sure know something

In early 1975, I purchased Dressed to Kill by KISS on 8-track. I had a portable Panasonic 8-track player called a Dynamite 8, so named for its cool resemblance to the explosive detonators used by villains in countless Westerns, as well as the perennially-exasperated Wile E. Coyote in his quest for the Road Runner. I played that 8-track over and over and over again. Due to the sequencing constraints of the 8-track format, the songs "Rock Bottom" and "She" were each split across two tracks, meaning the song stopped and a loud, audible "click" was heard to announce the second part of the song. For some time, I didn't realize that the dreamy introduction to "Rock Bottom" and the heavy drum-driven lyrical part were actually the same song. Nevertheless, I listened to Dressed to Kill relentlessly, until I purchased KISS Alive, the double disc live album, released just a mere six months later. This allegedly live set was a chronicle of the KISS concert experience, complete with Paul Stanley awkwardly addressing the crowd in his nasally Brooklyn accent and said crowd expressing their wild approval. (Of course, it was later revealed that the majority of this "live album" was heavily enhanced in the studio with recorded crowd noise added to create the illusion of a live recording.) Regardless, I listened to KISS Alive three times as much as I listened to Dressed to Kill... until I didn't.

Actually, I stopped listening to KISS altogether.

A few weeks ago, I obtained the fiftieth anniversary box set of Dressed to Kill. This sprawling, bombastic, overblown set expands the original 10-track collection to a whopping 107 tracks, including studio outtakes, remixes, unreleased takes, demos and two — count 'em — two full concerts. The original album clocked in at just a few seconds over the thirty minute mark. In commemoration of its half-century anniversary, no less that five discs are required for the full experience.

I listened to the first disc, which is a remastered version of the original album. It was the first time I listened to this album since I gave up on KISS when I was 14. I was surprised by how many of the songs I remembered. I was surprised by how many of the songs I didn't remember. But, I was most surprised by how terrible it was. I instantly figured out why I loved KISS when I was a teenager. They were loud. They were obnoxious. They sang about girls and partying and girls. But, the song lyrics were juvenile. The rhymes were amateurish "June-moon" stuff. The music was repetitive and unimaginative. It was just dumb. Yep. Dumb. That's the best way I can explain it. Dumb. There was no way I was gonna make it through four more discs of this.

I started to listen to the second disc and soon found myself skipping track after track. Jeez! How many times can you listen to the exact same intro of "Rock and Roll All Nite" and hear Paul warble out the un-"studio"-ized lyrics until he stumbles mid-take and is interrupted by a studio technician.. It was tedious. And, again, it was terrible. The two concerts (recorded on the same tour just a few months apart) included a number of the same songs and were just as bad. I stopped listening and listened to something else.

Earlier this week, I was listening to the radio. Philadelphia public broadcaster WXPN features a nightly show called "Highs in the 70s." This show is an hour-long showcase of music exclusively from "music's wildest decade," as promised by host Dan Reed. On this particular night, Dan was playing KISS's album Destroyer in its entirety to commemorate its release fifty years ago to the day. From the opening strains of "Detroit Rock City" through the faux menace of "God of Thunder" to the goofy repetitious party anthem "Shout It Out Loud" to the voice cracking sentimentality of power ballad "Beth," Destroyer was awful. Just plain awful. I briefly stopped helping Mrs. P prepare dinner and stared incredulously at the radio. I could not believe how extraordinarily bad this album was. Had I just forgotten? Did I just remember it differently? Had my musical tastes improved and matured over the past fifty years? I suppose it was a combination of the three.

KISS is music specifically for angst-ridden teenage boys, looking for a party, sneaking a fifth from dad's liquor cabinet and trying to get into some cheerleader's pants. It's dim-witted, insipid and sophomoric. KISS isn't a band. KISS is four accountants in clown make-up. They are a brand on the same shelf as Monster energy drink, Jack Links and Trojans. They should check IDs at KISS concerts or if you'd like to purchase a KISS album. If you are over 14, move along.

But, as bad as it is... it sure made those four guys a shitload of money.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

the show must go on

In February 1991, I purchased Innuendo, the fourteenth studio album by Queen and the final effort to be released in lead singer Freddie Mercury's lifetime. As of right now, I have listened to the album in its entirety twice. The first time I listened to it was the day I brought it home from the store (probably a now out-of-business Tower Records). The second time was this past Tuesday, in my car on the way home from work.

