I didn't recognize the man in the mirror

Nearly thirty years ago, my wife and I were in the food court of a local mall with our son. Our son was about seven or eight at the time. Taking a break from shopping, we selected a table and ate our standard mall food fare, probably pizza or the always "safe bet" salad. As we ate I looked around at the other folks doing pretty much the same thing we were doing. It was a fine example of suburbia and I silently laughed at the tableau before me. 

I continued to eat and observe my surroundings when my glance landed upon a startling sight. Sitting at a table about ten or so feet away was a man eating his dinner alone. His head was down as he guided his food-laden fork to his mouth. Not particularly unusual... until he lifted his head up. He was the spitting image of my father. I don't mean he was a guy who kind of resembled my father. I mean he looked identical to my father. So much so, that — if I didn't know otherwise — I would have thought it was my father. But I did know otherwise. My father had passed away over eighteen months prior. This made this sighting all the more.... unusual.

I am not a believer in the afterlife or omens or signals from the Great Beyond. I cringe when I hear people interpreting the appearance of a cardinal as a representation of a deceased loved one. I dislike when folks wish dead people a "happy heavenly birthday" and I certainly do not — under any circumstances — entertain the unscientific concept of reincarnation. You want to believe those things? Go ahead. Don't foist them on me, 'cause I ain't buyin'.

But seeing my father sitting at a table ten feet away from me, eating dinner, knowing — knowing —that he died a year and a half ago.... well, it was a bit unnerving. Not enough to make me a "believer," but unnerving just the same. I couldn't take my eyes off this guy. I tapped Mrs. Pincus's hand and discreetly pointed in the direction of the man eating his dinner. "Who does that guy look like?," I asked. She glanced behind her and needed no further direction. "Holy shit!" she exclaimed, trying to lower her voice to a whisper. Her reaction let me know she understood exactly which guy I was asking about.

Next thing I knew, I found myself doing something very un-Josh Pincus-like. I went over to the guy. "Excuse me," I began. He looked up from the open sectioned Styrofoam container from which he was extracting Americanized Chinese food. "You look just like my father.," I continued, "Do I know you?" The man smiled and identified himself as "Harold Simons." I instantly recognized "Simons" as my paternal grandmother's maiden name. My memory also scrambled to register his name as my father's first cousin. Coincidentally, "Harold" was also my father's first name, leading me to believe that, in the early part of the 20th Century, there was only a limited amount of male names available. Evidently, other more exotic names like "Tristan" and "Chase" had not been invented yet. (There were several "Max"s on both sides of my wife's family.) 

I told the man my name and noted our familial relationship. He chuckled in much the same way my father used to chuckle. I invited my father's cousin over to our table and introduced him to my wife and son. We talked for quite a while. He was much nicer and way friendlier than many of the members of my father's family — most of whom were not on speaking terms with one another. After some time, we excused ourselves, explaining that we had to be getting home. We expressed parting pleasantries and went our separate ways.

I sometimes think about one day being out in the world somewhere and a kid coming up to me, having been spooked by my familiar looks. You see, every time I look in the mirror lately, I see my father looking back. It's very unnerving, making me revisit my encounter with my father's cousin/doppelganger all those years ago. I suppose that's why I avoid shaving so much. I don't want my father watching me from such a close distance.

No. That's not an "up in heaven looking down on me" reference. That's a "Jeez! I'm getting old" reference.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

we are each other

I met Mrs. Pincus in February 1982. I wish I could say differently, but, it was not love at first sight. As a matter of fact, she thought I was the most obnoxious person she had ever met and I was hitting on her girlfriend. But, soon, a spark ignited. We had a lot in common and we fell in love and the rest is Pincus history.

While we explored our common interests, there was one subject we decided was off-limits — music. We decided if we ever ran out of things to talk about, we would ask each other: "What kind of music do you like?" and that would pretty much be the end. We would have exhausted all there was to discuss between us. So, we never — in 34 years — asked the question.

