josh pincus is crying

This week’s Illustration Friday challenge word is “mysterious”.

On Saturday, I went to meet my son at a free concert at the Great Plaza on the Delaware River’s waterfront. Instead of driving and fighting for a parking space on a busy holiday weekend, I took the train into downtown Philadelphia. I disembarked at the Market East station and headed toward to 11th Street stop of the Market-Frankford subway. I passed through the turnstiles and waited on the platform for the next subway train to arrive. The station slowly welcomed more passengers — an interesting array of humanity, the majority of which I would, most likely, never ever see again for as long as I live. One man paced the tile floor — the full length of the station — several times with his head down and a determined gait. He muttered unintelligibly under his breath — the only word I could understand was “fuck” and each utterance rang out clear as a bell. He also looked straight at me on several passes of his confined journey. Two women in their twenties argued loudly and bitterly about “taking my fucking money, you bitch”,  but I didn’t hear the outcome, as they moved to the very end of the platform and their disagreement became muffled echoes. Finally, the train clattered along the tracks and hissed to a halt in the station. The doors whooshed open and, after a number of riders exited, I boarded with the other commuters.

The train rattled and shook until it rested briefly at 8th Street, its next scheduled stop. The doors opened and two men entered and sat down in a nearby double seat. One man was obviously older, and by the looks of his leathery, wind-burned skin, I’d say by about two hundred years. He was a husk of a human and it was as though his entire, intact skeleton had been extracted. He was bent over like a palm tree in a hurricane and a dirty T-shirt hung loosely from his withered upper torso. His pants were just as ill-fitting and rivaled his shirt in the cleanliest department. He did not wear a green and mesh Notre Dame baseball cap, so much as it was perched on the dome of his cranium. He sat and stared at a spot several inches in front of his crooked nose and his toothless mouth drooped agape at the base of his head.

The old-timer’s traveling companion was destined to evolve into a similar state as the old man in a few years time. His skin — or more precisely, his hide — had the appearance of scabby beef jerky. It was deeply wrinkled and looked like it belonged on a man twice his age. His hair, although close-cropped, was matted and unkempt and undoubtedly filthy. Upon first glance, his shirt displayed a pattern, but closer inspection merely revealed it to be an accumulation of stains. His shorts were threadbare and equally as grubby. His sinewy legs ended at a pair of lace-less sneakers. He fumbled with a bag from FYE (a nationwide chain of entertainment media stores, specializing in CDs and DVDs) and withdrew the last possible thing anyone would ever have imagined.

A DVD box set of a complete season of Little House on the Prairie.

The old man continued his blank stare into space, as the younger man methodically unwrapped the DVD. He removed the outer cardboard slipcase and carefully placed it in the bag. He opened the plastic box that housed and protected the DVDs. He examined the top disk, admiring the likeness of Michael Landon emblazoned on its surface and lifted the small descriptive booklet that accompanied the set from beneath the two clips that held it in place. He snapped the box shut and, as if he was about to study some fantastic literary tome, began to read the booklet from page one.

As I stared incredulously at this mysterious pair, a stream of questions poured into my head, including, but not limited to: “Where do these guys live?”, “Where do these guys work?”, “What did they wear on their job interview and how did they pass the interview process?”, “Which season of Little House on the Prairie  did he buy? The one where Mary went blind? The one where Almanzo has a stroke?”, “Which season did he love so much that he must own?… or perhaps he just heard about the show and this is his introduction.”, “Where will he watch the DVDs? At home? Does he have  a home? Does this guy, who can’t even keep his clothes clean, even own  a DVD player? … and, if so, what the hell kind of priorities does he have?”

The subway stopped at my destination. My questions remained unanswered. The mystery remained a mystery.

My wife’s grandmother turned 101 this past July. When I met her nearly thirty years ago, she was a feisty, strong-willed woman who called things as she saw them and took no shit from anyone. She came from humble beginnings in Russia and lived an even more humble existence upon her arrival in the United States. She single-handedly raised two children – and by “single-handedly”, I mean that she got absolutely no help from her perpetually out-of-work husband. Eventually, her husband, through some shrewd maneuvering, became prosperous and his latent financial success allowed her to enjoy the life she always longed for and certainly deserved. She doted on and cared deeply for her children, their ensuing spouses and subsequent children. She hosted elaborate Sunday dinners and made sure everyone was abundantly satisfied. She was generous to a fault, but she also enjoyed frequent gambling excursions to “the casinas” — as she called them — to win more money with which to be charitable.

My wife’s grandmother always held a special place in her heart for her grandchildren and that place grew larger as offspring multiplied with progeny of their own. With the birth of my son twenty-four years ago, the family welcomed the first great-grandchild of the generation. I began referring to my wife’s grandmother as “GG”, short for “great grandmother”. She approvingly responded to the nickname.

GG lived on her own until well into her 90s. She currently resides in a gracious assisted-living facility. Although her memory is failing with each passing day, her spunky spirit still regularly surfaces. She was lively and animated at her 100th birthday celebration last year, cracking wise in front of an audience of extended family and friends. More recently, she wandered into another resident’s room late one night and demanded that she “get the hell of my bed!” Lately, though, her pace has slowed, her recognition skills have diminished and her demeanor wavers between happy and terribly sad. After all, she is 101.