I was an instant Queen fan from the moment I heard "Killer Queen" blaring from my radio one late October evening in 1974. Amid the breezy pop of Olivia Newton-John and the bass-heavy funk of Billy Preston, the sound that Queen produced in a precise three minutes was positively alien. I had never heard anything like Queen, and I needed to hear more. I bought Sheer Heart Attack, the full album on which "Killer Queen" appeared, as well as Queen's previous two releases, aptly named Queen and Queen II.

As far as teenage Josh Pincus was concerned, there was no better band than Queen. I saw them live several times, totally captivated by Freddie Mercury's charismatic stage presence. From the very beginning of each concert until the final note of the encore, Freddie held the audience in the palm of his hand. The band's recorded musical output continued to break rules, defy genres and offer new and innovating songs. 

Until it didn't.

In the 80s, my love for Queen sort of waned. My interest in other bands led me away from the teenage comfort Queen brought me. Bands like The Clash and Adam and The Ants brought an edgier grittier sound that Queen didn't attempt. In the middle 80s, the Queen sound became formulaic. They were putting out faux disco, faux punk and faux new wave. They were trend followers instead of trend setters. Even though I continued to buy Queen albums, I did so out of obligation rather than interest. I gave each new release the obligatory listen, then returned the disc to its jacket, never to grace my turntable again. Where I once knew the track listing of every single early Queen album, I couldn't even name a song on The Miracle or A Kind of Magic. A recent episode of the HBO Max sitcom Hacks opened with a Queen song called "Breakthru," which — I swear! — I had never heard before.

In February 1991, I bought Innuendo. I listened to it and, honestly, I hated it. Aside from the epic title track which kicked off the album, it sounded like an unfinished work-in-progress. Songs meandered and just never went anywhere. Their once-innovative songs now sounded forced and just all over the place. When the CD finished, I put it back into its protective case and returned it to the end of the "Q"s in the alphabetical arrangement on my music shelves. And there it stayed for 34 years.

Although he began exhibiting symptoms as early as 1982, Freddie Mercury was officially diagnosed with AIDS in 1987. Rumors about his health ran rampant in the press for years, with Freddie and his bandmates vehemently denying every one. Throughout 1989 and 1990, Queen recorded Innuendo, with a weakened and frail Freddie Mercury determined to finish the album. Bandmate and friend Brian May regularly expressed concern for Freddie, only to be brushed off. Freddie forced himself to hit unhittable notes and play complicated piano pieces. After Innuendo's release, Queen was honored with an award for Outstanding Contribution to British Music. The band attended the awards ceremony with a gaunt and pale Freddie Mercury in tow. It was his last public appearance. On November 22, 1991, via his manager, Freddie Mercury publicly confirmed his AIDS diagnosis. He passed away on November 24.

I don't know why, but just this week I pulled out my copy of Innuendo and loaded it into my phone to listen via Bluetooth on my commute home. The album seemed new to me, as none of the songs sounded the least bit familiar. But I listened. Freddie's voice sounded surprisingly strong, belying any hint of poor health. Some songs were intricately arranged. Others were playful and filled with snide humor. Most harkened back to the bombastic quality that made Queen Queen. It was like a trip in a time machine. 

And it was sad.

Innuendo seemed to play out as the coda of a career. It was Freddie Mercury's swan song and he was determined to go out like he came in — with a loud, obnoxious, sardonic bang. He knew his fate. He knew this was his final act. And the final result shows it.

I will probably never listen to Innuendo again. I don't see a reason to.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

what's the use of anything

I was a terrible student. Yeah, I passed all of my classes from elementary school through high school, but only barely. My report cards mostly displayed "C's and the occasional "B." An "A" was a rarity for me, usually being awarded for art, a subject I would make my career, but teachers treated as "indoor recess." When someone (such as myself) showed a modicum of artistic ability, an otherwise indifferent teacher would mark an "A" because.... eh... what the heck. Maybe they'll be the next Picasso. (Spoiler alert: I was not.) So, aside from art classes, I was an average student. Not bad. Not something to brag about, but not bad. Just average. How I managed being "average" was actually an accomplishment. I hated homework and avoided it any chance I could. Sometimes I just wouldn't do it. My parents rarely questioned me regarding homework assignments. My father was more concerned about who ate the last Tastykake Chocolate Junior and my mom wanted to know who put the carton back in the refrigerator with an eyedropper's worth of milk left in it. Homework was not high on their "who did this" list. As far as my teachers went, I would either get a "zero" for that assignment (which I later discovered is bullshit) or I'd get a one-day extension. Sometimes, "one day" was all the motivation I needed and I'd knock something out and turn it in a day late.