But, of course, we knew. How could we not? I had records and tapes when we met and so did Mrs. P. Jeez! We even went record shopping together. We darn well knew each other's favorite band. Mine was Queen and hers was The Grateful Dead. We couldn't have picked a more opposite pairing if we tried. Queen, with its flashy stage show and multiple costume changes, was noted for its chameleon-like musical style falling somewhere between Led Zeppelin and George Formby. The Grateful Dead, on the other hand, was a group of tenacious, psychedelic 60s holdovers, purveying its inimitable brand of atmospheric opuses to the spacey delight of the most rabid and loyal fans in the history of modern music. I was taken to my first Grateful Dead concert one month after I met the future Mrs. P. I was bored and unimpressed. I took my bride-to-be to her first (and, to date, only) Queen concert a few weeks later. She hated it.

I went to a dozen or so additional Dead shows in the years following. Mrs. P, however, was spared prolonged exposure as Queen had eliminated North America from all of its subsequent touring schedules. Soon afterward, Queen's flamboyant chanteur, Freddie Mercury, passed away. Four years later, The Grateful Dead's iconic sage, Jerry Garcia died.

Then things got eerie.

Considering how different — how polar opposite — Queen and The Grateful Dead were, their fate took a very similar path. Very similar.

Liar, liar everything you do is sin

Immediately after Freddie Mercury died, the remaining three members of Queen laid low, shunning the spotlight after a tribute concert for their departed colleague. Bassist John Deacon retired from the music business entirely. Guitarist Brian May and drummer Roger Taylor began to get a little antsy. Obviously they were not ready to call it a career. They had more music left in them. They soon teamed up with former Bad Company/Free singer Paul Rodgers and mounted a tour called "Queen + Paul Rodgers." They performed songs from the Queen catalog as well as hits from Bad Company. They frequently capped off their shows with the popular Free anthem "All Right Now." More recently, May and Taylor recruited American Idol runner-up Adam Lambert, a much younger vocalist with decidedly more pop-leaning talents, to fill Mercury's glittery shoes. At the same time, Brian May has been busily licensing Queen's music to every commercial entity that will wave a fistful of money in his direction. Queen songs have been featured in ads for PetSmart, Lay's Potato Chips, Diet Coke, The Gap and others. Brian May, taking the role as earthly spokesman on behalf of his late collaborator, has said (with a straight face), "Freddie would have approved of this." In the 25 years since Mercury's death, and despite several lucrative tours, there has been no new music attributed to Queen. They're just resting on their laurels.

He's gone, gone,
nothin's gonna bring him back

Faithful Dead Heads predicted the demise of their heroes in the wake of Jerry Garcia's death. Surprisingly, the band soldiered on, forming and reforming as "The Other Ones," "The Dead," "Furthur" and currently "Dead and Company," each version including a revolving roster of former members of the original, Jerry-less Grateful Dead, fortified with additional musicians. Their repertoire consisted of the 50-plus year Dead library of songs plus a number of familiar covers that had become concert staples. In a scene right out of the Mark Wahlberg film Rock Star, founding (and surviving) member Bob Weir once shared vocal duties with John Kadlecik, the leader of The Dark Star Orchestra, a Grateful Dead tribute band. Now, they are back on tour with the addition of John Mayer, a much younger guitarist with decidedly more pop-leaning talents. In the 21 years since Garcia's death, and despite several lucrative tours, there has been no new music attributed to The Grateful Dead. They're just resting on their.... well, you know.

It's interesting how two bands from different backgrounds with different musical directions ended up in such a similar situation. And, of all the bands in the world, my wife and I chose those two bands as our respective favorites.

The golden road to unlimited devotion. Funny how love is.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

ghosts that haunt me

My in-laws had their annual "Open Sukkah" get-together and, as usual, my wife and I were going to a Phillies game. We've been season ticket holders since 1996 and, invariably, this yearly soirée celebrating the "Festival of Booths" falls on the final home game of the Phillies' season. Luckily (or unluckily, depending how you look at it), this year has been a washout for the recent World Series Champions., so Mrs. P and I were able to make an early exit from the anti-climatic drubbing our home team was receiving at the hands (and bats) of the New York Mets. Easily slipping out of the ballpark, we headed back to Elkins Park.