My wife’s cousin Cuz went to visit GG this past week, as she is his grandmother, too. He hadn’t seen her in a long while and arrived to find her in bed, quiet and melancholy. He brought her some ice cream — an all-time favorite — and it seemed to perk her up a bit, but GG was still despondent and detached. Cuz concluded his visit, kissed GG goodbye and went out to his car. On his way home to see his own family, he called his sister. Sis answered the phone in a harried manner, obviously preoccupied with plans and activities concerning her own two children. Cuz reported on GG’s status and suggested that Sis pay her a visit of her own. Sis hesitated, then said, “You mean now?  Can’t it wait until Friday?”

Cuz was silent for a moment, and then answered, “I don’t know, Sis. I’m not a doctor.”

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This week’s Illustration Friday challenge word is “obsession”.

Regular readers of my blog (all four of you) are already familiar with my obsession — the one aside  from drawing.

I love old movies, Hollywood scandals, obscure actors and actresses and stories of untimely demise. So, how do I satisfy all of those interests at one shot? I visit cemeteries, specifically the ones that are the eternal home to the famous, infamous and almost famous.

It all started on a trip to Cleveland to The Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. After a full day of touring the museum (jammed with its share of tributes to famous dead people), my family and I ate dinner at the Cleveland branch of the Hard Rock Cafe restaurant chain. As is the case with touristy restaurants, the friendly waitress asked us the standard questions posed to out-of-towners —where we were from? how long are you in town? what have you visited? Then she recommended an unusual spot for sightseeing - Lake View Cemetery. She told us that it is the final resting place of James A. Garfield, 20th president of the United States and one of eight presidents from Ohio. We finished our dinner, paid and headed back to our hotel - all the while intrigued at the thought of visiting a cemetery.

On our way home to Philadelphia, we stopped at Lake View. Without a map or guidance of any kind, we blindly drove the narrow, winding roads through the grassy expanses of headstones. Garfield’s grave is housed in a huge terra cotta decorated structure that stands tall above the grounds. In addition, Lake View is home to John D. Rockefeller, G-Man Eliot Ness and Ray Chapman, the only baseball player killed as a result of an injury received during a game. It was very cool.

And so it began, my death obsession became even more intensified.

You can see where my obsession has brought me (with my poor family, in tow) at these links:

• Things to do in LA when you’re dead - my first California cemetery trip
• Things to do in LA when you’re dead; part 2 - another California cemetery - one year later
• Things to do in New York when you’re dead - two cemeteries in upstate New York
• Thousands dead in The Bronx - a trip to one of New York City’s largest memorial parks
• Buried in my own backyard - two of the Philadelphia area’s oldest cemeteries
• A grave situation in Los Angeles - more celebrity graves in the Hollywood Hills
• How do you follow a Pez convention? - another large New York cemetery
• What’s buried in Vegas, stays in Vegas - more than just gambling in Sin City
• Yea, tho’ I walk through the San Fernando Valley of the Shadow of Death - a visit to one of the oldest and largest cemeteries in Los Angeles
• Other Magic Kingdoms - visits to three of Orange County, California’s burial grounds
• Day (off) of the Dead - killing some time on a free day from work

Enjoy! I know I did.

This week’s Illustration Friday challenge word is “perennial”.

In the long-ago days when a band called Led Zeppelin still existed, when the mention of  The Rolling Stones entering a recording studio did not evoke an exasperated “eye roll” and Cat Stevens was singing about the joys of moonshadows instead of Jihad, a local stop on your favorite band’s concert tour came with the perennial regularity of Daylight Savings Time, the swallows triumphant return to Capistrano and a visit from Saint Nick. The unwritten agenda the majority of popular rock groups followed was to release an album and embark on a national publicity tour. Bands maintained that schedule until a founding member resigned or adoration waned. Before the ubiquity of the Internet, obtaining tickets to said concert was a grueling task. Today, a few clicks of the mouse or taps on your iPhone will effortlessly yield a pair of front-row seats. Back then, the quest for concert tickets was a rite of passage.

From the time I discovered Queen in 1974, you could set your watch by their annual itinerary. Like the larger part of their contemporaries, Queen would release an album and follow it with a multi-city (or possibly multi-country) tour. When I first saw Queen live,  in support of their 1976 effort A Day at the Races,  admission tickets, purchased from the Ticketron service at neighborhood sporting goods store, banished us to the upper level of the Philadelphia Civic Center.

 Along with other counter-culture innovations, the 1960s introduced a ticket-purchasing phenomenon known as “sleeping out”. Tickets for an announced show would be available for purchase on a particular morning at 9 o’clock. Wiley fans would arrive at the venue the night before and sleep in their cars all night guaranteeing a choice spot in the queue when the box office displayed its “Open for Business” sign at sun-up. As the 1970s rolled around and “sleeping out” was hitting its hey-day, fans, anxious to get a jump on their compatriots, would appear earlier and earlier. Usually the first person to show up in the evening would become the unofficial list-keeper. The main responsibility of this unelected position was to compile and maintain a list of the subsequent ticket hopefuls in the order of their arrival. As the group of interested patrons increased, their names would be added to the list and, in the cases of a particularly desirable concert, roll calls at regular intervals throughout the night would be enacted. Sometimes, a band’s fanbase was — shall we say — less patient and orderly.  Sometimes, the existence of several, conflicting lists would cause heated disagreements as to which was the true “unofficial” official list. The venue itself steered clear of the miele and let the crowd duke it out on their own. After all, they were only selling  tickets and they didn’t care who  they were selling them to.

