running with the devil

This morning, my wife and I drove down to our son's house in South Philadelphia to feed his cat while he is away this weekend. The route we took from our suburban home was straight down Broad Street. As we drove though the stretch of Broad Street that bisects the campus of the hospital of Temple University, I glanced out the window and saw something that caught my attention. Emerging from one of the many hospital buildings was a family — Mother, Father and two teenage daughters. What intrigued me was their appearance. From their clothing, it was quite obvious that they were Amish. Dad was wearing a royal blue button-down shirt and black pants with black suspenders looping over his shoulders. He sported a wide-brimmed straw hat atop his head. The three ladies — Mother and the two daughters — all wore similar dresses. They were long and all fashioned from a single pattern of cloth. They each wore a white apron tied around their waist and a white kerchief tied around their head. Dad stood on the pavement in front of the building and surveyed his surroundings. He looked as though he had been dropped out of an airplane blindfolded and had just removed the blindfold. He scratched his jaw as he turned his head from left to right and to left again. Then, he raised his head and considered the multi-story cement and steel structures that surrounded him and his brood. The three women cowered behind him. They appeared to be lost. To be honest (and based purely on their appearance) they would seem lost in most environments that did not feature at least one barn and several cows. Yes, I managed to take in and assess this situation from the passenger's seat in a car traveling in the neighborhood of thirty-five miles-per-hour. Okay.... maybe I embellished a little.

The whole scenario reminded me of a story that appeared on my illustration blog in 2011. It was a funny story when the incident actually occurred (in 1993) and it was a funny story when I wrote about it (and even illustrated it) years later. It's still a funny story...

My son and I experienced Niagara Falls for the first time at the same time. My wife, whose parents took their three children on numerous family vacations, saw the renowned natural spectacle in her youth. I went on my last furlough with my parents at the age of seven, and Atlantic City, New Jersey is severely lacking in the waterfall department. When I became a father, I was determined to travel with my own family as much as time and money would allow. They would need not be extravagant, cultural excursions — just good, old-fashioned family fun time. So, in the summer of 1993, the three-member Pincus family loaded our typically-domestic minivan with suitcases and snack foods and headed in the direction of our neighbors to the North. 

Niagara Falls, in all its majestic aqueous glory, is truly breathtaking. However, after staring at an enormous wall of furiously rushing water, one’s sensibilities tend to shift from awestruck to bored to “I really have to go to the bathroom.” The Niagara Falls Chamber of Commerce is obviously aware of this emotional phenomenon. That has to be the reason that one of the most glorious displays of natural wonder and beauty is surrounded by kitschy souvenir shops, wax museums, arcades, miniature golf courses, spook houses, fast-food joints and budget motels. The average traveler might be turned-off by such vulgarity but this was right up the Pincus family’s alley.

Once past the brief, yet friendly, interrogation by the international border patrol, we crossed the Rainbow Bridge at Niagara Falls, New York and entered its bright and sparkly Canadian namesake on the other side of the Niagara River. As our son E. peered out of the backseat windows at the flashing lights and colorful building facades of frantic Clifton Hill, Mrs. Pincus navigated our Plymouth Voyager to the Quality Inn that would be our accommodations for several midsummer nights. We pulled into the Victoria Avenue driveway of the Quality Inn and my wife let me out by the front office entrance to check in. The motel was standard, no-frills lodging consisting of a two-story, horseshoe-shaped structure encircling a small in-ground swimming pool surrounded by unassuming chaise lounges and enclosed by a chain-link fence. The rooms were nondescript and served their purpose in cleanliness, convenience and affordability. 

Our first evening included a search for restaurant food that didn’t contain meat — evidently, a fairly difficult task in Canada. Afterwards, we strolled Clifton Hill, its surreal promenade alight with exuberance that spilled out of every open door and into the streets. E. was amazed and excited and we capped the night with a stop for ice cream before turning in. As we made our way back to our motel, we noticed a large group of Amish* teens — the boys in straw hats and dark vests with dark colored shirts; the girls in solid color dresses and starched white bonnets — heading in the same direction. As we walked, the population of the Amish youths steadily increased. When we reached the Quality Inn, the Pincus family proceeded to our first-floor room and the faction of Jakob Ammann‘s young disciples climbed the open-air staircase to the second story and retired to three adjoining rooms. 