In addition to general daily homework assignments, I loathed long-term assignments. These were known as "projects," and the expected result was some sort of poster or diorama or model. With those, because of the artistic aspect, I could get away with minimal information and heavy on the "pretty." But, if the project was something like a book report.... well, I was fucked. Book reports meant you had to read an actual book. Although things changed considerably as I got older, I hated reading when I was young. And reading a book?... for pleasure?.... yeeesh! But I did them. I read short books and copied lengthy passages from them as part of my book reports. The night before my book report was due, I'd panic and beg my mom to take me to Woolworths to get one of those clear report covers with the plastic spine that slid on to secure the pages inside. My reports were usually only three or four pages long (well, part of a fourth page, anyway). And I'd — more often than not — get a "C" on them. This went on all through elementary school. I can't remember a single one of the books I read.

 

After elementary school, there was a whole restructuring with our school district. My friends and I were assigned to seventh grade at J. Hampton Moore, a school well out of the cocoon we all lived in. Moore was far off from our little corner of Greater Northeast Philadelphia. Moore was in the same neighborhood as Roosevelt Mall, a place I only went with my mom on weekends. It was near Northeast High School, the crosstown rival of George Washington High, where my brother went. (Northeast wasn't really "crosstown," but to twelve year-old Josh, it may as well have been in another city.) Due to the restructuring, my friends and I were thrown together with other students from other elementary schools that were completely foreign to us. For six years, I was in classes with the same 30 to 35 kids. Suddenly, there were strangers among us.... and we were strangers to them.

New school or not, the homework assignments were the same. And just like in elementary school, "projects" were looming over me as well. Oh, yeah! Seventh grade didn't forget about ":projects." If anything, book reports became more difficult, requiring more preparation and in-depth commentary. My seventh grade English teacher was a very cool guy named Mr. Butler. Mr. Butler resembled, and seemed to have patterned his wardrobe after, Clarence Williams III, the ultra-cool co-star of the syndicated cop show Mod Squad. The first half of seventh grade English involved plays and acting and other forms of creative expression. I wrote a couple of plays for my classmates to perform and I acted in a few as well. As a natural show-off, I was a total ham and I really enjoyed it. The second half of the semester was brutal. It became an actual English class, chockfull of sentence diagraming and vocabulary tests and.... you guessed it.... book reports. When the first book report was assigned, I asked Mr. Butler if we could speak privately.

Paul McCartney, three years after the split of the most popular and influential band in rock and roll history, had released a solo career-defining album at the end of 1973. Spending six weeks in post-civil war and cholera-infested Lagos, Nigeria, the former Beatle, his wife Linda and guitarist Denny Laine (late of the Moody Blues) recorded a number of tracks that would become Band on the Run. Despite shitty recording equipment, getting held up at knifepoint and two members of Paul's fledgling band Wings quitting, the threesome soldiered on. Paul handled the bulk of the instruments, tackling bass, drums and most of the lead guitar work. Linda added her best keyboards and Denny supplied rhythm guitar. Paul wrote songs of freedom and escaping, possibly as a dig at the trapped feeling he felt in the waning days of The Beatles. In the month and a half they spent in Lagos, Paul had a bag full of lyrics stolen from him. He butted heads with hotheaded Nigerian musician and activist Fela Kuti. Kuti accused Paul of exploitation and stealing African music. (Paul graciously shared his music with Kuti, showing that he was not appropriating native music.) At one point, Paul suffered from bronchial spasms that Linda thought was a heart attack. But, Band on the Run was released and it was a worldwide hit, selling millions and receiving critical acclaim.

I bought Band on the Run and I loved it. And that's what I wanted to talk to Mr. Butler about.

I approached Mr. Butler's desk, waiting for the last of my classmates to leave the room at the end of class. "What did you want to talk about?," he asked, his eyes inquisitive as they peered over the tops of his dark glasses. (Yes, he wore dark glasses in class. I told you he was cool)

"About the book report...." I trailed off, gathering my thoughts and my courage. "Can I do a book report on an album?"