In 1978, my older brother offered to purchase my tickets to Queen’s upcoming News of the World  Tour, as he and a friend were going to “sleep out” at the Spectrum, the now-defunct and demolished, premier concert facility in Philadelphia. He returned home the following afternoon with a pair of tickets for me in the center section fourth row. I was ecstatic, until I saw that he kept the first row seats for himself. (I was back to “ecstatic” when, the night of the concert, his seats butt up against a twelve-foot bank of speakers.)

The following year, Queen toured in support of their seventh release Jazz  and, just like clockwork, the announced Philadelphia date was the approximate anniversary of the previous years’ show. Rather than relying on someone else’s efforts to secure tickets, I decided to take matters into my own hands.  I knew that Queen did not command the same level of popularity among my peer group as other bands, so the competition for excellent seats would be minimal. Since the majority of local fans would patronize the local Ticketron outlet, it would be to my advantage to “sleep out” at the Spectrum. I proposed the plan to David Schwartz, a fellow Queen fan and the only one of my friends with his own car. He was in. He’d pick me up Friday evening at 11 PM and we’d sleep in his car in the Spectrum’s parking lot to wake up first in line Saturday morning and nab seats within spitting distance of Freddie Mercury (actually better than that sounds!)

David’s car horn honked outside my house at the designated hour and, grabbing a few sodas and a bag or two of chips, I ran out the door and into his awaiting front seat. We sped down I-95, pleased and contented by our ingenious scheme to outsmart every Queen fan at Washington High School. It was smooth sailing as Dave navigated his Datsun down the Packer Avenue off-ramp and turned onto Pattison Avenue, now desolate under the orange glow of the streetlamps. The Spectrum stood just a few blocks away, quietly looming in the darkness, the curve of its roof blending into the near-midnight sky. Dave hung a left into the parking lot…. and screeched to a halt.

The lot was packed with cars and vans and campers. It was alive with dancing and music and the unmistakable reek of patchouli. A group of people possessed by a sort-of tribal energy swayed and twirled around a raging bonfire at one end of the lot. Another cluster of folks congregated beside a brightly painted former delivery truck where several inhabitants were dishing out translucent shreds of cabbage wrapped in tortillas in exchange for a few coins. Still another collective had formed an impromptu jam session, some strumming out-of-tune guitars while others slapped their bare thighs and chests in percussive accompaniment. Every vehicle was plastered with stickers displaying skeletons and roses, lightning bolts and colorful bears. Several shirtless individuals wandered aimlessly in circles. Others slept under the landscaped trees that dotted the parking area.

Dave rolled his car into one of just a handful of unoccupied spaces and we slowly got out, baffled by the spectacle playing out around us. Suddenly, a voice cut through the incessant din of guttural yelps and plucked guitar strings. “Roll call!” screamed the voice. The lion’s share of the crowd shuffled off and formed a semi-circular wall of humanity around a long-haired, dirty young man standing on the rusted hood of a beat-up car of indiscriminate make and model. Caught in the onslaught of the troupe, I asked one of the stragglers, “Hey, what’s going on?” “Dead tickets, man!” was the answer I received from the tie-dye wrapped, barefoot object of my query. It seemed that tickets for the Grateful Dead’s upcoming show were going on sale the same morning as tickets for Queen. Dave and I were at Ground Zero of the ”sleeping out” event, since it was practically invented by so-called Dead Heads.

We didn’t bother adding our names to a list, since we weren’t going to be purchasing Grateful Dead tickets. But, we assessed our situation and, as they say,  ”when in Rome”. Dave and I mingled through the crowd laughing and shaking hands and joining in the sing-alongs of the few Dead songs we knew. We gratefully declined the many offers of food from our new friends, remembering the horror stories depicted in fifth-grade films about “hippies putting heroin in candy bars” and “drug pushers forcing LSD-laced stickers on unsuspecting children”. Dave even borrowed a guitar from one fellow, but his musical selection was met with frowns when he plunked out a pizzicato  version of The Who’s “Behind Blue Eyes” on the pot-leaf emblazoned instrument. For the rest of the night, we wandered in and out of the makeshift circus that filled the otherwise unassuming Spectrum parking lot. We got no sleep and had a blast.

When the black sky gave way to streaks of orange and yellow sunlight, the masses assembled for a final roll call and to claim their spot in the queue. Dave and I gravitated towards a second ticket window. We were accosted by several suspicious Dead Heads leery of our possible attempt to buck the line. We had to explain multiple times that we were not buying Dead  tickets. We were buying Queen  tickets. Our affirmation was at best satisfactory, however we were still on the receiving end of a ton of dirty looks as we approached the other ticket booth. The time spent pleading our case and protesting any wrong-doing cut into our window of opportunity, cooling our plan to “strike while the iron was hot”. We managed to score seats in the seventeenth row for the concert, but we had a once-in-a-lifetime experience for which one couldn’t buy a ticket — an experience that has been totally eliminated by the Internet.

Footnote: By the time the date of the Queen show finally arrived, I had contracted a horrible case of pneumonia. Sick as a dog, I went to the concert anyway.

The Illustration Friday website suggests “midsummer night”  as this week’s inspiration.

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 the 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 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 assembly 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 far end of the hotel property with their sights 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.

* 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 Illustration Friday website offers “swept” as the challenge word this week.

My father’s low tolerance for other humans kept my parent’s accumulation of friends to a minimum. There was one couple with which my parents maintained a close relationship and that was Jack and Myrna. They’d go out to dinner regularly. They’d visit each others homes, sometimes including a few other couples so the men could play low stakes poker while the wives played Mah Jongg and gossipped. But mostly, my parents stuck with Myrna and Jack, until Jack’s untimely death.

