walk right in, sit right down

On Saturday evening, Mrs. Pincus and I went to Philadelphia's beautiful World Cafe Live to see the first of two performances by British popster Nick Lowe and those masked men of instrumental rock Los Straitjackets. But that's not what this story is about.

World Cafe Live is currently celebrating its 20th anniversary as one of the best concert venues in the City of Brotherly Love. The venue boasts two stages — a smaller, more intimate space known as "The Lounge" on the street level and the main stage, named "The Music Hall," located two flights down. The Music Hall accommodates approximately 650 people. Depending on each particular evening's performance, the room is sometimes a wide open space dotted with tall bistro tables at which patrons can stand, lean and rest their drinks. Other times, tables are set up in various configurations based on ticket sales. A more popular act will feature more open space and fewer tables. Often, when reserved tickets at a table are sold, a dinner menu is offered to those who arrive early for a show. On this night, the floor was open with six tables set up along the back wall of the lower level — three on each side of the area housing the audio mixing equipment and the folks operating said equipment. Each table was set to seat eight people and each of these tables sported a very noticeable "RESERVED" sign at the end that was not butted up against the rear wall. On the upper level, just in front of the bar that runs the length of the back wall, were eight smaller tables — each one displaying a similar "RESERVED" sign on its surface. Upon closer inspection, one table — 304 — was the only one not designated as "RESERVED." We were one of the first people through the doors and we looked around to confirm that the seats at Table 304 was indeed free for the taking. Mrs. P and I grabbed two chairs at the back of the table while a few other folks with General Admission tickets (like the ones we had) joined us. Each one asking "Are these seats reserved?" or "Is it okay to sit here?" or some other variation of the same inquiry. As though we were some kind of Welcoming Committee, Mrs. P and I gestured toward the six available chairs until they were all filled. It was still nearly 45 minutes before showtime. The place was filling up. Hosts and hostesses were leading people with reserved seat tickets to the tables surrounding us.

(The two red dots are where Mrs. Pincus and I sat. The other dots were taken by our fellow concert-goers holding General Admission tickets)

The man from the couple sitting at the front of Table 304 was visibly nervous and jumpy. The man and woman seated opposite us reconfirmed that this table was not reserved. Mrs. Pincus laughed and said, "If anyone asks, I will pretend I don't speak English." I bolstered my wife's assertion with a joke about a man in a car asking a police officer if it was okay to park in an empty space behind a long line of cars. The policeman said, "No! This is a No Parking Zone. If you park here, you'll get a ticket." The man pointed and said, "What about all these other cars?" The cop replied, "They didn't ask." The other couple chuckled (I don't think they got my joke) and we all sat firm and defiant on our seats.

With thirty minutes until showtime, the jumpy guy at our table scurried off for a few minutes. He returned, loudly commenting to his partner that he asked about the "reserved status" of our table. He was told that all the seats were reserved and we may — may — be asked to leave Table 304. I instantly thought of that kid in elementary school who would anxiously raise his hand two minutes before the dismissal bell would ring to remind the teacher that she forgot to give a homework assignment to the class. As showtime grew nearer, several more of our table mates had to relinquish their claims when the rightful owners presented their reserved tickets. As the minutes ticked off, we sat like Charles Whitman's targets innocently making our way across the University of Texas campus. The jumpy guy and his mate were the next to go, followed by the couple across from us. The final seats (except for ours) were taken by a man with a prominent gray pompadour and a woman wearing waaaaay too much perfume. Way, way too much perfume. (Years ago, Mrs. P and I had boarded a very crowded plane. With the plane filling up, there was still an empty seat next to me. We watched a woman board the plane and begin to make her way down the aisle, Mrs. P pointed out that she saw this woman in the ladies room just prior to the boarding announcement. She noted that this woman may have knocked over a cosmetic display because she positively reeked of perfume. Just as my wife finished pronouncing the word "perfume," the woman sat down in the empty seat next to me. And she did indeed reek of overpowering perfume.)

