dirty lowdown

As you read this, I am sitting in a camp chair on the Camden Waterfront, enjoying the final day of an annual music festival — just the latest in a forty-plus year stretch of going to concerts. Here is a tale of my early concert-going days.

A day or so ago, Mrs. Pincus and I were in the car when our favorite radio station played a new song called "Radiator 110," by venerable singer/songwriter/guitarist William Royce Scaggs, more widely known by his prep school moniker: Boz.

Mrs. P smiled and bobbed her head to the music. "Have you heard this?," she asked. I replied that I had. "I like it.," she continued, explaining that she had always liked Boz Scaggs.

I, however, have never liked Boz Scaggs. I have never purchased a single one of his two dozen albums, including the two on which he served as guitarist and sometimes vocalist for The Steve Miller Band. I really have nothing against Mr. Scaggs. His voice is okay. His guitar playing is okay, too... I guess. The reason I don't like Boz Scaggs is stupid. But, in all honesty, has nothing to do with Boz Scaggs.

I have been a music lover since I was a child. When I was in grade school, my beloved Uncle Sidney gave me a stack of Beatles 45s that he "obtained" from a jukebox as part of the "sketchy" affairs through which he made a living. I spun those disks on the family hi-fi, mesmerized by the hypnotic yellow and orange Capitol Records label. Later, armed with some birthday money, I purchased my very first album - multi-Grammy winner "Tapestry" by Carole King. After buying more singles (including "Sugar Sugar" by The Archies and "Age of Aquarius" by The 5th Dimension), I went back to my old friends The Beatles and made their self-titled "White Album" my second album purchase. After that, my music obsession went full steam ahead. More albums and singles. Music magazines. Listening to songs on the radio. But one part of my love for music was missing. Concerts. But, at the time, going to a concert never occurred to me. My parents regularly attended shows at the nearby Valley Forge Music Fair. My mom went to see Sergio Franchi, the charismatic Italian tenor, every time he performed at the famed Latin Casino nightclub in Cherry Hill, New Jersey. Once, we even went as a family to "the Latin" to see crooner Bobby Darin just a month before he passed away. I remember an older cousin passing on my brother's Bar Mitzvah, opting instead to see Jefferson Airplane at the Philadelphia Spectrum. My brother went to concerts, too... I suppose. At the time, I just thought it was something that older people did. That is, until a couple of classmates told me they were going to see Elton John. "What do you mean 'going to see'?" I questioned, "Do you know him? How are you going to see him?" They clarified their statement. They had bought tickets to his upcoming concert in Philadelphia. Suddenly, a light bulb went off in my 14 year-old head! "You can do that?," I thought. I now saw things from a new perspective. Maybe I was an "older person," and the time has come for me to go to a concert. 

When I got home from school, I scoured the Philadelphia Bulletin for concert listings, something I had never done before. I read that shock-rocker Alice Cooper was bringing his malevolent Welcome to My Nightmare Tour for a stop at the Spectrum in my hometown. I had — and loved — the "Welcome to My Nightmare" album. I asked my mom for permission to buy a ticket (a whopping six dollars of savings I earned from hawking pretzels at a busy intersection in Northeast Philadelphia). When she agreed, I asked if she could chauffeur a few friends and me to the show. My mom — a sympathetic rocker herself — conceded. On April 25, 1975, I found myself in a darkened Spectrum among a throng of frenzied fans watching a tuxedoed and mascaraed Mr. Cooper execute a Busby Berkeley-style chorus line, flanked by six-foot tall black widow spiders. He also executed a giant menacing cyclops. It was well worth the entire six bucks.

I was bitten by the concert bug. I wanted — nay, needed — to go to another as soon as possible. Granted, funds were low. I'd have to sell a lot of street corner pretzels to buy another ticket at these steep prices. It wasn't until a year later that I attended my second concert: America with former Raspberries lead singer Eric Carmen opening the show. America? Really? "A Horse with No Name" America? After Alice Cooper? I know, I know. But I was desperate. I wanted to go to another concert so badly that I was willing to see the first band that I heard of. I knew some America songs from the radio, but I wouldn't number myself among their die-hard fans (Do they even have die-hard fans?) I bought a ticket — setting me back a full dollar more than my Alice Cooper admission! The show was... okay. Not awful. Just not spectacular. They sang a bunch of their familiar sunny, silly Top 40 hits. Actually, it was pretty forgettable, but it was a concert nonetheless. I redeemed myself later in 1976 by attending a concert by the ubiquitous Elton John, touring in support of his "Rock of the Westies" album, an album that, despite the inclusion of the achingly putrid "Island Girl," would become my favorite Elton John release. 