Our next day was spent doing all the activities that tourists at Niagara Falls do. We donned disposable rain gear for the famous, yet drenching, Maid of the Mist boat ride. We retained our slickers for the equally waterlogged tour of the tunnels behind the Horseshoe Falls. We snapped photos along the guardrails protecting us from the hundred foot drop to the churning river below. Our whirlwind expedition sapped our collective energy, so we retreated to our motel for a rejuvenating dip in the pool. We hurriedly changed into swimming attire and started toward the small oasis in the middle of the parking lot. I laid claim to several recliners and accompanied my wife and son in the humble, water-filled cement tank. A few laps and splashes later, we were toweling off and relaxing. 

Soon, two boys emerged from the second floor rooms where the Amish family had disappeared the night before. They joined the small congregation of hotel patrons at the pool and commenced to splashing and cavorting and doing the playful things boys do in a pool. While the usually sheltered youngsters amused themselves, two attractive, bikini-clad young ladies sauntered across the parking lot from the far end of the hotel property. Their sights were set on the same midday refreshment the swimming pool offered their fellow guests. The girls idly chatted to each other as they dropped their towels on some chaise lounges on the opposite side of the pool and absentmindedly kicked off their sandals. The two Amish boys froze in mid-movement, their bodies rigid, their eyes transfixed. The young ladies — unaware that their every move was being observed and tracked by two innocent and bewildered 12 year-olds — continued their conversation. It was obvious that these two young men had never, ever, in their short lives, witnessed anything that remotely resembled the figures now on display before them. The female members of their traveling contingency sure as hell didn’t look like these… these…. females. Suddenly, one of the girls rose from her seat and strode to the edge of the pool. The boys’ eyes widened. The young lady pointed her leg and slowly and precariously dipped her toe into the water. At the exact same pace, the two boys slowly and precariously backed out of the water, never once taking their gaze away from the girl. It was as though Satan himself had chosen this small, man-made body of water to cool off his cloven hoof. The girl lazily stirred the water around with her extended leg, then withdrew it and patted it with a towel — never once glancing in the boys’ direction. By the time the young girl returned to the seat by her friend, the two boys were, no doubt, on their knees in their room praying and repenting for whatever they had done to have been subjected to the Devil’s temptations. 

Sometimes, vacations yield more sights that just the ones for the average tourist. And that works on several levels. 

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

* For over fifty years, my wife’s family owned and operated a general merchandise store in a farmer’s market located in the heart of Pennsylvania’s Amish population, so we are well-acquainted with their practices, observances and attire.

the bump

Before Disneyland and Disney World and even Great Adventure (and before they were absorbed under the Six Flags masthead), amusement parks with rides were exclusive to the seashore resorts... as far as I was concerned. Look, I lived a sheltered life, I suppose. I only got to see amusement park rides at temporary school fairs or on those dangerous-looking trucks that would roam my neighborhood on weekends and summer afternoons. But, if I wanted to experience real, live amusement park rides, I would have to wait for a day trip or an extended weekend stay in Atlantic City. My father, not one to travel, would occasionally (and often begrudgingly) take our family to Atlantic City. My mom, my brother and I would love to go. My dad didn't care what his family wanted and when he finally relented, he acted as though he had just donated a kidney.

I loved going to Atlantic City, specifically for the famous Boardwalk. There were games of chance and soft-serve ice cream cones and salt water taffy and arcades. Yeah, there was the beach and the ocean, but those I could have done without. The real draw was the (now long-gone) Million Dollar Pier, jam packed with rides set up much too close to each other, damning all fire safety precautions. Walkways between rides were strewn with a tangled mess of heavy electrical cables. This was long before the days of "lawsuits at the drop of a hat." You tripped and your kneecap became embedded with a zillion splinters? Get up and keep walking... and be careful next time! 

