not to put too fine a point on it

Remember that girl in your fourth-grade class who dotted her "i"s with little bulbous hearts? Do you ever wonder if, as an adult, she still does that? Perhaps she is now a doctor with a family practice. Do you think she's writing prescriptions for Amoxicillin and capping those three "i"s with a plump, little heart floating above that vertical stroke and placed at a jaunty angle? I doubt it. I'll bet she's not using another bit of punctuation from her youth — the exclamation point. In order to show the urgency of the prescription, I'm sure she is informing her patient that it must be filled upon leaving the office and an immediate dose is of the utmost importance. I'd be willing to bet that nowhere on that prescription does a single exclamation point appear. Nowhere.

Y'know why? Because exclamation points are silly and childish and have no place in the adult world, much like a heart-shaped tittle (the technical term for the dot on the "i").

Look, I'm aware of the old adage: "Everything in moderation." I don't expect the exclamation point to totally disappear. People will continue to employ it at the end of a personal sentiment when signing a birthday card ("Best wishes, Mom!") and on banners brought to a baseball game ("Hit it here!"). But. please, can we limit its usage on every single piece of correspondence, especially those of a business or professional nature? And, if you do feel compelled to include an exclamation point in your communications, please, please, limit it to one. There is nothing more infuriating than seeing a pert little squadron of fifteen exclamation points following the eight letters that comprise the words "thank you." One can just as easily convey the gravity of an idea or the sincerity of a feeling with some carefully chosen words rather than the repeated staccato of dots with dashes balanced precariously over them.

Exclamation points should be treated like a box of Cocoa Puffs. Sure, they were great and plentiful when you were six. But, now as an adult, perhaps a wiser choice would be more beneficial. It's okay once in a while, but overuse could have detrimental results.

F. Scott Fitzgerald once said: "An exclamation point is like laughing at your own joke." And he knew a lot more about writing than you do.

!

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

save me, white jesus

Yesterday kicked off the annual Xponential Music Festival*, a 3-day undertaking, offering live performances by artists featured prominently on Philadelphia member-supported radio station WXPN. The festival has been the jumping off point for many performers who rose to super-stardom and others poised to do the same. Indie folkies The Lumineers played the show's smaller stage just prior to the recognition that would have them playing 25,000-seat indoor/outdoor venues within months. A nervous Grace Potter opened the festival several years in a row, before taking a coveted headlining spot on the final day and making appearances on the national concert tour and talk show circuit,

And then there's Josh Tillman. Ya gotta love Josh Tillman.

The enigmatic musician and one-time member of a dozen, just-under-the-radar, indie rock bands, emerged in 2012 under the guise of one "Father John Misty." As Misty, Tillman released two full-length, critically-acclaimed albums, 2012's Fear Fun, a dark and mythic journey through the desolate underbelly of Hollywood, and 2015's I Love You Honeybear, a self-described concept album about himself. Honeybear, while lauded as one of the year's best albums, was also derided as "misogynist," and "lacking in memorable hooks or choruses." Unfortunately, the majority of reviewers didn't understand what Father John Misty was all about. The truth is: he's musically pulling everyone's leg. Sure, he can pull off a lovely ballad, but if you listen closely, the biting wordplay of his lyrics are dripping with irony. The lead single from Fear Fun was the hauntingly beautiful "Hollywood Forever Cemetery Sings." The lyrics, woven within an ethereal musical arrangement, cryptically describe the singer's penchant for having sex on top of marble tombs. 

His live performances are curious spectacles, ranging from straight-forward deliveries of selections from his two releases, along with a few unexpected covers to an April Fools Day show that consisted of a single song - both performed and noted on his hand-written set list. He once performed a new song while standing behind a six-foot cutout of an iPhone, stating that this is how most people experience new music. Father John Misty messes with his audience. If you're a fan, you love it. If you're just a casual listener, you may be bewildered and possibly put off.

It's a joke, dammit.