With three shows under my belt, I was now an official "concert veteran." I eagerly participated in those regular high school "concert conversations." (Who have you seen? Oh I saw them. They were great!) I was constantly planning and deciding which would be my next concert. So were my friends. 

My friend Hal knew a guy named Mike. Although the word didn't exist five decades ago, Mike was — what you would now call — a "frenemy."  I knew him, but I didn't particularly like him. He was loud and overbearing and one of those people who was an expert on everything.  But, he was Hal's friend, so I put up with him. One day, I was at Hal's house and we were listening to records. I put on my copy of Fleetwood Mac's "Rumours." I wasn't a fan of the band, but it was an album that everyone had. Plus, if you were a 16 year-old male in 1977, Stevie Nicks was the shit! While we listened, Hal noticed, in the newspaper, that Mick Fleetwood and company were coming to Philadelphia in a month or so. We decided we would go and, since Mike was there, we felt obliged to invite him along. Mike had never been to a concert before. He was obviously excited by the idea, but tried to hide his excitement behind a shield of forced, cool indifference. It was pretty annoying. Exactly the thing I didn't like about Mike.

The night of the concert rolled around. Hal, Mike and I rode the bus and then the imposing Broad Street Subway to the South Philadelphia venue. Mike was so ecstatic, one would have thought we were headed to an audience with the Queen of England. He yammered on with unsubstantiated authority about the location of our seats (in a venue he had never visited) and the band (whose albums he didn't own) and — due to his limited concert and music experience — repeated himself several times. The show itself was good. Kenny Loggins opened the night, followed by a substantial hit-filled set by Fleetwood Mac. Strangely, they skipped "Don't Stop," despite its inclusion on the playlist of every radio station in the country. At the show's conclusion, Mike picked up his non-stop monologue where he had left off, only now, as the veteran of a single concert, he was an expert. He sang wrong lyrics to songs he had just heard, awkwardly fitting them into tuneless melodies. It was maddening.

During the next week at school, Mike cornered me in a hallway as I was retrieving some books from my locker. "Hey!," he began. Was he initiating a conversation with me? He was Hal's friend, not mine. What does he want? I thought. 

"Yes?" I replied. 

"You wanna go see Boz Scaggs?," Mike asked. Why was he asking me? Oh right! I'm his concert buddy now. Shit! I rolled my eyes. 

"What?," I said, hoping for a little clarification. 

"The Scaggs show. You wanna go see Scaggs?," he elaborated, narrowing his eyes, cocking his head and forcing an air of coolness about himself, like he had been to hundreds of concerts. It wasn't working. He looked and sounded like an idiot. And "Scaggs?" What the hell was that? Why does he keep saying that? Who was he trying to impress? Me, I suppose. 

"Uh, no," I answered, "I'm not a big fan of Boz Scaggs." He looked dejected, but tried to maintain his stupid "cool." It was apparent that Mike had been bitten by the concert bug as well and wanted to see another concert as soon as possible... even if it was a performer with whom he was not familiar. (At least I held out for America, a band from whom I could name a number of songs.) 

"Awright, I'll see if someone else wants to see Scaggs." His voice trailed off as he walked away. Finally, I wouldn't have to hear him say "Scaggs" again.

So, there. That's it. That's the stupid reason I don't like Boz Scaggs. Because Hal's friend Mike ruined him for me. Even if I had the notion to give Boz a second chance and another listen —  in my head, I'd only hear Mike saying "You wanna go see Scaggs?" Ugh. That was forty years ago! Some things stick with you forever. No matter what you do, you just can't shake 'em.

My apologies, Boz. Blame Mike.

This is a very unusual photograph. It was taken in 1977.
I was not friendly with anyone in the picture... especially Mike, who is second from the left. That's me in the center.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

I like mine with lettuce and tomato, Heinz 57 and french fried potatoes

No! No ketchup for you!