Finally the house lights dimmed and Nick Lowe and Los Straitjackets took to the stage. Mrs. P and I still sat firm in our seats, still not asked to move. Two or three songs in, we were still there. I thought of the times I have attended baseball games and watched people holding tickets to seats adjacent to ours show up in the third or fourth inning. Lowe and the band tore through song after song. By the time the show reached the midway point, I figured we were safe. As a matter of fact, we sat undisturbed through the entire second set.

The nearby air stunk like a French whorehouse, but at least we had seats. And we beat the system.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

me and the boys

Way back in the early 2000s, I worked in the marketing department of Pep Boys, the national chain of after-market auto supplies. In the nearly four years that I worked in the company's main headquarters in Philadelphia, I set foot in an actual Pep Boys retail location at total of  two times. Once was to buy a set of Pep Boys bobble head characters. The second time was to fix a flat tire on a rental car while on vacation in Southern California. Aside from that, I had no reason to avail myself of Pep Boys' services. I had a local mechanic that I brought my car to for regular service. I had also heard my share of  "horror stories" regarding the level of care (or lack of) provided by Pep Boys mechanics. Customers described a wide range of experiences frm "stellar" and "excellent" to "awful," "unprofessional" and even "criminal." I was privy to a story summitted by a very unsatisfied customer who told of a routine stop to fix a flat tire. When the service was completed and her car war returned to her, she noticed that one of the car's windshield wipers was broken. She went on to question how this could have possibly happened, seeing as how the wipers are no where near the tires. I also heard a tale of how a customer's car was knocked off of the hydraulic lift in the service garage. I even saw full-color photographs to corroborate this customer's complaint. I will say that my personal experience in a Fullerton, California Pep Boys was short and sweet.

I owned my last car — a 2004 Toyota RAV4 — for twenty years. In that time, I recall getting a flat tire once. That dreaded little light popped up on my dashboard and, after consulting the owner's manual to determine the meaning of that little glowing pictogram, I drove my car over to my local mechanic and got a new tire. The end. That was the first and last time I had to deal with anything of that nature. In Spring 2023 I bought a brand new Subaru Crosstrek. In the 17 months that I have owned and driven my new car, the "flat tire" warning has lit up on my dashboard three times. Each time, after first cursing profusely, I drove my car over to the service department of the Subaru dealer from which I purchased my car. The first time, they were able to plug the damaged tire for a nominal fee. The second time required me to buy a new tire. Just two weeks after dropping two hours and two hundred bucks on a new tire, the light ticked on again while I was on my way to work. After unleashing a spontaneous barrage of carefully chosen expletives, I considered my options of how to quickly and efficiently remedy my situation. I wouldn't be able to get to the Subaru dealer until the weekend. It would be risky driving around with the threat of a full-blown flat tire looming over me. My tires seemed to be okay, but that damn light on my dashboard told me otherwise. I decided to take my car to one of the many service garages I pass on my way to work. I remembered there was a Pep Boys not too far away. I settled on making that a stop on my way home from work... providing my tire would hold out until the end of the day.

After work that day, I checked my car's tires. They all seemed fine — fine enough to get me to the Pep Boys just down Route 130 from my place of employment. I drove the short distance and pulled my car into Pep Boys parking lot. I parked, got out and headed to the front door. I half expected Rod Serling to step out from behind a stack of tires — a cigarette smoldering between his fingers — and announce that I had just entered The Twilight Zone.

This particular Pep Boys was different than any that I had seen before (all two of them). There was no retail section. No shelves with merchandise of any kind.. It was jus a big empty space, poorly concealed with a series of large posters advertising the various services that Pep Boys offers. Off to one side were large metal racks with dozens and dozens of tires. Along the back wall were piles of cardboard boxes. Just ahead was a reception counter, behind which stood two fellows in Pep Boys branded work shirts. They both looked liked characters that had just escaped from prison seen in countless television police dramas. As I approached the counter, neither man said a word, but they did not break the laser-like stare they had fixed on me. It was obvious that I was going to have to initiate this conversation. I cleared my throat and spoke up. I explained the light on my dashboard and the fact that my tires seemed to be okay. The one man finally asked for my key fob and handed me a clipboard to fill out a brief informational form. I asked if this would be taken care of while I waited. He didn't answer, but I believe I detected an ever-so-slight nod. I took that as a "yes."