My brother loved the bumper cars. As an adolescent, he honed his future driving abilities on those compact, exposed electricity-powered little death traps. Being too small to ride, as determined by an official-looking sign at the entrance to the ride, I was relegated to watch through a chain-link fence as my brother deftly guided his vehicle through the clumps of other cars, avoiding bumps while delivering same to defenseless fellow riders. With my fingers curled around the fencing, I'd marvel as my brother would weave around the slick floor, slamming randomly into other cars, only to make a clean getaway before a retaliatory blow could be received. It was all in fun, though, and riders would laugh as they exited at the ride's conclusion.

If you've ever ridden the bumper cars, you always remember that one guy, right? The guy who gets stuck in a corner, next to some non-operating vehicles, unable to free himself. While other riders race and bump and laugh, this poor guy just rumbles back and forth for most of the ride's allotted time, until he is finally spotted by the ride operator who frees him and, while standing on the rear bumper, guides him back to the entrance, arriving just as the power shuts off and the ride is over. Three tickets! Wasted!

My brother and a couple of his friends devised a plan when they rode the bumper cars. A plan to enhance their own fun. Once situated in their cars, my brother and his friends would select a rider and target him to ruin his ride. They'd chase after him and taking turns pinning him in a corner, trapping him for the entire ride, denying him the fun of racing around the floor and bumping into other riders. One evening, after picking their cars, my brother and three of his friends pointed to one guy and pegged him as their victim. They didn't know him. They had no connection to him. They just looked around and pointed. The power surged through the vehicles and the ride began. The plan was enacted. The ride floor was dimly lit, bathed in blacklight, distorting any details of other rider's faces. But they zeroed in on their target and they pinned this guy in a corner. My brother first, then each of his friends — one at a time. Their "victim" said nothing, but his anger was apparent from his body language. He was hunched over the steering wheel and bobbed his shoulders each time his vehicle was rammed with a confining bump. My brother and his friends were giddy and gleeful as their underhanded plan unfolded. In the darkness, they could hear a few frustrated exhales, but most were drowned out by the loud Top 40 hits that were piped in through the tinny speakers mounted at the floor's corners. The ride ended. The power stopped, bright lights came up and my brother and his friends got out of their vehicles and made their way to the exit. Their chests were puffed out and they laughed in their achievement.

Until, they saw the guy they pinned.

He rose from his tiny car.... and he kept on rising. With the bright lights on, they saw this guy stood well over six feet tall. He was wearing a tank top and he had muscles. Big muscles. His muscles had muscles. And he was not happy. Not. At. All. He pointed an angry finger at my brother and his friends and hollered "YOU!" and the look on his face revealed his displeasure with three little punks ruining his ride and making him waste three tickets.

This happened easily fifty years ago. I think they are still running.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

something stupid

Philadelphia is famous for a lot of things. At the top of that list is, without a doubt, the Liberty Bell. Then there's.... um.... ah..... did I say the Liberty Bell already? Well, Philadelphia is also known for its indigenous foods, like cheese steaks, soft pretzels, hoagies and — the City of Brotherly Love's best kept secret — water ice (or as we enunciation-challenged Philadelphians pronounce it: "wooder ice").

This curiously-named hometown favorite, for those unfamiliar with the frozen concoction, falls somewhere between a sno-cone and a Slurpee. But not quite. It is usually eaten with a spoon, or as true Philadelphians know, a pretzel. Most of Philadelphia's numerous neighborhoods have a single-location vendor that sells water ice to its loyal citizens. Each neighborhood is fiercely proud, even snobbishly partial, to its own purveyor of the icy summer treat. While water ice (sometimes called "Italian ice," but never in Philadelphia) dates back to the nineteenth century, Bob Tumolo, a former firefighter opened up a small water ice stand called "Rita's" (named after his wife) in the Philadelphia suburb of Bensalem in the summer of 1984. Soon, his product's popularity allowed him to open three more locations and, eventually, he began franchising his business. Today, Bob's vision boasts over 600 locations, spreading the one-time Philadelphia exclusive to a nationwide audience. Despite its current corporate status, Rita's is still pretty popular among local residents. 