Every March, my parents would take a lengthy weekend vacation to the Nevele Resort in the Catskill Mountains, affectionately known as “the Jewish Alps”. Nevele was a real-life version of the type of resort depicted in the film Dirty Dancing.  A sprawling conglomeration of buildings that housed guest rooms, ballrooms, dining rooms, banquet rooms and showrooms — all surrounding a grassy common area with pools, playgrounds, tennis and basketballs courts, running tracks and a wide variety of benches just for “a little sit down, farshtaist?”   The main activity for guests at Nevele (or any of the many Catskill resorts) was eating, followed a close second, by eating. In addition to a room and nightly shows, your stay included three meals a day — meals that would put the Roman bacchanalia to shame. If there’s one thing Jews love (besides getting their way and talking on top of other people’s conversations), it’s eating. The food for breakfast was abundant with a huge array of offerings. The wait staff would happily bring as many different dishes and as much of them as any guest desired. And after the early morning gorging ended, the dining room would refill within ninety minutes to start the process again for lunchtime. Dinners, too, were a repeat performance as guests eagerly sampled separate platters overflowing with roast beef and roast chicken — side-by-side at their place setting. After dinner, the overstuffed patrons would slowly waddle over to the showroom and fart their way through a schticky comedian and a female singer doing her best Barbra Streisand impersonation. My parents and their friends looked forward to four days of this each Spring. God bless ‘em.

When my brother and I were past the age where the services of a babysitter was required, we looked forward to that weekend in March as well. One particular March, as my parents made their annual getaway plans, my brother and I had plans of our own. Early on Thursday morning, Jack and Myrna pulled their car up in front of our house. Jack, a jovial and kind-hearted but simple-minded guy, bounded out of the passenger seat to show my father the surplus of X-rated novelties he had stocked up on for the trip. Jack was so excited to pass out cigarette lighters in the shape of penises and fake dollar bills with a scene of fellatio in place of George Washington’s picture to a group of strangers at Nevele. (In the middle 1970s, this was, evidently, funny.) Myrna and Jack loaded their luggage alongside my parents’ bags in my Dad’s trunk. With goodbye waves and a couple of honks from the horn, the couples were off. That was the cue for my brother and I to set our plans into motion. I headed to school and announced a weekend party at my house to everyone who looked in my direction. My brother, now in college, did the same among his friends. On Saturday night, our house was overflowing with teens and beer and potato chips and pizza and music. Surprisingly, my high school friends and my brother’s older college pals got along swimmingly. I suppose enough alcohol will bridge any age gap. The party raged on until the small hours of the morning.

After just a few brief moments of sleep, my brother and I slowly woke and were greeted by the aftermath of the previous evening’s revelry. Our house was littered with beer cans, spills, pizza crusts, empty cups, the crumbs of various foodstuffs and several items that, to this day, remain unidentified. My brother silently went for the vacuum cleaner and I went to the kitchen cabinet for trash bags. Fighting through hangovers, we swept and vacuumed and scrubbed — slowly, but efficiently. I tossed mounds of cans and cups into the trash. My brother picked each and every food particle out of the living room carpet. We straightened the furniture, realigned pictures on the walls and shook out area rugs. We even plucked a few stray bottles out of the azalea bush on our front lawn. Finally, we stood back and admired our work. Then, we collapsed on the sofa and tried to act innocent until our parents arrived home.

Eventually, my dad’s car pulled into the driveway. Jack and Myrna grabbed their bags and said their goodbyes. My mom came into the house first as my dad lagged behind with their luggage. Three steps into the living room, my mother surveyed the surroundings, squinted her eyes and said, “You had a party, didn’t you?”

My brother and I answered, “What are you talking about?”, putting on our best “what-are-you-talking-about” faces.

“This place is too  spotless. I know  damn well you didn’t spend the weekend cleaning.”, my mother keenly surmised.

Word of advice: You can’t get anything  past your mother. So, don’t even try.

This week’s Illustration Friday challenge word is “shadows”.

“There is a fifth dimension, beyond that which is known to man. It is a dimension as vast as space and as timeless as infinity. It is the middle ground between light and shadow, between science and superstition, and it lies between the pit of man’s fears and the summit of his knowledge. This is the dimension of imagination. It is an area which we call The Twilight Zone.”

For five seasons, Rod Serling used those words (or variations of them) to introduce The Twilight Zone, his classic science-fiction/supernatural anthology series. When The Twilight Zone  premiered in October 1959, it was hailed by one TV critic from The Chicago Daily News as “the only show on the air that I actually look forward to seeing. It’s the one series that I will let interfere with other plans.” Daily Variety ranked it with “the best that has ever been accomplished in half-hour filmed television” and the New York Herald Tribune found the show to be “certainly the best and most original anthology series of the year.” The bulk of the series episodes were scripted by celebrated and respected writers Charles Beaumont, Richard Matheson and Serling himself. Serling also served as host as well as the show’s main advocate against network censorship. The series has been rerun in syndication since its cancellation in 1964, eventually gaining a fan base that has made the show bigger and more popular than in its initial run. My son, E., has numbered himself among those fans since he first discovered the show, in reruns, at the age of six. When my son graduated from the likes of kiddie shows like Thomas the Tank Engine  and Mighty Morphin Power Rangers,  he latched on to The Twilight Zone,  in all its “out-of-place-black-and-white” glory. Even at such a young age, he understood the irony of the twist endings at each episode’s end. (I realize that some of the payoffs were driven home with the blatant impact of a sledgehammer, but, still, he was six!)