My wife pulled her car to the top of her parents' driveway. We could see a few people in the side yard milling around the gaily decorated, slightly tilted, wooden structure. Inside the house, more guests were gathered in several rooms, with the largest crowd gathered by the food-laden table in the dining room. My in-laws' friends, relatives and assorted acquaintances like seeing the sukkah, but — boy! — do they love free food.

As I prepared a plate with mini stuffed peppers and assorted vegetarian hors d'oeuvres (duly marked by my mother-in-law with little homemade flags proclaiming them to be "veggie", making them look like they had been discovered and annexed by a Lilliputian tribe of vegans), I saw my wife talking to Linda, one of those women that you only see at these sorts of functions. I was shoving a spinach-filled flaky pastry thing into my mouth when Linda turned to me and said, "What's with Josh Pincus?" I cocked my head to one side, and chuckled as I began to tell the tale:

Josh Pincus is a pseudonym. It is the name under which I post illustrations. It is an alter-ego; a sarcastic, opinionated, little smart-ass in the guise of my five-year-old, redheaded stepchild self. Josh Pincus actually grew out of a dinner conversation at a Mexican restaurant. After spending the day with my then two-year-old niece, my wife and I took her out to dinner before taking her home. During the meal, she yammered on about the mysterious Josh Pincus, explaining that he was sad and he was crying, until she attempted to cheer him with an encouraging "Don't cry, Josh Pincus." Later, when we arrived at her house, my wife questioned her sister-in-law about Josh Pincus — was he a neighbor? a friend? a boy from day care? Sis-in-law was baffled, having never heard the name before. It was laughed off and promptly forgotten. A week or so later at a family dinner at my in-laws' house, I was seated at the kitchen table talking on my cellphone. My niece toddled past and asked, "Are you talking to Josh Pincus?" Then, she giggled and left the room. It was weird. 

When I decided to plunge into the daunting world of blogging, I adopted the name "Josh Pincus" and ran with it. Nearly eight years later, a Google search of Josh Pincus will deliver me in eight of the first ten results.(The other two are guys really named "Josh Pincus." That's right, I come up before they do.) It's all part of my ongoing campaign to take over the internet.

Linda listened attentively. I've told this story many times (although this is the first time I've made "The Big Reveal" to an internet audience). She finally gathered her thoughts and asked me, "Did you search any obituaries for 'Josh Pincus'?" She was being sincere. I felt an involuntary smile spread across my lips.

"No," I replied, "I wasn't really that interested."

With a solemn tone in her voice, she looked at me over her glasses and said, "Maybe Josh Pincus is a ghost."

I held back a burst of laughter.

She told me a story of when her daughter was a little girl. On a visit to Linda's sister's house, Linda was asked if her daughter had an imaginary friend. It seems that she was playing in the attic and talked about two other children — Richard and Julia. On the way home, Linda asked her daughter about her curious playmates and would they like to come to their house to play.

Daughter replied, "Oh, no. Richard and Julia live at Aunt Patty's. They can't come to our house. They can't leave Aunt Patty's attic."

On a subsequent trip to Aunt Patty's, an elderly neighbor asked if Linda and her daughter were new to the block. "No," Linda answered, "we're here to see my sister. She lives there." Linda raised her hand and pointed.

The old neighbor grimaced. "Oh,", she said, "the house where those two poor children died."

I listened to her otherworldly account and, as diplomatically as possible, I called "bullshit." I told her that we obviously do not share the same beliefs about the so-called "spirit world." I firmly stated that everything — and I mean everything — has a logical, sensible, rational explanation. I may not have that explanation, but one does indeed exist. Linda did not seem offended, but she was also sticking by her story.

I maintain my misgivings for ghosts and the supernatural. I do, however, wholeheartedly believe in Josh Pincus.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com