as a crowd?)  would double or triple in a few more minutes.

Lis and I hung back at the bar which is, more or less, a separate room from the performance area. From the bar, you can see the stage, but there is a distinct separation delineated by a wide threshold and a long, narrow step. The performance area is also distinguished by its darkened, "mood-lit" atmosphere.

The opening band (of a card of four) finally began to tune-up. It was one guy behind a small drum kit and another on guitar. And they were horrible. No... I take that back. They were loud and horrible. Lis and I were easily forty feet away from the stage, in, essentially, another room, and we could not hear a word the other was saying. I looked towards the stage and I saw two silhouetted figures pushed against a wall watching the band. The rest of the stage area was empty and that's not an exaggeration.

Empty.

The next band wasn't any better, although I believe they were louder, as I had an even harder time hearing Lis during our conversation. Also, the size of the crowd (crowd?) had not increased over the course of the first band's set.

The headlining band for the evening's show was Split Squad, a so-called "supergroup" comprised of members of such seminal rock acts as The Plimsouls, The Fleshtones and New Wave darlings (and Rock & Roll Hall of Fame inductees) Blondie. Sly's band was scheduled to go on just before the headliners. Now that the warm-up bands had finished, Lis and I made our way towards the small stage and watched as Sly and his bandmates set up and prepared their equipment.

With no formal introduction – aside from Sly screaming the band's name into his microphone – the set began. As the sound from Sly's mighty Hammond organ filled the tiny room, I actually counted the number of individuals gathered around the stage. I counted ten. A quick recount yielded the same result. Back at the bar, there may have been another ten folks. So, with ten people in the audience, needless to say, there was a lot of empty floor space in front of the stage. An awful lot.

"Got personal space?"
[Click to enlarge]

In the darkness, a couple of shadowy figures swayed and bopped to the music. A few people paced back and forth across the empty floor, some making their way to the bar, while others took their choice of open spots against one of the walls. Suddenly, a guy came up from a side flight of stairs into the area in front of the stage. He never took his gaze off of the band as he backed up and planted himself smack dab in front of Lis and me. I don't mean a few feet ahead. I mean close enough that I could see the frayed threads on the back of his collar. I could read the label stitched on the back pocket of his jeans. I could see the amount of product in his long hair, attempting to keep it flat against his neck. I could also see that it was Keith Streng, the energetic guitarist from Split Squad (as well as legendary garage rockers The Fleshtones). Based on past performances I have witnessed, Keith is a pretty frenetic guy onstage. He regularly executes high leg kicks, exaggerated shakes and whiplash-inducing neck shimmies. Many times during a show, with guitar in hand, he scales speakers and drum risers as a springboard to leaping several feet in the air, legs tucked beneath him, achieving impossible hang-time before a perfect landing on the heels of his pointed, two-tone Oxfords. But, now, here he was standing – literally – inches from the tips of my toes – grooving like he was in an empty room. And, save for a few people, he was.

As Shakespeare said, "Ah! There's the rub!"

Did I mention that the place was nearly empty? Well, it was. One could have plopped down on the floor and rolled around and not bumped into anyone. You could have marked out a game of hopscotch on the floor and played without interfering with anyone's personal space. With ten pins and a 16-pound ball, you could have fucking bowled in there and not infringed on anyone's good time. But, Keith chose the immediate spot, several inches in front of us, for his own personal "get down tonight." He pranced and bobbed and danced and gyrated. I was shocked that, in the dim light, he didn't step on my or Lis's feet.

Keith stayed in that spot for almost the entire thirty-minute set by Sly's band, only stealing away during the last song to prepare for his own set. I've often heard that musicians are living in their own little world. I guess Keith's little world is always packed to capacity.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

cry if you want to

In March 2013, when my son E. and I went to see our third concert by the indie cult band eels, we didn't know what to expect from the opening act that was mysteriously billed as "Puddles Pity Party." Last night, we were a bit more prepared... or so we thought.

Puddles Pity Party is a... well, I'm not sure what it is. It's sort of a multimedia "event" featuring Puddles, a six-foot-eight pancaked "sad clown with a golden voice." And what a voice he has! Powerful, commanding, gut-wrenching. But he only uses it for singing. Otherwise, he remains silent, expressing himself only with pantomime and sparse stage props.

The floor of the venerable Trocadero (or "The Troc," as it has been nicknamed by Philadelphia locals), an ornate one-time vaudeville theater, was arranged with tables and chairs as though the place had been booked for a wedding reception. E. and I grabbed seats at table up front and we chatted until showtime. When we saw Puddles Pity Party last time, he was an opening act and his short set could only accommodate five or so songs. We wondered what he would do, besides sing of course, to fill an hour. The house lights dimmed and our questions were about to be answered.

For the next 75 minutes, we witnessed a full spectrum of entertainment. The performance, dare I say spectacle, showcased shtick, karaoke, audience participation, slapstick comedy and singing. Singing the likes of which you have never heard. What a set of pipes on this guy! Between short, comical interactions with the audience, including serenades to a few with a personal message of "Happy Birthday," Puddles reclined across a makeshift set of stairs and prowled the massive stage, all while unleashing his rich multi-octave vocals to the joy and bewilderment of the crowd. Sure, the act is gimmicky and the entire concept is unusual, but there is no disputing the sheer beauty of Puddles' voice. He treated the audience to renditions of The Bee Gee's "I Started a Joke," Leonard Cohen's reverent "Hallelujah," and his interpretation of Lorde's "Royals," which has become an internet sensation. His heartfelt delivery of "My Heart Will Go On (The Love Theme from Titanic)" was inexplicably enhanced by a slideshow montage of scenes from Kevin Costner films. He even transitioned the song into a take on Metallica's "One." During his tearjerking cover of The Flat Duo Jets' "Lonely Guy," Puddles showered the front row with dozens of spent tissues, dampened with his own tears.

Perhaps "spectacle" isn't the right word. Maybe there just isn't a word to describe Puddles.

At the show's conclusion, the clown graciously posed for photos with each member of the audience. 

Those prone to bouts of coulrophobia, proceed at your own risk.

Here's little taste of Puddles... and that voice.

* * * * * UPDATE * * * * * 

Acknowledgement from the big man himself.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com