So I waited. And waited. And waited.

After twenty-five minutes, I saw my car pulling into the otherwise empty service area. Through a large window, I saw a mechanic raise my car up on the hydraulic lift. I suddenly had flashbacks to those photos I saw twenty years earlier, but everything appeared to be okay. The other silent guy from the front desk joined the mechanic, but I couldn't tell exactly what they were doing. The first man, the one who asked for my key fob, stood silently at the desk and stared off into space. He did not appear to be anxious to entertain any of my potential questions or concerns, so I reconsidered asking about the timetable of my car's repair. I said nothing. I just continued to crane my neck to get a better view of the activity surrounding my car. I could see the lead mechanic wipe the sweat from his forehead and cheeks often by grabbing the front of his t-shirt and enveloping his face with it, exposing his large, hairy belly in the process. He also appeared to be moving in slow motion. His actions were jerky, as though illuminated by a strobe light. He walked to and from my car, sometimes wielding some sort of tool, sometimes not.

 

Finally, with just a few minutes remaining before the store's posted closing time, I was beckoned silently to the reception desk. The first man waved my key fob in my direction and motioned for me to present myself front and center. 

"We plugged it," he said, uttering the most consecutive words since I had arrived. 

"So, I don't need a new tire?," I asked. 

"No.," he replied, returning to his monosyllabic speech pattern.

He handed me a bill for $20 and change and I swiped my credit card in the terminal. The man handed me six pages that he had plucked from the tray of the printer behind the counter. He passed me my key fob.

"Where is my car?," I asked. He pointed towards the door and said nothing. I didn't press my line of questioning. I figured I could find my car on my own. Once out in the parking lot, I spotted my car the same space in which I had originally parked. I got in and started the engine. After driving a few feet, the flat tire light on my dashboard dimmed. It has not come back on since.

Although, I did find a large, greasy handprint on the hood of my car — the Pep Boys Seal of Quality.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

cry me a river

This will probably be my last baseball-related blog post until next season. So enjoy it... or skip it.... it's up to you.

I used to have season tickets for the Phillies. Had them for eighteen seasons. Every year, on the first game of the season, Mrs. Pincus and I would amble down to our seats, usually bundled up to stave off the early April weather. We would greet and catch-up with our fellow Phillies season ticket holders in our section, the ones we would see every year and lose touch with during the winter months. Then, I would announce that the first person who says "This year, the Phillies are going all the way!" — well, I'm going to take a swing at them.

Phillies fans are adorable. Every year, they think "this is THE year" and every year they are met with the same disappointment that transpired the previous season. And the season before that. And the season before that. The joy of being a Phillies fan is the false sense of hope presented for two months during a season that lasts seven months. The team gets hot, the bats are swinging, balls are flying over the fence, the pitching staff is striking opposing batters out left and right.... until it stops. And it always stops. The team stumbles in the post season playoffs, somehow forgets how to play baseball and scratchehs their collective heads in bewilderment. This year, the Phillies were pathetic in three of the four post-season games they played. As the great baseball/philosopher Yogi Berra once said: "It's deja vu all over again."

In my worthless opinion, I think the reason for the Phillies customary decline is fairly obvious. Money. Yep.  M-O-N-E-Y. The payroll for the active Phillies roster for the 2024 season was 264.2 million dollars. That is the seventh highest in Major League Baseball. The top three batters in the Phillies lineup, the ones on whom the team relies to produce runs, are Kyle Schwarber, who earned 19 million dollars, Trea Turner, who earned 27 million dollars, and Bryce Harper, who earned 26 million dollars. What sort of incentive do these guys have? Not "motivation." "Motivation" is the initial contract. "Incentive" is the promise of a big monetary windfall if the player performs well. This is not an "incentive!" Schwarber hit a massive homerun in Game 1 of the NLDS and then his bat went silent for his remaining plate appearances. Turner, for his 26 million dollar payout, didn't accomplish an extra-base hit in 15 at-bats. Harper did manage a home run in the post-season, but he also struck out five times. You see, the players get the money whether they hit a zillion homeruns or strike out on every appearance at the plate.