On the first day of the Xponential Music Festival, after crowd-pleasing sets from local darlings Queen of Jeans, Texas indie rockers White Denim and Jersey blues guitarist Billy Hector, Father John Misty took the main stage — a stage cleared bare of any and all monitors and instruments. Prior to his entrance, he scribbled a curious setlist (pictured) of songs, none of which he had any intention of playing. Then, he informed the good folks at WXPN that his set would not be suitable for radio broadcast. Then, he strode onstage, standing alongside his holstered acoustic guitar and began to address the anxious crowd — anxious to hear live renditions of the familiar tunes they had heard on the radio. But Father John Misty wouldn't have it. He launched into what amounted to a six-minute, profanity-laden, near-incoherent rant, touching vaguely on various subjects, including "our next potential idiot king," his disdain for the decommissioned Battleship New Jersey docked nearby and his belief that "entertainment is stupid."

The audience squirmed and squirmed some more. 

Finally he picked his guitar from its stand and strummed a meandering, improvised ballad that was self-referential and narrative to events of the day. The audience began to express their displeasure. Although there was a smattering of cheers and laughter (include me and Mrs. P among those offering approval), the audience's collective reaction was one of anger. Jeers, boos and catcalls of "get the fuck off the stage" cut the air at various points throughout the crowd. After nearly ten minutes of basic strumming and puzzling lyrics, Father John Misty brought the piece to a close. He started his venomous, curse-filled banter again, only to interrupt himself with a cover of Leonard Cohen's "Bird on a Wire," featuring another set of improvised lyrics. He replaced his guitar, said "That's all I got." and walked off the stage  —  a full thirty minutes early. The staff scrambled to calm the restless and disappointed crowd.

It was priceless.

What the overwhelming majority of the festival-goers didn't understand was; they were had. It was a joke. A put-on. A ruse. A carefully calculated piece of performance art. Those familiar with Father John Misty's stage antics were captivated, entertained and completely enthralled. Those poor uninitiated who came to hear "Chateau Lobby #4" had no idea what to make of this guy with a voice as big as the apparent chip on his shoulder. They had no clue that Father John Misty was more Andy Kaufman than he was Bill O'Reilly. He wasn't there to deliver a politically-charged, "Wake Up, America" message. He was there to entertain. And entertain he did, it's just most of the people didn't realize that they were being entertained. That made the whole thing funnier.

Father John Misty did exactly what was expected of Father John Misty... and that's the unexpected. There was no deep meaning. There was no message. It was a piece of performance art. And while performance art isn't for everyone, it does make for a great experience watching those who don't quite get it.

On Saturday, day two of the festival, the discussion in the queue waiting the enter was filled with discussion of Father John Misty's set. Twitter was "a-twitter" with discussion of Father John Misty's set, as was Facebook. Other bands even made reference to the previous day's performance. Two days later, the were still talking about him.

A few years ago, comedian Ricky Gervais was recruited to host the Golden Globe Awards and was criticized and condemned for telling off-color jokes and politically-incorrect observances. But, he was hired for his skill in just those areas in the first place.

Now do you get it? If you don't, you never will.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

*presented by Subaru

rum, sodomy and the lash

Remember that contrasting scene in James Cameron's Titanic when Rose's family was elegantly enjoying a dignified tea on the top deck of the fated ocean liner while Leonardo DiCaprio and his grimy comrades, confined to the lower bowels of steerage, partied their asses off with steamy dancing and readily-flowing liquor?

Mrs. Pincus and I just returned from our fourth cruise together in as many years. She had taken a cruise five years ago with her family and members of her sister-in-law's extended family. I maintained that there wasn't a ship big enough to get me to accompany that crew, stuck in the middle of the ocean for eight days. Besides, I don't recall being invited on that trip to begin with.

Just as I predicted after my first cruise, all cruises are pretty much the same. Sure there are some slight differences — different people, different ports (although our first three cruises had the exact same itinerary) — but, for the most part, the basic experience is the same. You eat, you lay out by the pool, you see a depressed Caribbean city, you eat some more, you see a hokey show, you eat.... well, you get it. It's not a bad time. It's just the same time. This is what happens when you take a cruise. Just like this is what happens when you go to the dentist. You sit in a chair. Your teeth get poked at. You get it.