Mr. Butler looked at me... expressionless. Then, in spite of those dark glasses obscuring my line of vison, I swore he rolled his eyes in exasperation. "Pincus!," he sighed, "An album? Like a record album?" He was thinking. "Uh... okay.," Mr. Butler conceded. Then he added: "But it had better be good."

"It will be! Thank you, Mr. Butler." I left the classroom with a smile.

When I got home, I listened to Paul McCartney's Band on the Run. Sure, I had done this nearly every day since I bought the album at Korvette's, but this time was different. This time, it was for school! I listened closely. I read the lyric sheet. I followed along with the lyrics as the songs played. I listened to side one. I listened to side two. I analyzed the songs in my head. I reread the lyrics. I tried to make some sense out of the often cryptic, often nonsensical lyrics. I wrote notes — actual notes — as though I was doing an assignment for real! Finally, I began writing my "book" report. I wrote an introduction paragraph. I broke my report into paragraphs discussing each song, its possible meaning and how it fit sequentially into the album as a whole. Each of the nine songs on the album warranted a paragraph or two. I finished with a summary of the entire album and my thoughts on my listening experience. I carefully wrote out my report. I slipped the pages into one of those clear report covers with the plastic spine that slid on. I put it carefully into my schoolbag.

The next day, I proudly handed it in to Mr. Butler, plopping it down on the pile of other clear plastic bound book reports authored by my classmates. I did it. I convinced a teacher to let me do a "book" report on an album and I handed it in. I was very, very proud of myself. Very proud, indeed.

I got a "C."

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

for crying out loud

In 2014, my favorite radio station, a member-supported public radio affiliate, presented a countdown of the worst songs of all time. They set aside a Saturday afternoon and played — in ascending or descending order (depending on your personal preferences) — a collection of some of the most horrible songs from the past forty years. While a few of the selections, like Daft Punk's "Get Lucky" and  ABBA's "Dancing Queen," had some listeners scratching their heads over their inclusion on this list, others, like Starship's "We Built This City" were understandable in their ranking. 

Coming in at numbers 12 and 29 respectively (or disrespectively) were two songs from the catalog of heavyweight rocker Meat Loaf. Number 29 was Mr. Loaf's comeback epic "I'd Do Anything for Love" and over a dozen spaces later was "Paradise by the Dashboard Light," the Wagnerian suite of teen sexual frustration.

The latter had me outraged.

In early 1978, I stumbled upon an album at a Sam Goody record store, a place I frequented often to peruse the latest musical trends and to find that elusive release to beat my friends to the punch. The cover caught my eye first. It was a hellish depiction by Heavy Metal Magazine artist Richard Corben, featuring a muscular guy on a motorcycle emerging from the ground of a cemetery in a hail of white energy. At the top, in a Gothic looking font were the words "Meat Loaf." Below that, in thin caps, it read "Bat Out of Hell." At the very bottom was this unusual credit: "Songs by Jim Steinman." I didn't know what to make of this. I had never heard of this singer (or band, for all I knew) "Meat Loaf." I never before saw a songwriter receive credit on the front cover of an album — especially one I never heard of. 

So..... I bought it. And, after just a few plays, it quickly became one of my favorites. I spun it on my family's turntable over and over. Each song was a lush magnificent symphony — thanks to equal parts of Todd Rundgren's Utopia and contract players from Bruce Springsteen's legendary E Street Band. The lyrics formed modern-day librettos that rivaled La bohème and Carmen. Each lengthy composition was delivered with tongue planted firmly in cheek — by the multi-octave vocals of Meat Loaf, the mysterious moniker adopted by one-time high-school football star, Marvin Aday. As the album unfolded, Meat Loaf spun otherworldly tales of demonic messengers from Hell, angst-filled adolescent ultimatums and unflinching declarations of unrequited love — all against a multi-layered musical backdrop running the gamut from soaring guitars to sad piano. There were even sounds of grinding gears and a cameo by former Yankee Scooter Rizzuto to round things out. Needless to say, it was unlike any album I owned. And my parents hated when I played it — so, I loved it even more. The album took off nationwide and high-tailed it up the charts, eventually landing at Number 1 and staying there for seven weeks. (40 years after its release, "Bat Out of Hell" still sells an estimated 200,000 copies per year.)