In July, the Phillies acquired relief pitcher Carlos Estevez to bolster their bullpen. Estevez was stellar on the Los Angeles Angels early in the 2024 season. But, the Angels were terrible and Estevez's pitching talents would be better served elsewhere — and that "elsewhere" was Philadelphia. So, for a salary of 2+ million dollars, Carlos Estevez was..... fair. In Game 4 of the NLDS, Estevez gave up a 6th inning grand slam to New York Mets shortstop Francisco Lindor, essentially hammering the final nail in the coffin of the Phillies post-season dreams. But, as the Mets planned their strategy against National League opponent The LA Dodgers, Carlos Estevez still got a 2 million dollar deposit in his bank account.

After losing the final game of the NLDS series, a dejected Bryce Harper, the Phillies unofficial team leader, spoke to the press in subdued tones about disappointment and dashed hopes and blah blah blah blah. I didn't want to hear it. I am sick of hearing overpaid athletes whining and complaining and blaming while getting salaries that are downright obscene. I love baseball. I love watching baseball and I love going to baseball games. But the price of a ticket averages around 50 bucks. Parking cost 25 dollars and the prices of food at the ballpark are ridiculous. 

Will this stop me from going to games? Probably not. Will I still get excited when the Phillies show some promise? I suppose I will. Is there a solution to my little, stupid, privleged, white guy dilemma? No. No, there is not.

Yogi Berra's quote is still ringing in my ears. It has been for years.

Pitchers and catchers report for Spring Training on February 20, 2025... and, yes, I'm a sucker.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

you dropped a bomb on me

For the past few summers, Mrs. Pincus and I, along with a couple of friends, have spent our evenings attending various free concerts hosted by nearby Camden County in New Jersey. At the beginning of the summer, a series of upcoming concerts at various outdoor venues are announced on the public website. The concerts have featured a wide range of performers and musical genres from folk rock, Tex-Mex, blues, experimental, jazz and a few I have forgotten. The performers are local acts, popular national acts, as well as once-popular national acts. Sprinkled among these are niche performers including a trio of young ladies we saw as the summer came to a close.

I have loved music from the Big Band era since I was a little kid. My mom was a huge fan of swing music and she introduced me to the likes of Benny Goodman, Glenn Miller and the Dorsey Brothers. My mom was partial to Frank Sinatra, that skinny kid from Hoboken, as well as America's "girl next door," Doris Day. My mom had a stack of big band albums and they were played often in the Pincus house. She tried to teach me to jitterbug, a dance she loved. She even was able to coax my stick-in-the-mud father to "cut a rug" at weddings and bar mitzvahs over the years. One of my mom's favorites from the World War II era was The Andrews Sisters. I have to admit, my first exposure to The Andrews Sisters was Bette Midler's 1973 cover of "Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy." I remember hearing this catchy ditty on the radio and my mom — as my mom often did — explained that the song was originally done by The Andrews Sisters in the 1941 Abbot & Costello war farce Buck Privates. She then produced a load of Andrews Sisters albums and — even though I was deeply immersed in the music of Elton John and Alice Cooper — I was in heaven. The Andrews Sisters were the shit! Tight harmonies, infectious wordplay, and a boogie-woogie jump beat that defied your feet to keep still. And hits? The Andrews Sisters recorded over 600 tunes — six hundred! They sold over one hundred million records. They charted 113 songs, including 23 with crooner Bing Crosby. They appeared in 17 movies. And they served as ambassadors and "cheerleaders" for the war effort, stirring patriotic pride in a time when actual patriotic pride had a meaning.

So, when I saw that Camden County was welcoming "American Bombshells" as part of the 2024 Free Concert series, I marked it off on my calendar and did my best convincing to get my wife and our concert friends to go. "It's a tribute to The Andrews Sisters!," I cajoled, reciting the promo lines verbatim from the website. That fact that it was free, it was a beautiful night and we'd be picnicking on local hoagies all worked in my favor. 