I recently read an article about a trendy restaurant in the Gulf Coast resort town of Fort Myers, Florida that has banned ketchup. The eatery, Mad Fresh Bistro, unapologetically declares on their website that they "reserve the right to refuse the service of ketchup to anyone over the age of 10." On another page, they clarify their stance in an even more arrogant fashion, stating — in so many words — the customer should "trust us" to serve your food the way we want to serve it, because "we know what we're doing." It seems that chef/co-owner Xavier Duclos ("KNOWN FOR HIS CULINARY HOMERUNS," as the website proudly describes), knows more about what you like eat than to you do. Well, I'll give him this much: he sure knows how to overcharge for a hamburger. Look, Mr. Duclos, if I'm paying fourteen bucks for a hamburger in your pretentious little strip-mall bistro, then I'm going to slather it with porcupine piss, if I so choose. You're still gonna get paid and your customer is gonna be satisfied. After all, isn't that the ultimate goal? Egos aside, of course.

"We don't have any hot dogs. We have Superdogs®"

This story brought to mind a piece I saw a year or two ago on one of my favorite cable channels, The Food Network. They featured a segment about hot dog stands around the country and stopped off at Superdawg®, a Chicago institution since the 1940s. The charming little drive-in (one of the few remaining in the United States) whose roof is crowned with two giant, anthropomorphic wieners, still boasts carhop service, thick milkshakes made with real hand-scooped ice cream and, of course, the gem of the menu, the Superdawg®. The owners, a quirky (and thoroughly irritating) couple named Maurie and Flaurie Berman, greet each customer with a friendly (and trademarked) "Hiya! Thanks for stopping!," but it's all downhill after that. If you ask for a "hot dog," these two relics will smugly reply "We don't have hot dogs." A confused customer will glance at the enormous twin frankfurters on the roof of the building in bewilderment. Not giving a crap about the potential of losing a customer, the elderly proprietors offer a cocky, pompous smile and, shaking their heads, inform the patron that they call their main fare a "Superdawg®." Sometimes they don't volunteer that information and let the customer walk. I guess it's worth it to them to lose a paying customer than to compromise the name that they — and only they — call hot dogs. In addition to standing firm as to how their hot dogs are referred and alienating customers, the Bermans are staunch anti-ketchup-ites. In a video on their website, they explain (using the most roundabout, convoluted, old-people logic) that they never thought ketchup belonged on a hot dog, so, based solely on that, no one should be permitted to have ketchup. They are like pro-lifers for condiments. These two altacockers even go so far as to call ketchup "an abomination." Actually, my wiener-hawking friends, female genital mutilation, as practiced in Yemen and Iraqi Kurdistan, is an abomination. Smearing some ketchup on a fucking hot dog is a matter of harmless culinary preference. A victimless crime, if you will.

Beavis says, "No ketchup, dude!"

Another establishment where poor ketchup garners no love is a little mainstay in the seaside resort of Rehoboth Beach, Delaware called Thrasher's. With three locations in the First State's seasonal vacation spot, the popular Thrasher's has been serving up giant tubs of hand-cut, fresh fried spuds for the beach-going crowd for eighty-five summers. But, once again, they are resolute about their contempt for ketchup. Thrasher's will cheerfully offer vinegar and salt. However, when it comes to ketchup, there is no misunderstanding. The sentiment is posted prominently on their limited menu. The counter-help display the message defiantly on custom-airbrushed trucker hats. Jesus! Look at the attitude on that smug little asshole! Don't you just want to push his smirking puss right into the goddamn deep fryer! Hey, you minimum-wage-earning motherfucker, if I'm forking over nearly ten bucks for French fries - one: they better be the best fries I have ever eaten in my life and two: if I want to drown them in ketchup, you are not going to impede upon my "freedom of tomato-based condiment right," as granted by the Constitution of the United States (38th amendment, I believe.).

"Ketchup? Catsup?"

