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.

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and all that it's supposed to be

Back in the summer, I won free tickets to a couple of shows in the area by spinning a big carnival wheel that was set up by a concert promoter at the Xponetial Music Festival (presented by Subaru). In September, Mrs. Pincus and I used our first set of free tickets to see 60s holdover Arlo Guthrie at the venerable Keswick Theater in the nearby hamlet of Glenside, where he delivered a surprisingly entertaining performance. He and his band did all the songs you'd expect Arlo Guthrie to do ("City of New Orleans," "Mr. Customs Man," that pickle-motorcycle song and a sprawling recitation of "Alice's Restaurant," complete with video accompaniment) and turned in a pretty good show. And, of course, it was free, so... no complaints.

Last night, Mrs. P and I went back to the Keswick, to see Rufus Wainwright on the 20th Anniversary tour of his first two albums. I can name two songs by Rufus Wainwright (maybe three, if you count covers) and I own none of his albums. I didn't even know that his debut was released twenty years ago. But, I don't dislike him. I just wouldn't call myself a "fan." And free tickets are free tickets, so...

First, let me offer a bit of a confession. Two days before the Rufus Wainwright show, I went to see guitarist JD McPherson bring his holiday show to the somewhat grungy Underground Arts in North Philadelphia, a venue that is more "underground" than "arts." JD and his band are touring in support of his stellar new release, a rocking Christmas album that would stand as a great record on its own, even without the sardonic Christmas references. I have seen JD McPherson several times before and at the conclusion of each show, I still can't figure out why this guy isn't a huge star.

So, in the satisfying afterglow of Wednesday night's concert, my wife and I filed through the metal detectors at the Keswick and were guided to our seats by one of the attentive ushers, all of whom would look more at home behind the counter of a Woolworth's in 1940. The Keswick opened its doors on Christmas Day 1928 and a lot of the staff appears to have been present as witnesses to that big event. The theater is currently undergoing a tediously-slow renovation, so the plain plastered walls and bare-bones stage are a bit of a stark distraction. I'm sure the place will be beautiful thirty years from now when the improvements are completed.

My wife and I were in the definite minority, as the crowd showed great enthusiasm for Rachel Eckroth, the opening act. Rachel, a member of Wainwright's band, served up a group of atmospheric tunes played on an array of synthesizers. The voice distortions and otherworldly noises emanating from her musical instruments likened her performance to a kid who just got a Casio keyboard on Christmas morning and was learning all the cool stuff it could do. Plus her songs were boring.

This picture is not blurry.
You're falling asleep.

After a short break, Rufus Wainwright and his band took the stage and busted out "April Fools," the opening track from his self-titled 1998 release – and one of the two songs I knew coming in. Well, I thought, this may not be too bad. I have been to many, many concerts where I was not at all familiar with the artist's catalog and still had a great time. (A September 2017 show by Austin indie rockers A Giant Dog comes to mind.) Rufus soon departed into the sleep-inducing mire of a slew of draggy, wordy, mid-tempo songs, all delivered in the slurred vocal styling that has become his signature. I found myself dozing, only to be awakened sporadically by the thunderous applause of the local Rufus Wainwright fan base – people who probably paid for their tickets – showing their approval.

Rufus's stage banter wasn't exactly riveting either, as he first acknowledged two young boys sitting stage-side and related an incoherent anecdote about taking his own daughter to concerts. Then, he stammered out a story about touring with his mother (the late folk singer Kate McGarrigle) with a very loose reference to being in Pennsylvania and the pay-off being an insult to fans of folk music.

The band returned to the stage after a brief intermission. They enthusiastically launched into "Cigarettes and Chocolate Milk," the other Rufus Wainwright song I knew. Then, Set Two took the same path we saw in Set One. It sunk back into that familiar dirge-y ebb, each line of each song dispatched at the oozing pace of an overturned jar of molasses. Mrs. Pincus and I exchanged silent, eyebrow-raised glances in the darkened theater. At the conclusion of the next song, we quickly gathered our coats and made a break for the exit under the camouflage of a standing ovation.

In my forty-plus years of going to concerts, I can say, with some level of confidence, that this was the single most boring show I have ever attended. Not a complaint, mind you, because the tickets were free.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com