We met at the lakeside park and set up our camp chairs. We ate our hoagies and chatted before show time. I noticed that the crowd was particularly lighter than the throng that attended a free Spin Doctors show earlier in the summer. Despite not having a charting hit in over thirty years, The Spin Doctors commanded a huge crowd with folding camp chairs and territory-claiming blankets covering the ground for as far as the eye could see. The American Bombshells, however... not so much. With just minutes to go before the scheduled 7 PM start, the area reserved for seating showed more grass than patrons.

After a few awkward stage announcements by some Camden County officials, the three young ladies of the American Bombshells took the stage. They sported tight military uniforms with their olive drab garrison caps tilted at a jaunty angle. They were doing their best to mimic the familiar look of The Andrews Sisters. They introduced themselves and launched into "Don't Sit Under The Apple Tree" with near-perfect Andrews Sisters harmony. The crowd was immediately receptive. A few older couples even popped up to jitterbug in front of the stage. 

As cute as it was, this was somewhat puzzling to me.

My mother and father were the target audience for the Andrews Sisters and all music of the Swing Era. My father entered the United States Navy in 1944. He was 18 years old. My father passed away in 1993 at the age of 66. If he were still alive, he would be 98 — hardly an age at which jitterbugging would be advisable or even possible. If my mother were still with us, she would be 101. As agile and vivacious as my mom was, I think her boogieing days would be looooong behind her. The few couples who were showing off their fancy footwork to the jump-blues stylings of this Andrews Sisters homage looked to be in their 70s.  This means they were born around ten years after World War II ended and around the time that the Andrews Sisters were embarking on solo careers. Sure, I am in the minority in my love of the Swing Era, but these impromptu dancers were too young to have experienced a war-time visit from Bob Hope or a trip to the Hollywood Canteen.

Nevertheless, we were there to enjoy an evening of 40s nostalgia — just like the website advertising promised. The singers treated us to the hits "Bei Mir Bist Du Schön" and their take on "Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy." They moved on to songs popularized by Frank Sinatra and Ella Fitzgerald. Then, for some reason, they jumped ahead to some hits from the 1950s. They sang "Mr. Sandman" and "Please Mr, Postman." They paused the music to thank our servicemen and women and offered a flag-waving salute while singing a medley of service branch songs — "Anchors Aweigh," "The Caisson Song" (with different lyrics from the ones my dad sang around the house when I was little), "The Marine Corps Hymn." The young ladies proceeded to sing some folk-rock songs of the 1960s before launching into a full-blown vocal tribute to all things America, including "My Country 'Tis of Thee" and "God Bless America." They capped the evening with the Toby Keith musical "line drawn in the sand" threat "Courtesy of the Red, White and Blue" and the right-wing "pick a fight with me" anthem "God Bless The USA."

Midway through the 1950s segment of the performance, I lost interest. By the time they reached their nationalistic frenzy, I was ready to leave.

At the risk of starting a political debate, the current state of our country is fragile. The less it is discussed in non-political situations the better. A night of music and reminiscing is not the place to stir up polarizing feelings among an audience of unknown political leanings. Just sing and leave your political affiliations behind. I found the progression of the evening to be very uncomfortable and I think I was not alone.

The hoagies were good, though.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

monster mash

I love horror movies. Or rather.... I loved horror movies. Frankenstein, Dracula, The Wolf Man, The Mummy... all of them. I watched them as a kid on my family's black-and-white TV on Saturday afternoons. They were campy and creepy at the same time. Since most of them were made in the 40s, they all had this strange — yet endearing — quality. Like the actors knew they were in a movie and were delivering scripted lines. It was like watching a play. It made things fun and not too scary. 

My love of horror movies progressed to the low-budget camp of the 1950s with beings from outer space and teenage werewolves. The acting was bad. The make-up was bad. The special effects were amateurish. But I loved them just the same. In some of the Japanese imports of the late 50s and early 60s, I swear I could see the metal pull of a zipper at the base of Godzilla's neck and he tore down an obviously miniature elevated train set in a faux downtown Tokyo.