So, I was convinced that the "cruise experience" is similar from one trip to another, from one cruise line to another. My beliefs were seriously altered, however, when Mrs. P and I innocently wandered into a darkened nightclub aboard the Carnival Sunshine on our second day at sea. The late evening event was billed in the daily "Fun Guide" schedule as "Karaoke (18+)." It was a deceiving description considering what was transpiring. Sure, we had watched karaoke on other ships. Hey, we even participated a few years ago, nearly clearing the room with our gut-wrenching (and ear-splitting) rendition of Marty Robbins' classic cowboy ballad "El Paso." But, this particular evening, we were merely observers... and "observe" we did. We took a cozy seat in a curved, padded booth several rows from the small stage. The DJ was already calling the name of the next karaoke performer. A young lady approached the microphone amid a barrage of whoops and hollers from a stage-side table jammed with her travelling companions. The prerecorded music began and she belted out a horribly off-key take on Mary Wells' Motown classic "My Guy." Despite her cacophonous performance, the crowd ate it up, especially when she punctuated the song's rhythmic back-beat with a series of pelvic gyrations and suggestive shimmying. When the song concluded, the audience erupted in cheers and accolades, not unlike a Sunday service at an AME church. (Can I get a "Hallelujah?") She was followed by another woman who offered her version of the late Whitney Houston's "I Wanna Dance with Somebody," complete with the same provocative repertoire of physical alacrity. Midway through the song, a young man joined her onstage, draping a lanky arm around her shoulders. He pressed himself close to the singer and began nuzzling her neck. The air was filled with primal catcalls and unintelligible chatter. Each subsequent amateur performer was equally as titillating and was cheered with equal salaciousness. The evening climaxed with a foursome of young men delivering an unrecognizable tune (unrecognizable by me and the missus, anyway), one of whom bestowed a personal lap dance to a woman in the front row — a woman old enough to be his mother. Actually, it may have been his mother. The DJ thanked all the participants, as well as the audience, and everyone grabbed what was left of their drinks and filed out of the club. My wife and I exchanged puzzled glances. It was as though we were at a party, but weren't on the guest list. We weren't shunned or told to leave, but, we were not overtly welcomed either. We were just, kind of, ignored and left to ourselves, even though we were in full view of everyone. It was a very odd and palpable vibe.

The coveted ship on a stick.

A few evenings later, we spotted another late-night, adults only event cryptically listed as "Carnival Quest" on the schedule. Angelo, a very friendly member of the ship's entertainment staff, encouraged us to come to "Carnival Quest," but recommended, as first-timers, that we watch rather than participate. It turns out that "Carnival Quest" is merely a risqué Scavenger Hunt, and, judging from the throng of eager participants, it's quite popular and very familiar to regular "cruisers." Before beginning, the room was carefully scanned for anyone under the age of eighteen. Those not meeting age requirements were promptly shown the door. Then, the host divided the anxious group into teams and distributed laminated cards displaying each team's number. He announced that there would be a series of challenges, with the winning team awarded a fabulous prize. (As we learned, a "fabulous prize" on a Carnival cruise ship is a plastic trophy and a bottle of the worst champagne available.) The host also warned that those who may be offended by foul language and the occasional exposed body part should exit the nightclub at this time. Everyone laughed and no one left.

Hold the muster.

The first challenge was easy and innocuous. The elected captain of each team had to present a passenger ID card with a "B" muster station. (For those who have never taken a cruise, your vacation begins with a lifeboat drill prior to launch. Passengers gather at various designated points throughout the ship. These places are known by the nautical moniker "muster stations." Anxious and somewhat annoyed passengers stand around and watch crew members in colorful vests scramble about with clipboards and whistles until they are given the "all clear." At this point, drinking promptly resumes.) So, team members produced their individual IDs until they found one labeled "B." The entries were counted and the next challenge was announced. This was where things began to take a turn. A male member, selected from each team, must present himself front and center... dressed as a woman. Mrs. P and I noticed things were getting a little weird. We saw a few girls around the room remove a lacy sweater or a pair of high heels and force those articles on to a giggling male teammate. Other women, however, brought extra clothing — bras, jewelry, boas — with them. Within minutes, seven men were paraded around the room, all sporting some sort of women's wear. All — I repeat: all — were wearing bras on the outside of their clothing. The non-participating audience was in stitches, as it was quite a sight to see. It was unlike anything I had seen on three previous cruises. The next challenge was the opposite of the previous one. A female teammate was to be clad in men's clothing. The same amount of clambering took place, as petite young ladies were fitted with baseball caps, sunglasses and oversize T-shirts. One imaginative girl jammed an aluminum beer bottle into the crotch of her shorts to give the illusion of an erection. It was truly inspired. The next task was to show the host an X-rated photo on a cellphone. A few teams began scrolling through the gallery of digital images stored on their phones. Others began shoving their phones into their pants and snapping off a few quick shots.