My wife numbers herself among those in Rita's customer base. A longtime water ice aficionado (and purist), she will only order "chocolate" when given the choices available on Rita's extensive menu, in spite of such tempting flavors as "tangerine," "kiwi strawberry" and "cotton candy." She subscribes to Rita's "special offers" via their smartphone app and receives coupons and discounts throughout the summer months. Recently, Mrs. P was emailed a coupon for a free regular-size water ice in celebration of... well, something like the first day of spring or the end of winter of some other made-up occasion. Bottom line: free water ice awaited. 

Simple enough.

We drove over to our neighborhood Rita's and I hopped out of the car with the printed coupon in my hand. I descended the few steps to the line of order windows and a smiling young lady appeared in one of the open frames.

"Hi!," she welcomed, "Can I help you?" Friendly enough. I presented my coupon and said, "I'd like a regular size chocolate with a lid on the cup, please." The coupon itself was short on words, just the necessary verbiage to instruct the employee that this piece of paper was to be exchanged for a regular-size water ice in a flavor of the customer's choosing. As a matter of fact, the phrase "Free Regular Ice" were the largest words on the thing, dwarfing the remaining line — "in the available flavor of your choice" — by several dozen point sizes. The counter girl read the coupon, smiled again and asked, "What size? Regular or large?"

I slowly replied, "Regular, please." I gestured towards the coupon in her hand. "I believe the coupon is good for a regular size." She looked at the coupon in her hand. "Oh. Right." She wandered off to the large freezer that houses the supply of water ice to fill my simple order.

Soon, she returned. She placed the chocolate ice-filled cup on the counter, its contents held neatly in place with a plastic lid snapped tightly to the waxed paper rim. "Would you like a lid?," the young lady asked. I looked at the lid firmly attached to the cup. She looked at the lid firmly attached to the cup. "Oh. Right.," she said, with no inflection, "I mean would you like a spoon?"

"No thank you." I said. I grabbed the frozen cup and headed for the car.

A week or so later, Mrs. P got another coupon for a free regular-sized water ice, this time for her birthday. We followed the exact same routine. When we arrived at Rita's, the same counter girl was waiting.

Lid? 

"Hi!," she welcomed, "Can I help you?" I presented my coupon and said, "I'd like a regular size chocolate with a lid on the cup, please." Just as she had asked before, she asked again: "What size? Regular or large?" I replied, just like I did before: "Regular, please." I gestured towards the coupon that I had just handed to her. "I believe the coupon is good for a regular size." She looked at the coupon, this one as simply worded as the previous one. "Oh. Right." She wandered off to fill my order. When she returned, the cup displayed a large, rounded mound of chocolate water ice rising nearly a full inch above the rim. The counter girl jammed a long, plastic spoon into the surface of the ice, sinking it deep into its cold center. The chances of getting my requested lid on this thing were slim. I didn't even bother to ask. "Would you like a spoon?," she asked before interrupting herself  with an "oh" when it registered in her brain that she had already provided a spoon. She offered a monotone "Thank you" and disappeared back into the employee work area. 

When I returned to the car, my wife was obviously about to ask about the lid. I stopped her with a stream of disgusted muttering under my breath. "No lid!," I spat, "A spoon that I didn't ask for, but no lid." Mrs. P laughed, shrugged her shoulders and took a big lick of water ice.

I guess that's the important part.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

seaside rendezvous

I first went to Seaside Heights, New Jersey just after I met Mrs. Pincus. We were not yet married, just a couple of kids looking for some fun at the shore. By this time, the Atlantic City of our youth had all but disappeared. It was now making the hopeful transition to becoming the Las Vegas of the East. Family resorts had been converted to casinos, amusement piers went bankrupt and were shuttered and the beach was no longer AC's number one destination. Seaside Heights, as I was told by my art school pal Eric who spent his summers in the small North Jersey community, stood unchanged for generations. The boardwalk, while considerably smaller than its famed Atlantic City counterpart, was lined with games of skill (like Whack-a-Mole and SkeeBall), spinning wheels of fortune and several piers jammed with carnival-style thrill rides.