The 60s, however, brought the real horror. England's notorious Hammer Studios offered garish takes on classic tales. Under the capable lead of Christopher Lee, Dracula, Prince of Darkness splashed vivid red blood across  the screen at a Saturday afternoon matinee, the likes of which I had never seen before. On television, I cowered with my mom as we watched the shadow of Norman Bates slash poor Marion Crane to bits in her shower in Psycho. I still maintain that Psycho is among the scariest movies I have even seen.

Of course, horror films grew more provocative and more daring and more bloody as directors pushed their limits and audiences demanded more. So-called "slasher films" became the norm with Halloween and Friday the 13th and A Nightmare of Elm Street (and all of their imitators) monopolizing theatres. Anti-heroes Freddy Krueger and Jason Voorhees and Michael Myers became icons, beloved among horror movie fans. I enjoyed the initial entries into these long-running (and lucrative) film franchises, but I lost interest after the umpteenth sequel presented essentially a retelling of the original movie.

I like an interesting and clever story. That grabs my attention. I don't care to see someone getting their limbs slowly separated from their torso by a crazed madman with unexplained super-human strength and an even less concise non-sensical backstory. The current trends in horror movies tend to present a skimpy outline of a plot and rely more heavily on overly gory, in-your-face exercise in torture, sadism and suffering.

Years ago, I saw a movie called Hostel. Actually, I saw part of a movie called Hostel. I was only able to stick with it until a man was strapped into a chair and various parts of his body were removed by a masked man wielding a power saw. I don't know how Hostel ended and I really don't care. Hostel, no thanks to me, was very popular. It spawned sequels and copycats — none of which I have seen or have any intention of seeing.

There have been a few recent horror movies I have enjoyed. The Ring was clever. I didn't find it particularly scary, but I appreciated the intelligent story telling. Silence of the Lambs, if that can even be considered a "horror" movie, was taut and spine-tingling, another example of a good story being executed by good actors. Even the Japanese import Audition with its hard-to-watch climax, was well-done and suspenseful in its presentation.

It seems that today's horror movie lover is not particularly discerning. Every new release (and there are a lot of 'em) boasts a similar synopsis as other recent films. A mysterious killer that kills for the sake of killing. A variety of killing methods each designed to produce the most blood, viscera and humiliation of the victim. Overly and gratuitously explicit scenes unfairly and disturbingly equating sex with mutilation. I read a capsulized plot of a recent horror "hit" called Terrifier about a murderous clown named "Art." Art seems to have joined, if not overtaken, the ranks of Freddy and Jason as the new slasher icon. The plot was nauseating, as were the similar plots of Terrifier's two sequels. I have no plans to see Terrifier, Terrifier 2 or Terrifier 3 (when it's released in early October). As long as all the right boxes are checked, the film should do well.

I just want a good old-fashioned horror movie with a monster and a good story and good acting and not a reservoir's worth of blood and guts.

Is that too much to ask?

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

trash (pick it up)

Remember Randi? She was my wife's friend of many, many years. They were nearly inseparable. As a matter of fact, I met Randi the same night I met Mrs. Pincus. Randi was the Maid of Honor at our wedding. She was my son's godmother. Now that he's 37, I suppose he has no use for a godmother anymore, but ...no matter... Randi is no longer in our lives.

Randi was single for most of the time I knew her. But she was desperate — desperate, I tell you — to find a husband. She finally found a guy and married him, but the situation was closer to the "Adios Johnny Bravo!" episode of The Brady Bunch in that this guy "fit the suit." He was a dumb guy and Randi sort of coerced him into marriage.

When I say he was "dumb," I really mean he may have been the dumbest human being I ever met in my entire life. I mean "dumb as dirt" dumb. "Dumb as a bag of doorknobs" dumb. "Dumb as a box of rocks" dumb. I mean D-U-M-B dumb. Years ago, we all decided to take a trip to Yankee Stadium in New York. It was Mrs. P, our son, Randi, Fred (Randi's eventual husband), his seven-year old daughter and me. We all piled into my wife's minivan and headed north from Philadelphia. This was a time before GPS and cellphones were still a novelty. Fred decided to take charge. He declared that, being from North Jersey and allegedly familiar with the area, he would navigate our journey and get us directly to Yankee Stadium's doorstep. We pulled out or our driveway as Fred pulled his cellphone from his pocket and dialed.