Walt Disney World had become a favorite destination for me beginning with my first trip with my friends in 1980. The fondness began even earlier for my wife and her family. They first ventured to the central Florida entertainment mecca within a year of its grand opening. So, based on that shared history, Walt Disney World was the natural choice for our honeymoon when we married in 1984. We followed that trip with another one the very next summer. At the end of 1986, my wife and I drove to Disney World again. She happily sat behind the steering wheel and guided our car southbound on I-95, despite being six-weeks pregnant. With a baby due in August, we figured that this would be our last trip to the theme park for quite a while. With the additional expenses of a third member of the family, we settled for short trips to Atlantic City for recreation. It wasn’t until 1995, just a few months before our son’s eighth birthday, that we were able to financially swing a return visit to Disney’s Florida resort.

No longer appeased by regular visits to the Disney Store in the Cherry Hill Mall and by having this extensive collection in his house, my son was ecstatic at the idea of seeing and experiencing actual Disney attractions in person. With the opening of the so-called Value Resorts as part of the Disney roster of accommodations making it easier on our pocketbook, we made reservations for a room at the new All-Star Music Resort and my wife and I looked to forward to seeing how the property had changed in nine years. We also, of course, looked forward to enjoying a Walt Disney World vacation with our son.

Our first day in The Magic Kingdom was great. We marveled excitedly as E. took it all in — the rides, the sights, the characters. After watching countless Disney’s Sing-Along  and Vacation Planner  videos and studying Birnbaum’s Official Guide to Walt Disney World  with a level of concentration usually reserved for college entrance exams, E. was very familiar with the layout of the park and its numerous contents. He happily rode Peter Pan’s Flight  and It’s a Small World,  cheerfully singing the brain-washing theme song upon exiting. With trepidation, he entered the foreboding queue areas of Pirates of the Carribbean  and the Haunted Mansion. E. nervously laughed, hiding his fear, as our “doombuggy” inched its way through the darkened halls of Master Gracey’s abode. As we followed the crowd on the exit ramp, E. opted to accompany his mother to The Hall of Presidents  rather than another ride through the Haunted Mansion  with me. Confounded, I reasoned that there were more dead guys among the Presidents than in the Haunted Mansion, but he would hear nothing of it.

Day Two brought us to Epcot, which evoked equal enthusiasm. Our Day Three objective was The Disney-MGM Studios (now called The Disney Hollywood Studios, after a 20-year licensing agreement ended). As usual for the Pincus Family, we arrived early at the park’s entrance gate. Since The Disney-MGM Studios had opened in 1989, this was to be the first theme park the three of us would experience together for the first time. We carefully followed park-issued guide maps and plotted our path to cover the most ground and optimize our full day. We were drawn to The Great Movie Ride,  housed in a frighteningly-accurate reproduction of the famed Graumann’s Chinese Theater in Hollywood. After that, we encountered the Indiana Jones Stunt Show, Star Tours,  the hokey Backstage Tour  and the entertaining, yet confusing, Voyage of the Little Mermaid.  The recently opened Twilight Zone Tower of Terror  loomed high above the Studios, its faux lightning-burned, terracotta exterior defiantly inviting curious thrill-seekers to explore its equally-ominous interior. In spite of being a fan of the show, Twilight Zone Tower of Terror  spooked my son to no end. He occasionally shot an over-the-shoulder glance towards the structure, but was not interested in the least of going near it. We weren’t going to force him to ride something that very thought of struck him with fear. For Christ’s sake, the word “terror” was right in the name of the thing! But, I wasn’t travelling all the way to Florida to stand in the shadow of a ride, only to leave and wonder what it was like. I told my wife that I wanted to ride and if I had to, I’d ride it myself. She agreed to wander the park with our son while I did. Ninety minutes later, I met up with the members of my family. I related my ride experience in animated jubilation. I told my wife she had  to ride it. She just had  to! E. looked up at me with fearful wide eyes. I explained that he would love it. “There’s nothing really scary about it.,” I began, “You see stuff from Twilight Zone and then you get into a fake elevator that drops real fast. It’s over in a minute and it’s fun!”  Then, I joked, “Rod Serling’s arm hair is scarier than the whole ride.” — alluding to the many comments I had made regarding Mr. Serling’s hirsute wrists that peeked out of his suit sleeves during his Twilight Zone  introductions. Besides, if he didn’t wish a turn, Disney had an arrangement to allow children to take an alternate route out of the attraction building while parents enjoyed the ride. I assured E. that he would not, under any circumstances, be forced to ride. He would merely wait with us until the time came to part company and we’d meet up with him minutes later. My son knew I would never lie to him, but my credibility was waning.