Then, while preparing to record the follow-up, Meat Loaf lost his voice. A panicked Jim Steinman decided to record the album himself. In 1981, Steinman released "Bad for Good," a near clone of "Bat Out of Hell." The songs and production were stellar, but Steinman's thin, uneasy vocals paled in comparison to Meat Loaf's robust vocals. While it yielded a hit ("Rock & Roll Dreams Come Through," rerecorded by Meat Loaf years later), "Bad for Good" was no "Bat Out of Hell." By the time Meat Loaf was able to release a proper follow-up, the fickle public had waited long enough and had moved on, leaving only die-hard fans (like me) to support the once mighty Mr. Loaf. I even bought a few more, lesser-received Meat Loaf albums, including the UK-only release "Bad Attitude."

I saw Meat Loaf in 1982, when he brought his "Midnight at the Lost and Found" tour to Philadelphia. Meat Loaf and his band played the Ripley Music Hall* on South Street. My friend Sam and I were kept from a front row seat by a guy who spent the entire show silently mouthing every single word to every single single song, all with his head bowed and his eyes tightly closed. We thought for sure that this guy would produce a gun during the encore and shoot Meat Loaf point blank. (He didn't.) However, the place was relatively empty, revealing a definite wane in Meat Loaf's popularity. 

My admiration for Meat Loaf began to stray as well. I stopped buying his albums and stopped keeping up on his career. 

In 1993, sixteen years after "Bat Out of Hell," Meat Loaf came back with "Bat Out of Hell II," an over-ambitious sequel to the original, sporting the unimaginative subtitle "Back Into Hell." Once again, it featured songs by Jim Steinman, reunited with his collaborative partner after a few years of legal battles. He even filched a few tunes from his own solo effort. The new album — which was purchased by everyone my age with nostalgic longing for their awkward high-school days — was properly overblown and perfectly bombastic. It was everything you'd expect from a Meat Loaf album. But perhaps that only had appeal to a younger audience.... in the late 70s. I played it exactly once and then continued on in my sans Meat Loaf life.

Some time after the "Worst Song" countdown, Dan Reed, the afternoon drive-time disk jockey on my favorite radio station introduced a mid-week segment on his show called "Worst Song in the World." Every Wednesday afternoon around 4:30, Dan selects a terrible song from those suggested by listeners and spins it for the campy displeasure of the listening audience. He recently told the story of how he was inspired to create this weekly feature. He explained that a song came across his desk from a new Meat Loaf album. When he listened to it, he was prompted to deem it the "worst song in the world, " thus creating a new feature on his afternoon program. The song in question was "Speaking in Tongues," from his most recent release "Braver Than We Are" ... and it was, indeed, pretty bad — the songwriting, the arrangement and, sadly, the vocals. Meat Loaf sounded as though he was straining to get the words out. Though, judging by such phrases as "There are things we learn by science/There are things we learn by art/There are things we learn from the fires of love/An erection of the heart," perhaps he was embarrassed to sing these "phoned-in" lyrics from the once clever pen of Mr. Steinman. (I know I would be.) 

Meat Loaf still tours. Jim Steinman still writes. I'm just not interested anymore.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

* The Ripley was a small venue on South Street. When The Ripley closed, it became a Tower Records and then a Walgreen's. I believe it's a sneaker store now.

my milkshake brings all the boys to the yard

After much preparation, we had another yard sale at Chez Pincus this past weekend. In the days and weeks prior, a diligent and determined Mrs. Pincus gathered loads of items that she deemed no longer worthy of the Pincus Home Collection. The various household cast-offs were combined with a selection of surplus items from my wife's eBay store and the whole lot lay in silent repose until early Saturday morning, when we dragged every last piece out on to our front lawn and newly-paved driveway, where we arranged everything into a pleasing display. Pleasing enough to entice someone to get this stuff out of my life once and for all.

The weather was on our side that day and the crowd was fairly steady, thanks to (no lie!) three hundred signs we stapled onto nearly every utility pole in our neighborhood. Mrs. P, wrapped up in her "I mean business" change apron, performed a nimble retail ballet, as she flit from one customer to another, answering questions, making change and — cha-CHING! — moving merchandise.