"Yeah," he began his conversation to the unheard party on the other end, "we're on our way to...uh... you know." He paused while the person on the other end said something. Fred gazed lazily out the window and listened. "Yeah," he repeated, "to... you know. Up to the....uh.... you know." This "back-and-forth went on for several minutes and never — never — were the words "Yankee Stadium" spoken. Finally, Fred hit the "Call End" button and announced, "Yeah, so my friend says 'Get on the New Jersey Turnpike and ask at the toll booth.'" That was his "exclusive insider" plan to get us to New York. My wife glanced back at me in the rearview mirror and I shrugged my shoulders. I reiterate. Fred was dumb.

After Mrs. P and Randi's friendship dissolved, we completely lost touch with Randi and her life. Through mutual acquaintances, we heard that she and Fred had divorced. Randi moved around, remarried and totally changed personalities. (You can read all about it HERE.) We never did hear anything further about Fred.

Until one day many years later....

Our home phone rang and Mrs. P answered. It was a fellow who identified himself as the owner of a local business called Billows Electric Supply, an industrial supply operation with several locations throughout southern New Jersey. The man asked for "Susan Pincus" by name, as though he was reading from something. My wife, still a bit suspicious, confirmed her own identity to the man and asked what this call was in reference to. After all, we had no business whatsoever with an industrial electric supply company. Next, he asked if she knew someone named "Fred Slottman." That was the last name Mrs. P ever expected to hear again — especially from a strange voice on the other end of a mysterious early morning telephone call.

"Yes," she replied," I know Fred Slottman."

"Well," the man said, the tone of his voice dropping slightly, "I believe that Mr. Slottman is dead." That was a weird thing to hear from the owner of an electrical supply company.

He went on to explain that, on this particular morning, when he arrived at his place of business, his dumpster was overflowing with items that had no business being in his dumpster. It appeared that, during the night, someone had unlawfully deposited an abundance (he may have even used the word "shitload") of personal items into his dumpster. There was the remnants of a bed frame, a smattering of clothing, boxes of assorted household items and a ton of miscellaneous paperwork — receipts, warranties, canceled checks and a personal telephone book. He said that it was from this book that he got our phone number.

My wife listened — dumbfounded by what she was hearing. The story began to piece itself together. Fred had died and someone who was in possession of his personal items was looking for a place to dump them without having to pay to have them hauled away. Mr. Billows Electric Supply shows up for work, sees a bunch of crap in his dumpster, starts fishing around for clues and finds a phone book. He starts calling the numbers listed within.

Suddenly, something struck my wife's "inner detective." She interrupted Mr. Billows Electric. "Hang on a second," she said, "You made it all the way to the Ps in the phone book?"

"Yes," he confessed, "We tried all the other numbers starting with A. You're the first person that answered."

There are fifteen letters that precede P in the alphabet. Either Fred didn't know a whole lot of people or everyone in Fred's phone book whose name begins with A through O were avoiding the phone or.... well, I could come up with a dozen more "if" scenarios that still wouldn't make any of this make sense.

Mrs. P told Mr. Billows Electric that she hadn't been in touch with anyone remotely connected to Fred Slottman for many years. She expressed her inability to offer any further assistance and ended the conversation.

She sat with the phone in her hand for a short time and silent shook her head to herself.

And laughed.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

no time for losers

My wife and I went our first cruise together almost ten years ago. Mrs. Pincus had been on a cruise with her family the year before and, when she returned, she did a whole lot of convincing to get me on board (pun fully intended) with the idea.

Once our trip was booked, I really didn't know what to expect. My only frame of reference for going on a cruise was the nine seasons of The Love Boat I had watched and maybe the seven minute excursion into the faux wilderness that is the Jungle Cruise in Disneyland.