We entered the queue area and E. grew silent, taking in the menacing overgrown garden and deteriorating façade of the Hollywood Tower Hotel, the themed edifice that conceals the actual ride. The line snaked through the (fake) mist-covered foliage and into a grand, yet cobweb-covered (also fake), reception lobby. The “castmembers” (Disney employees), clad in maroon and gold bellhop uniforms in keeping with the 1930s motif, directed groups of riders towards ornate doorways. My son, still convinced that he was going to ride this thing against his will, clung to my wife as our group passed through the doorways and into a small room whose walls were lined with books and curios, some representing props from the show. As I pointed a few of them out to my son, the lights dimmed, a large black-and-white television flickered to life and the familiar image of Rod Serling appeared on the screen. His narration, obviously dubbed by a dead-on impersonator, told of a group of guests who rode an elevator in the hotel during a lightning storm in 1939. The screen suddenly showed the actual hotel we were in  being struck by a blazing bolt of electricity. My son, whom I was now holding, buried his face deep into my shoulder. The TV snapped off and a set of doors on the opposite wall opened and another “bellhop” instructed us to follow a narrow walkway through a pseudo-boiler room to the boarding area. E., again looked up at us and questioned about his opportunity to split. Again, I promised him he would not be forced to ride, although I was not sure at what point he would be offered alternate egress options. The ambient sound of grinding gears and hissing steam didn’t help my trustworthiness and we continued our approach to the pre-board area. Finally, we were waved in and advised to stand on one of an array of designated number plaques embedded in the floor. E.’s horror escalated until I informed the ride operator that my son did not wish to participate in this particular excursion into the realm of Disney magic. Barely breaking character, another bellhop smiled, took E.’s hand and led him to a nondescript doorway along side the elevator entrance. My wife and I entered the attraction elevator and we were off! We laughed and shrieked and howled with elation and, seconds later, we were told to “enjoy the rest of our day at Disney World”. The doors of the elevator opened and there stood a smiling E. still holding the hand of the bellhop. We thanked him as we regained possession of our son. As we walked out through the gift shop (as is the case with most Disney attractions), we asked about our few moments apart. E. told us that his elevator was just a regular elevator and he rode with just the bellhop and two wheelchairs. He asked the bellhop if the heavy wool coat of his costume was hot because it looked hot. The bellhop confirmed it was, indeed, hot. He also told us that his elevator didn’t go very fast.

We have been to Walt Disney World and Disneyland 12 more times since 1995. And, as far as my son’s relationship with Twilight Zone Tower of Terror  is concerned  — now we can’t get him off   the damn thing!

This week’s Illustration Friday suggested topic is “asleep”.

The morning began like every morning begins. My alarm went off at six and I smacked the snooze button every ten minutes until I kicked myself out of bed at 6:30. I showered, brushed my teeth and checked the mirror to see if I could get away without shaving for one more day. I exited the bathroom and headed downstairs. I flicked on our Keurig coffee maker and while the water was heating up I ran down the basement steps to grab a matching pair of socks out of the dryer. Back in the kitchen, I watched as hot water purged through my selection of K-Cup and emptied its brewed contents into a waiting mug. After adding a splash of half-and-half and one packet of Sweet ‘n Low, I carried my coffee and my socks back upstairs to watch the first half-hour of The Today Show  while I got dressed. As the clock came up on 7:40 am, I snapped off the TV and grabbed my cellphone and canvas messenger bag. Mrs. Pincus was asleep, still snuggled under several blankets, when I kissed her and whispered “goodbye”. I crossed the hall to say “goodbye” to my son, curled up under his own blankets. Although they each uttered a closed-mouthed “hum”, they may or may not have heard my actual farewell — as is the case most mornings. I scrambled down the stairs, grabbed my denim jacket and pulled it on as I hurried out the door. I ambled to the train station at the end of my block, less than a minute walk from my front door. Most mornings, I see my friend Randi and we ride the train together to our destination, as we both work in the same office building in center city Philadelphia. This particular morning, Randi was not on the platform. Too bad for me.

At 7:50, the train stops at Elkins Park and I get on. It then proceeds on to its scheduled station stops at Melrose Park, Fern Rock, Temple University and Market East until it reaches my journey’s end, Suburban Station. My entire morning commute covers five stations and lasts approximately twenty-five minutes. When I ride with Randi, we are engaged in conversation that lasts the whole trip, usually continuing until we reach the elevators in our building’s lobby. Since Randi was obviously relying on another route to work this morning, I turned to my dog-eared copy of Carson McCullers’ The Heart Is a Lonely Hunter  to pass the time. I boarded the train, selected a seat at the rear of a relatively empty car, pulled the book from my bag and began to read. I had been struggling through Miss McCullers’ Southern Gothic debut, that it now had taken on the characteristics of a high-school reading assignment rather than a source of enjoyment. The train came to a stop at Melrose Park and, unable to focus, I returned the book to my bag and closed my eyes for a quick nap. Too bad for me.

Suddenly, my eyes shot open. The train was in a tunnel and the car lights were flickering. I was groggy and disoriented. Through bleary and unadjusted eyes, I looked at my watch and I saw it was 8:10. However, since I was in a tunnel, I didn’t know which  8:10 of the day it was. I couldn’t remember how long I had been asleep. The train pulled into Market East, the first underground station on my regular morning journey.  My foggy and sleep-addled mind surmised that I was actually on my way home and it was 8:10 in the evening. I convinced myself that I must have traveled all the way to the end of my homecoming train’s line in Glenside — where no train staff had awakened me — and now I was on a return trip to center city. In a panic, I hopped off the train and frantically dialed my wife at home. As the phone rang, I was annoyed that she had not called, wondering why I had not arrived home at my usual 5:30. After four or five rings, my wife’s hushed voice whispered “Hello” from my cellphone’s speaker. I blurted out, “I’m okay! I’m on my way home. I must have fallen asleep on the train, came back from Glenside and now I’m at Market East. I’m getting on a train to Elkins Park and I’ll be home soon.” I rambled on so quickly, I didn’t allow my bewildered wife to get an interrupting word in. I paused and followed my rant with, “I can’t believe you didn’t call me! Didn’t you wonder where I was?”

She was silent, then she cleared her throat and said, “Well, I was asleep” and she trailed off.

“I’m three hours late coming home and you didn’t think to call me?”  I was starting to get angry. “Well, forget it! I’ll be home soon.”