This is probably all you need to see
of "The Human Centipede." Trust me.

The final two challenges were the most outrageous of all. One was an ass-shaking competition ("twerking" as it has come to be known) followed by a recreation of your favorite scene from your favorite pornographic film. Considering that most teams were comprised of total strangers, inhibitions took a back seat. Music blared and asses shook. A lot. An awful lot... until, after intense deliberation over each trembling posterior, an impartial squad of judges chose a winner. Then troupes from each team assembled and, while remaining fully clothed (for the most part, although a couple of women quickly discarded their tops, comfortably performing their scene in just a bra), fondled and spanked and whipped and kissed and bumped and ground into each other  — male, female, old, young. There was plenty of uninhibited, although simulated, (as far as I could tell from my vantage point) fellatio and cunnilingus and even a few depictions of sodomy and bondage. Several teams sent only male participants or only female participants to perform  — much to the delight of the audience. One extremely creative team enacted their version of the cult horror film The Human Centipede*. Hundreds of cameras snapped pictures and cellphones captured video that would be uploaded to YouTube as soon as a strong (and free) WIFI signal was available. It was unbelievable.

When it was all over, winners were crowned, prizes were distributed and the teams were lavished with wild praise. Mrs. P and I were bewildered. Up to this point, we thought we had seen everything there was to see on a cruise ship. We discovered that there was more to cruising than just deck chairs and an endless buffet.

*Don't search this at work.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

stop making sense

Você tem alguma idéia do que eu estou dizendo?

I entered the corporate world in the middle 90s when I took a job designing and composing newsletters for a large legal publisher. My background in newspaper composition coupled with my newly-gained experience in Pagemaker 4.0 made me a natural for the position. Prior to this job, I had worked in small businesses of not more than 10 or 15 employees. 

Within a few years, I grew bored and decided to move on. I became the art director for a Philadelphia-based chain of floor-covering stores. Here, I designed daily ads and weekly circulars. I knew nothing about carpet and yet, I managed to produce successful advertising during the three years of my employ. It was also during my tenure there that I was first exposed to the inane corporate jargon that is so prevalent in conference rooms and offices today. My boss — a shrewd, deceptive and despicable businessman — would regularly spew buzzwords at meetings. His favorite was "smartbombs." While discussing which lines of carpeting should be featured on the front of a four-page newspaper insert, he'd veer off course and say "We need to drop some smartbombs. That's what customers respond to — smartbombs!" I worked for him fifteen years ago and I still have no idea what a fucking smartbomb is.

Once again, I grew bored with my job and sought employment elsewhere. This time, I ended up in the marketing department of a national after-market auto parts supplier. Here's where the real corporate bullshit was. Advertising meetings were packed to standing-room. Executive Vice-Presidents in charge of who-knows-what would erupt in phrases like "low-hanging fruit" and "vertical thinking" and "tuna and bananas." Tuna and bananas? I thought we sold auto parts.

At my current employer (a job I have had for nearly ten years, and after this blog post, I hope to still have), every day is a new lesson in the business world lexicon. I have scratched my head trying to figure out what some of my co-workers are saying. It sounds like English. I have heard those words before, just not in that order or in that context. When I started out in the field of graphic design, I used to make these things called "brochures." Now, they have become "deliverables." People "used" things. Now, they "utilize" them, Co-workers would "call" each other. Now, they "reach out" to one another. We no longer "talk about it later." Now, we must "take it offline." Unless, of course, you are "off reservation," though I honestly don't know what that one means. Not content with the already-confusing clichés, someone decided to start mixing them up, like a big, interchangeable, corporate Mad-Libs. I once had someone tell me that a specific task was "in my wagon wheel." Later that same day, in a meeting, someone said "let's get our cats in a row" followed two sentences later by "that's like herding ducks." I wanted to stand up and interrupt the proceedings by asking, "What the actual fuck are you talking about?" I often wonder if they spoke this way only when dressed in freshly-pressed Dockers and a button-down Oxford. 