In the final week of May 2013, my wife, our luggage and I left New York City's Pier 88 for 7 days of fun aboard the Norwegian Gem. Sure, I knew about the the endless buffets, the spectacular ocean views, the endless buffets, the poolside relaxation, the lavish nighttime staged entertainment and the endless buffets, but I was still unclear about what else there was do occupy my time over the course of a week... you know, besides eating. Well, on Day One we were presented with a full itinerary of activities tailor-made to fit any and all interests. There were sports related activities like basketball and ping pong (not interested). There were seminars about investments (not interested). There were demonstrations of ice carving, cooking and the age-old art of towel folding (somewhat interested). But, my wife and I had a keen interest in the silly game competitions that offered throughout the day. 

At the time, there was a show on television called Minute To Win It inexplicably hosted by TV chef Guy Fieri. On the show, guests would compete against each other in silly little games with the hopes of winning money or prizes. The contests weren't on the level of the Olympics or any professional sports. They were more like the games one would play at a children's birthday party., like carrying an egg on a spoon from Point A to Point B or removing the shaving cream from an inflated balloon with a real, sharp razor. The enthusiastic staff of the Norwegian Gem created their own version of the TV game show, with similar stunts. The prizes, however were not nearly as desirable as those rewarded by a network television show. There were no big screen TVs or diamond bracelets or large stacks of cash. Instead, victors were given a deck of cards or a t-shirt, each emblazoned with the logo of the Norwegian Cruise Lines. Look, we were all there to have fun. We were in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean, away from our everyday lives and surrounded by obscene amounts of food twenty-four hours a day. We weren't physically-fit athletes competing for the honor of representing our respective countries on the world stage. The fact that we were being judged on our ability to stack plastic cups the fastest drove that message home.

For most of us, anyway.

There is something about a cruise that creates human bonding. As the days of a cruise progress, one-time strangers quickly become inseparable friends. I have likened this sea-worthy phenomenon to summer camp for adults. By the end of a cruise, close friendships are formed with folks that have only spent a short time together. These friendships sometimes extend beyond the confining rails of the port and starboard sides of a cruise ship. So, when the time came to choose sides for an hour of frivolous fun, "ship friends" paired up immediately as though these bonds had been in place for decades. Of course, there are a few introverts here and there, but the more gregarious would always welcome the few stragglers into the fray. On one particular session of Norwegian Minute to Win It, a young lady who was sailing alone, expressed a desire to participate in the fun. She was happily welcomed onto a team and the "competition" commenced.

The first round of play involved something with balloons or cotton balls or plastic horseshoes either being tossed or passed or balanced on top of each other. Whatever the object of the game was, everyone was laughing and goofing around and having all the fun they could possibly muster. Some participants were already drunk, which made for an even livelier time. Balls were dropped. Balloons were popped and laughter filled the air. The young lady who was sailing alone began to seethe. She frowned and glared at her teammates. When time was called for this round, her team had placed last. The winning team members were each honored with a cloth drink koozie printed with the NCL logo. The young lady who was sailing alone was furious. Visibly furious. The next game began and, again it was some sort of ridiculous endeavor using spongy balls or an assortment of plastic discs or maybe it employed balloons again. Whatever it was, everyone was having giddy fun. After all, that's what we were here for...
fun! 

Well, most of us, anyway.

The young lady who was sailing alone stomped her feet at the lack of concentration exhibited by her teammates. She saw that the other teams were making higher stacks of discs or popping more balloons or whatever they had to do. Her furrowed brow and clenched fists were strikingly out of place among the insanity that was prevalent among the other competitors. When Round Two concluded and each member of the winning team was presented with a reusable drink cup displaying the familiar NCL logo, the young lady who was sailing alone had had just about enough. Before the next feat was announced, the young lady who was sailing alone raised her voice and announced, "I quit! I will not play any game where I don't win!" She glared with a squinted accusatory eye at everyone before storming off to.... who knows where. We were still in the middle of the ocean, so there weren't too many places to go to avoid your former teammates. Every one was silent for a few seconds, until the air was split with a round of collective nervous laughter. Then we all readied our balloons or mini Frisbees for round number three.

Over the course of the next few days, one couldn't help but run into the young lady who was sailing alone. We saw her at the buffet. We saw her by the pool. We saw her queuing up at the ship's showroom for that evening's performance. 

Everyone saw her, but no one said a word. Almost ten years later, someone wrote about her.

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