“What are you talking about? Why are you coming home?” She sounded as confused as I felt.

“I’m coming home!”, I said one last time and I pushed the “END” button on my phone as I approached the information desk at Market East to ask the time for the next train to Elkins Park.

My wife sat in our darkened bedroom and stared blankly at the phone. The first thought to cross her mind was “Well, a twenty-seven year marriage was a good run.” Knowing full well that I had just left the house twenty minutes earlier, she began to cry, assuming I had had a stroke while riding the train.

I boarded the Elkins Park-bound train and called home again. I lowered my voice, so as not to attract the attention of my fellow passengers to my slightly embarrassing situation. Once again, I explained the “fell asleep on the train” scenario to my emotional wife. During my explanation, the train emerged from the tunnel — into the harsh sunlight of the morning. Suddenly, it hit me. I had been asleep for merely moments, on my way to  work — not hours, on my way home.  It also occurred to me that Mrs. Pincus must have thought I had a stroke. “Um, I’ll call you right back.” I said to her and ended the call. All that had just transpired became instantly clear to me. I looked at my watch again and up to the sky and concluded the correct time of day. I jumped off the train at Temple University and I waited for the next train to my proper terminus. And I called my wife. Again.

Mrs. Pincus answered on the first ring. She hit me with a battery of inquiry. “Are you okay? Where are you? Did you have a stroke?” I assured her I was now fully aware of the situation and I was now headed in the right direction and I did not have a stroke. It took several repeat affirmations but I finally convinced her that I was, indeed, fine.

At last, I reached Suburban Station, ten minutes later than usual arrival. I walked my usual route to my office and as I snapped my office light on, two of my co-workers noted, “You’re later than usual.”

Too bad for me.

This week’s Illustration Friday word is “soaked”.

Summer 1979. My friends and I had just graduated from high school. We were all turning eighteen, the then-legal drinking age in New Jersey. Four of us ― Alan Salkowitz, Scott Sadel, Sam Hazan and ol’ Josh Pincus ― crossed the Pennsylvania border, headed for Atlantic City, for what would be a beer-soaked, debauchery-filled last hurrah before college.

Atlantic City was in a transitional period in the late 70s, caught somewhere between the “America’s Playground” time of the 60s and the new frontier of casino gambling. The grand old hotels on the famed Boardwalk, now dingy gray shadows of their glittery and esteemed heyday, were still out of our league. The more modern family motor inns were also a bit pricey for the likes of four high-schoolers with minimum wage jobs. The most monetarily-appealing option was one of the many rooming houses available just off the Boardwalk. An older couple, usually ones whose grown children had left the nest, would open up several rooms in their large pseudo-Victorian seaside homes for vacationers on a budget. My friends and I happily booked accommodations at Betty’s Rooms, one of the larger rooming houses still within the beach block.

Alan secured the use of his father’s sedan for several days and we all met at his house. Each of us packed a bag with the few items that eighteen year-olds feel they need for a four-day vacation - clothing in pairs (underwear, socks, shorts and a pair of T-shirts), possibly a toothbrush and enough cash to keep us in beer and junk food until our return home. We piled into the car and set off for our Jersey Coast destination. We decided to take the less-frequently used Betsy Ross Bridge instead of the more popular (and possibly traffic-jammed) Tacony-Palmyra Bridge as our cross-over into The Garden State. Finding ours being the only vehicle on the bridge in that early morning hour, Alan maneuvered the car across all eight lanes in a haphazard, zig-zaggy pattern. We all laughed hysterically, unfazed by the potential danger of his actions. Actually, we perceived it more of a foreshadowing of the unbridled revelry that lie ahead.

The ninety-minute drive ended at Betty’s Rooms, a massive, three-story single-family structure, now converted to a labyrinth of odd-shaped rooms and and mixed assemblage of guests, mostly families with an eye on thriftiness and teens like us. We were greeted by Crying Bob, Betty’s partner (possibly her husband - the jury is still out on that  call), who managed the large off-street parking lot. Bob, with his white crew-cut and windburned skin, directed us to a designated parking space with a warbling voice sounding as though he was on the verge of tears. We popped the trunk and grabbed our bags. The four of us bounded up the front steps, across the porch and through the front door where we were met by Betty herself. Betty was a frail, wizened, leathery woman with gray hair pulled into a tight bun at the back of her head and a horse-choking wad of paper money tucked securely under her ubiquitous crocheted shawl between a frayed bra strap and a bony shoulder. With a crooked, twig-like finger, Betty pointed up the stairs and handed over the key to the largest room in the house. We recklessly tossed our luggage into the room that would be our home for the next few days. A room that Betty would freshen daily with mismatched towels and hospital-cornered beds. A room whose condition would invariably deteriorate and bring unspoken disgust to Betty’s old-fashioned sense of respect and decency (for a woman who runs a rooming house, that is).

Our first order of business (which would lead to our second order of business), was to stock up on beer, soda, snacks, beer and beer. We made our way to Chelsea Liquors on Atlantic Avenue. Despite its “stripper-sounding” name, Chelsea Liquors was a small, cramped establishment eager to cater to the alcoholic whims of anyone with a valid proof of age. As the oldest of the group, I made my first official legal purchase of beer (four six-packs), while my friends gathered bags of crunchy snacks and two-liter bottles of soda. (No cups needed as we were pretty friendly. What’s a few wipes of a bottle-top between friends?) We returned to our room at Betty’s and, with no regard for the early hour of the day, began drinking immediately. And that’s how we occupied ourselves for four days. It was a veritable race to see who would succumb to cirrhosis of the liver first. And a hotly competitive race it was. We paused briefly to visit the beach or to ogle girls or to eat a normal meal, but mostly, we drank. As the first evening fell, we staggered to the Boardwalk for some fresh air and, possibly, a stop at a bar. The Boardwalk was crowded with peers also experiencing a summertime epilogue to their high school days. Familiar and unfamiliar faces swam past our bleary eyes as we feigned enthusiasm in superficial conversations. We were more interested in pickling our senses. After a few more hours of additional intoxication, we wavered and pitched back to Betty’s to sleep off some of the ingredients of the next morning’s impending hangover.