I believe that the proliferation of this overly flowery, often nonsensical code-language attempts — over anything else — to make the user sound more intelligent. Often, these words are being used incorrectly (as is the mistaken synonymy of "use" and "utilize"), along with incorrect grammar ("me and him" or "contact Joe and I") for added effect. In reality, "corporate-speak" only serves to make the user look the opposite of intelligent. There's a word for that, but it eludes me at the moment.

You wanna come off as "intelligent" to your superiors and subordinates alike? Concentrate more on the substance of your ideas and less on how you talk about them.

Also, you could try using the word "proliferation" more, 'cause that's a cool word.

(That illustration at the top of this post entry is called a "word cloud." Another "buzzword." It makes for a great design, but it's total bullshit.)

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

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

they say the neon lights are bright on Broadway

I am no fan of live theater — plays or musicals. I know, it makes no sense, as I am a huge fan of live music (i.e. concerts). I don't know what it is. Actually, I do know what it is. I don't like the over-exaggerated movements and the shouting of dialogue and songs and actors trying their very best to upstage each other. (I wrote about my dislike for live theater here and here.) 

I am also no fan of televised awards shows. Despite my dislike, I have watched many of them. I've even stuck with most of them until the bitter, tedious end of a broadcast that usually runs well over its allotted time. For the most part, awards shows are long, sprawling, sometimes aimless marathons of self-congratulation and inside jokes, punctuated by celebrities — both big and small — who make it very clear that they should not appear before a camera without a script.

But, on Sunday night, I watched the 70th Annual Tony Awards. And I actually enjoyed it.

Dancing > interviewing

Because of my disinterest in theater, I was not familiar with any of the nominees, save for current media juggernaut, the unavoidable Hamilton. This year's festivities were hosted by James Corden, host of his own talk show on the Tiffany Network following Stephen Colbert. I have seen Corden's show a few times and, while I can say that his interviewing skills leave a lot to be desired, the guy is undeniably talented. He sings, he's funny, he's self-effacing and he's personable. Plus, there wasn't really anything on Sunday night.

I was surprised by how many shows I actually knew, mostly because the current Broadway season is fraught with revivals and musical versions of big-screen movies re-imagined for the stage. I was also surprised by how many actors I recognized — seasoned Frank Langella, enigmatic Michael Shannon, pixieish Michelle Williams, the lovely Jane Krakowski and that redheaded guy from Modern Family (a show I never saw, but I have spotted him in commercials). The brief musical highlights were energetic and richly produced, a stage full of original cast members giving their all, as though it were opening night once again. In between musical numbers, the cameras cleverly switched to the front entrance of the majestic Beacon Theater as the cast of a different current show performed a compact rendition of a song from a classic Broadway musical, much to delight of the crowds gathered on the sidewalk. (The young cast of Spring Awakening belting out "I've Got Life" from Hair was especially amusing.)

Love is love is love is love

I think what I enjoyed most was the heartfelt sincerity expressed by each and every winner in their acceptance speeches. The actors, actresses, directors and assorted "behind the scenes" people all seemed genuinely appreciative, grateful and humbled. Most fought back tears and some didn't bother to fight, delivering their gramercy through red-rimmed eyes and quavering voices. It was truly touching and emotional and very real. Everyone looked happy and happy to be with other happy colleagues. It was especially touching as it was hours after the massacre at an Orlando nightclub in which 50 people were senselessly murdered by a hate-filled miscreant with an assault rifle. It was an incident that hit close to home for a great many of the evening's honorees. Yet they felt the right thing to do, the only thing to do, was to celebrate life. They expressed their support for their fallen brethren, as well as their anger and frustration. There was an overwhelming feeling of love and camaraderie that was palpable to the home viewer.

The entire three-and-a-half hours flew by. It was joyous and sad and entertaining.

And real.

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