During the course of the day, I mostly just sat on my ass and watched. After emptying my living room and dining room of the piles of assorted "treasures," I decided that the actual sale was best left handled by my spouse, with her sharp business prowess and sweet interpersonal skills — two qualities in which I am sorely deficient. So, I sat. With a big cup of coffee in my hand, I parked myself on the edge of my porch and sat.

Look at this stuff...

Although I was content to sit silently, I knew that, since this was my house, I would be called upon to answer some questions about the items strewn about my property. So, unavoidably, I fielded an assortment of some of the most idiotic questions and comments. One man strolled up our front walkway, stopping before a narrow wooden bin filled with the remnants of our once-proud record collection. He withdrew a copy of a 1997 greatest hits release by the British ska band Madness. He held the album up for me to see. "Madness.," he chuckled as he read the printing on the cover, as though I couldn't read it myself. I offered a cockeyed, uncomfortable smile and thought, "I know, idiot, it's my fucking album." The man replaced the album, turned around and walked away.

...isn't it neat?

Another fellow picked up a glossy photo of Dire Straits guitarist Mark Knopfler that my son had decided he could live without. This man, as if mimicking the "Madness" guy, showed the photo to me and pointed to it. "Mark Knopfler.," he said, and then put it back in with our album inventory and strolled away.

Wouldn't you think...

Since moving into his own house, my son has slowly (very slowly) begun to dismantle and pare down a twenty-plus year collection of stuff that had accumulated in his former bedroom. He has taken some mementos to his house, while others have been discarded and still others have been offered at one of our previous yard sales. One of those items, an acoustic guitar, was now perched on the cement steps that lead to our front porch. There were several inquiries about the instrument — an introductory model from the good folks at Sam Ash Guitars. One older gentleman in a tie-dyed shirt and a long, gray ponytail fastened with a schmatta to keep it in place, asked the price of the guitar and if he could inspect it. My son grabbed the zipper pull on the case and traced the zipper all the way around the shape of the bag until the guitar was revealed. "I haven't played it in a long time.," my son said as he removed the guitar from the case and handed it to the potential customer. The man peered down his nose at the instrument. "Looks like the bridge is gettin' pulled up by the strings. I can adjust the strings fer ya.," he said, his spindly fingers daintily turning the tuning pegs, his eyes under his furrowed brow focused on the oxidated strings, "I guess it hasn't been played in a while." My son rolled his eyes and whispered to me, "Didn't I just say that?" The man asked, "What're ya askin' fer it?" My son replied, "A hundred including the case. Interested?" "Naw," the guy answered, "I'll adjust the strings for you, though. Got any other guitars?" My son frowned with disgust and whipped the guitar out of the guy's hands and zipped it back up into the case.

...my collection's complete?

In preparation for this sale, I went through my closet and whittled my wardrobe down to just the clothes I regularly wear. I made several large stacks of pants and jeans that I haven't worn in years or no longer fit me or both. The always-enterprising Mrs. P suggested we should put them out at the yard sale rather than just donating them to a local old clothing drop-off box. So, a bunch of my clothes now sat beside a bundle of bent snow shovels and a tall, narrow set of Ikea CD storage shelves that survived our flooded basement. Much to my surprise, a few men furiously unfolded and examined my jeans, each selecting several pairs for purchase at two bucks a pop. While I was happy to sell them, I felt it a bit unnerving that some dudes are now gonna be walking around my neighborhood wearing my pants. Pretty creepy, if you really think about it

What the guys go crazy for.

Throughout the course of the morning and afternoon, I think more people asked about the beautiful set of connected wooden auditorium seats that we have on our front porch. My wife found them in an antique store. They were rescued from an elementary school in Atlanta, Georgia (...or so we were told. Great antiques must have a great story attached to them) and ended up at our home. We did our best to block the chairs with boxes and empty bins, but still, people craned their necks for a better view and asked, "Oooh! How much are the movie theater seats." I offered the same answer to all, "They are bolted to the porch. If you want 'em, you have to buy the house."

Overall, our sale was a success and we moved a lot of unwanted items out of our house. We held on to some things, storing them on our back porch for one more public offering at a future yard sale. Some items, however, had overstayed their welcome and were amassed in the back of my wife's SUV for donation and eventual tax deduction. But, the real lesson learned here is: "Boy, people are strange."

www.joshpincusiscrying.com