Before conking out for the night, we indulged in some chips and soda, consciously steering clear of any more alcohol. The cellophane bags were passed around as well as the plastic jug of Coke. I was seated on the edge of one bed and I clapped my hands to get the attention of Sam who was seated at a small table several feet away. I waved my palms towards me in the universal gesture of “send that soda bottle this way”. Sam cocked his arm and hefted the two-liter container up in the manner of an NFL quarterback facing the oncoming defensive line. He lightly bounced the nearly-full bottle and suddenly rocketed it in my direction. In the same instant, Scott decided he had had enough for one evening. He reached up and yanked the cord on the single light fixture on the ceiling ― immersing the room in total darkness. I sat in the obscuring emptiness with my arms outstretched, waiting for the approaching carbonated missile that Sam had launched a second earlier. My wait was minimal as I was immediately slammed in the head by the plastic decanter and sent backwards off the bed. The audible “WHAP” confirmed a direct hit to the three other occupants of the room. In a roar of laughter, someone snapped the light back on to find me laid out on the floor, a large welt already blooming on my forehead. The merriment of my pals faded away at the same rate as my consciousness.

The next morning, my hangover arrived right on schedule. But the bulletproof mentality of an eighteen year-old male is a tough thing to alter. I popped a few Excedrin and minutes later I felt I was ready to accompany my friends to breakfast. Everyone knows that there’s nothing better to fight a hangover than some aspirin and a stack of pancakes.

The next three days took a course similar to Day One, except I didn’t take anymore Coke bottles to the noggin. On Day Four, we disposed of the many beer cans and swept the pretzel crumbs off the beds to leave the room as presentable as possible. We loaded our bags into Alan’s car and started for home, waving to Betty and Crying Bob as we exited the parking lot.

Summer was over. Life awaited us.

This week’s Illustration Friday challenge word is “safari”.

Every kid grows up listening to novelty songs and every generation had their favorites. From the early 20th century’s “K-K-K-Katy” and “Yes We Have No Bananas” to the wildly popular “Der Fuher’s Face” during World War II, novelty songs have always been crowd-pleasers.

When I was in high school, I loyally tuned in to the syndicated Dr. Demento Show  every Sunday night on local station WYSP. Upon hearing the opening strains of The Roto Rooter Good Time Christmas Band’s instrumental version of “Pico and Sepulveda”, I knew I was in store for two hours jammed with the strangest, wackiest and coolest novelty songs hand-picked by the good Doctor himself.  Dr. Demento’s (aka Barry Hansen) playlist spanned several decades. It was on the Dr. Demento Show  that I first heard the classics “Shaving Cream” and “Fish Heads”. He played Allan Sherman songs that I had listened to as a kid. He played Frank Zappa songs that may have been considered novelties by the masses, but not by Frank. Dr. Demento even played homemade tapes tapes some kid with an accodorian sent him. That kid, Weird Al Yankovic, made a career out of the novelty genre.

I had some favorites that I would wait for every week, hoping to hear and laugh along with them again. One was Jerry Samuels’ “I Owe A Lot (to Iowa Pot)”. This folk guitar ditty was a vast departure from Jerry’s previous novelty effort. In the middle 60s, Jerry recorded the international novelty hit “They’re Coming to Take Me Away” under the pseudonym Napoleon XIV. I was also partial to ”Friendly Neighborhood Narco Agent” by Jef Jaisun. Jef’s fun little ode to getting busted was actually a nightmare for the budding rockstar. Warner Brothers Records gave poor Jef the run-around for years, denying him any royalties. After years of futile attempts for payment, Jef’s career headed in another direction and he became a fairly successful photographer until he passed away in 2006. Folk singer Peter Alsop had a minor hit with Larry Groce’s “Junk Food Junkie”. On his tenth album, Peter recorded “Let’s Go On Safari into My Sister’s Nose” — a song, thirty-five years later, I still can’t get out of my head. Peter still records today, but here are the lyrics to his opus about his sibling’s snot:

Let’s go on safari\Into my sister’s nose,\I’ll bet we find some treasure\Like we found between her toes
Be careful that you don’t get lost\And tangled-up in hair\I hope that it’s still open\Cause her finger’s always there!

Leave your gas mask in the car\My sister’s nose won’t smell\But bring along a pack\You might find something you can sell!
Sometimes a loose stalactite\Gives no warning when it falls\So walk only on the hard part\And please don’t touch the walls
Or we’ll never get you out of there\You’ll slide right out of sight\Although my sister’s nose is nice\It’s a scary place at night!

So let’s go on safari\Into my sister’s nose\The Northwest Passage might be open\Usually it’s closed!
Don’t worry about the monsters\That are lurking up in there\If you get one on you, do like her\And wipe it on Mom’s chair!

She’ll blow away our troubles\If we simply ask her, “Please?”\My sister loves me very much\Because I never tease!!

Yep, it’s still  funny.