One summer day in the early 1980s, Mrs. P (in girlfriend mode) and I tackled winding Route 37 through the notorious Jersey Pine Barrens*, to the tiny burg just over the oddly-configured Thomas A. Mathis and J. Stanley Tunney twin bridges. As we approached, we spotted the tracks of rollers coasters rising above the typical Jersey shore homes, We could hear the cheerful sounds of a calliope mixed with the angry chirp of seagulls and the calming woosh of the ocean. It was as though we were transported back twenty years to the fond memories of days spent lounging by the pool at The Deauville and evenings spent spinning on the Tilt-a-Whirl on Million Dollar Pier.

Mrs. P and I met Eric on the beach in the morning and later "walked the boards," marveling at the sights, riding the rides and even scoring a full box of candy at one of the wheels when the arrow finally landed on our quarter-covered number. (Of course, we had already plopped down twice the amount a box of candy would cost had we just made the purchase in a legitimate store.) After a nightcap of a Kohr Brothers chocolate-dipped cone, Mrs. P and I said our goodbyes to Eric and headed home, still joyed from a day's visit to a time past.

We returned to Seaside Heights regularly, even after our son was born in 1987. By this time, Atlantic City showed no signs of its former self, as the casino business was experiencing a massive construction boom and dizzying revenues. Seaside Heights still offered fun for the whole family. Rides, games, the beach and pizza slices bigger than your head.

Of course, time marches on. Our son grew up and a ride on the Whip could no longer compete with concerts and college and girls. Mrs. Pincus' interest in casino gambling blossomed and we found ourselves in one Atlantic City casino or another nearly every weekend. Our trips to Seaside Heights became less frequent, eventually ending altogether. The next time we heard the name "Seaside Heights" was in 2009 when MTV presented Jersey Shore, a "real life" look into the lives of a group of self-proclaimed "Guidos and Guidettes" sharing a house near the town's boardwalk, I never saw an episode of the show, but I know it was an extremely popular cultural phenomenon. It made Seaside Heights a household name as more tourists clamored for a glimpse of Snooki, The Situation and their assorted partners in crime.

After four years of ridicule based on Jersey Shore's infamy, Seaside Heights was assaulted by Hurricane Sandy (or "Super Storm," as it was dubbed by every major and local news outlet because everything needs a name) in the fall of 2012. Mrs. P and I sat in front of our television in a Las Vegas hotel room and watched in horror as the piers we once walked upon and rides we once rode upon were reduced to splinters by voluminous rains and violent winds. However, in the aftermath, the scrappy little town-by-the-sea banded together, determined to rebuild in time for the important summer season. For the most part, Seaside Heights bounced back and welcomed tourists as they had in the past, only to be knocked down again in September by a devastating fire that destroyed over fifty boardwalk businesses as well as one of the more popular amusement piers. But, again, like a phoenix, Seaside Heights rose unfettered and greeted tourists in 2014 with open arms, open beaches and open bars.

"we're gonna get to that place 
 where we really wanna go and 
we'll walk in the sun"

Last Sunday, just my wife and I (refusing to admit to the label "empty-nesters") returned to Seaside Heights after an absence of almost twenty years. Filled with nostalgic curiosity (and looking for an excuse to kill a Sunday afternoon), we decided to check out the progress and changes since our last visit. First, the private parking lot in which we regularly had secured our car was now a municipal lot, outfitted with automated, credit card-accepting kiosks dispensing tickets in lieu of a real-live teen with summer job. The boardwalk, however, looked nearly as we remembered — packed with bathing suit clad tourists, toting giant stuffed animals awarded by one of the many spinning wheels of chance or daintily stuffing a deep-fried Oreo into their zinc-oxide smeared lips. Groups of teenagers mingled with clutches of extended families and the atmosphere was buzzing with joyful activity. The beach was just as jammed with sunbathers and sand castle-builders and volleyball players. Music played. Rides spun to dizzying heights. Pizza doughs were tossed high in the air. Mrs. P and I strolled the truncated boardwalk and took in the sights, the sounds and the smells. We were happy — very happy — to see that Seaside Heights was thriving and vibrant. And when I saw that sign in the window of a boardwalk bar, I knew the more things change, the more they stay the same. Seaside Heights is gonna be okay.