What the heck is wrong with ketchup and why do some people have such a problem with it? For goodness sake, it's been around since the 17th century and came to this country from halfway around the globe! It's the second most popular condiment in the United States (after mayonnaise, because America's desire for oil and fat will never be satisfied). Why on earth should anybody be embarrassed by their use (or love) of this steadfast condiment*? The H. J. Heinz Company, who introduced the tomato-based, all-purpose food enhancement in 1876, produces and distributes over 650 million bottles annually... so, somebody must be using and enjoying it. The aforementioned establishments wouldn't need to put up such signs or make such brazen stipulations if someone wasn't asking for ketchup in the first place. Jeez! No wonder poor Mr. Burns is so perplexed.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

*With the possible exception of my brother-in-law, whose barbaric overuse of ketchup borders on obscene.

keep on using me, until you've used me up

Stop it, goddammit! Just stop it already! Stop saying "utilize" when you mean "use." Those two words do not mean the same thing! I don't know when the corporate world deemed those words interchangeable, because they are not!

Use is defined by the Merriam-Webster online dictionary (the modern electronic version of that big book from which you copied your vocabulary words in fourth grade) as "the act or practice of employing something." To simplify things, I'll provide an illustrative sentence: "I will use this umbrella to protect me from the rain." See? The primary purpose of an umbrella is to shield one's self from the failing rain. Therefore, employing an umbrella for its intended function is the definition of "use" in its purest form. Use. USE! It's a great word and a familiar concept.

Utilize, as explained by that virtual Merriam-Webster tome, is a little tricky. The concept of "utilize" is to make use of something for other than its intended purpose. As an example (and sticking with the scenario of adverse weather conditions): "I'm going to utilize this folded newspaper to protect me from the rain." See the difference? A newspaper's intended purpose is to deliver a convenient, printed report of current events. However, employing a newspaper as a makeshift umbrella when a conventional one is unavailable, that, my language-challenged friend, is the proper time to take advantage of "utilize."

Somewhere in the tangle of corporate meeting catch-phrases like "low-hanging fruit" and "within our wheelhouse," "use" and "utilize" became casualties of war. Pencil-pushing desk-jockeys with a hard-on for face-time with their middle-management comrades twisted the definition of these two innocent, well-meaning words, with the sole purpose of making their feeble speech sound more intelligent. They carefully and deliberately eliminated the pedestrian-sounding "use" from their communication, in favor of the more important tone of "utilize."

Well, using the wrong word is just that — wrong. And it makes you sound like the idiot that you are. If you are going to go out of your way to consciously use an incorrect word, then, for Chrissakes!, go for it! Instead of "use", you might as well say "fellate". It's equally as colorful and just as wrong.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

cold is being

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

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

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

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

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

no, I don't love your dog

I have been pet-free for three years. Before that, I had always had at least one cat. Sometimes, more than one. Cats are really good pets for people who don't always want a pet. They are affectionate when you want them to be and when those times come when you don't want to be bothered, they are happy to oblige. As far as a cat is concerned, people only exist to open cans. Yeah, once in a while a person can scratch a cat's head, but they are primarily a can opener.

Dogs, on the other hand, are honest-to-goodness, high-maintenance pets. Dogs need to be walked and played with and, because they love to roll around in their own shit, they need to be bathed. (Cats take care of that on their own, without human assistance.)

Dog owners are high-maintenance, too. Dog owners treat their dogs like most humans treat their children (the ones that they love, anyway). And because dog owners love their dogs, everyone must love their dogs. You must! How could you not?

I have lost track of how many times I have been accosted by a dog on the sidewalk — all muddy and slobbery and smelly — only to have its owner assure me that "He's friendly!" or "He won't bite!". Well, I don't want to be friends with your fucking dog. I have visited dog-owner friends who refused to pull their over-curious canine away from me, while laughing and explaining, "He probably smells your cat on you." Well. I smell his excrement on him, so please get him the fuck off of me. I don't love your dog. Only you love your dog.

My wife had a few dogs growing up and has brought up the subject infrequently in the twenty-eight years we have known each other. Fairly late one evening, my wife and I were driving home in a treacherously heavy rainstorm. A block or so from our house, I could make out a figure in the downpour. It was a man dressed in a rain slicker with a waterlogged hat drooping on his head. In one hand, he held an open umbrella. In the other, he gripped a leash. At the end of that leash was a soaked dog, its sodden fur matted against its body. The man dutifully followed the dog as he slowly and deliberately sniffed the ground looking for a place to crap — or possibly for nothing in particular. I pointed out the fogged window of our car to the sorry-looking sap with the dog and I said to my wife, "Y'know why we don't have a dog? Because if we did, that poor asshole would be me."