The missus and I each had a slice of pizza as big as our heads, then started for home.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com



*The Jersey Devil was nowhere in sight.

wake me up before you go-go

Like most Americans who live near a large body of water edged by some sort of beach. Mrs. P and I spent the long July Fourth weekend at the location that fits that description nearest our home. In this case, we chose Atlantic City — the one-time jewel of the  Jersey shore, now showing more tarnish than shine in the aftermath of four shuttered casinos in the past year. My wife's casino activity has dwindled to non-existent over the past year, but I think that it is pure coincidence and she is not to be blamed for those closures. Nevertheless, we found ourselves with a weekend starting on a Friday and 72 hours of free time ahead of us. 

I don't know if I ever mentioned it before, but I hate the beach. I hate everything about the beach. First off, I dislike the misnomer of "beach." Face it. It's dirt. That's right. D-I-R-T — Dirt! And don't even talk to me about the (shudder!) ocean. I marvel every time I see someone gingerly wade into that fucking cesspool. And those that cheerfully splash around in that giant piss puddle with their kids! Yeesh! They should be brought up on charges of child abuse. But, I love my wife. And my wife loves the beach. So, I put my disgust for the beach aside for a few hours and sit beside her. Happily. Well, as much "happily" as I can muster.

On Friday, at a time when I am normally at work, Mrs. P and I made our way across the Atlantic City beach, laden with folding chairs, a couple of towels and some snacks and drinks. The Mrs. had plans to soak up some early summer rays. I had plans to cover my thinning pate and stick it out time-wise for as long as she could. 

We found a suitable spot and set up our temporary camp. Mrs. P leaned back and began her sunning process. I draped a large towel over my head and tried to pretend I was anywhere else but on a beach. I closed my eyes. With the murmur of a gentle wind and low whisper of the nearby surf, I began to doze. Hey! Whaddaya know! I was actually relaxed and  — dare I say  — enjoying this time on the beach. I drifted off in to a deeper sleep.

Suddenly, I was jarred awake by something akin to broken fingernails dragging the length of a blackboard. I shot up and fumbled for my glasses that I had folded and hooked in the neckline of my T-shirt. 

At first, I looked around for the source of the disturbance. It was shrill and grating. "Ooooh!," it wailed, "The Grateful Dead are playing this weekend in... in... somewhere!" Ugh! That voice! It squealed in an annoying raspy creak. I raised the towel up and my eyes adjusted to the sunlight. The voice continued, "I saw The Grateful Dead at Veterans Stadium the day before they tore it down."

About twenty feet away, a woman in a tie-dye beach cover-up was addressing a group of people spread out in their own beach campsite. Her unkempt hair blew about her in all directions as she related her story in a loud tone, too loud for the close proximity of her chosen audience. Her voice was at a volume more suited to clearing the area because of a fire or an impending air raid. As a matter of fact, her voice had the same tonal quality as an air raid siren.

Well, now I was awake! And mad. Mad because I was unnecessarily awakened, especially when I was just getting used to fact that I had spent more than five consecutive minutes on a beach. And mad because I hate when people dispense wrong information. I don't mean a mistake for which they will soon correct themselves, I mean flat out wrong information that they insist to be right and proclaim as gospel. Let's start with the fact that The Grateful Dead never played Philadelphia's Veterans Stadium. They did, however, play, what turned out to be the final show at Philadelphia's JFK Stadium, "The Vet's" neighbor. Six days after Jerry Garcia and his bandmates played JFK in 1989, the crumbling, sixty-six year old venue was condemned by the city. It was demolished three years later. Veterans Stadium, home of the Philadelphia Phillies and Eagles for thirty-three years, was imploded in 2004, twelve years after JFK Stadium bit the proverbial dust. While Veterans Stadium was host to numerous concerts, The Grateful Dead did not number among them. But the inflection in this shrew's voice told otherwise, especially when she drove her point home with a smug sneer and a defiant folding of her arms across her tie-dye swathed chest.

Plus, she delivered the misinformation in that voice!

I hate the beach after all.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com