special delivery

Mrs. P has been selling stuff on eBay for years. (For the last time, NO! - she will not sell your stuff for you!) Over the years, she has dealt with unusual customers and unusual requests. One item — a vintage children's rocking horse on a metal frame — was clearly marked on the list page as "LOCAL PICKUP ONLY." After the auction ended, the high bidder inquired about shipping, identifying himself as residing in Ohio. I realize that Ohio is closer to Pennsylvania that say Zimbabwe, but that does not qualify for "local pickup," even in the most relative of senses. After some fevered emailing, the high bidder consented to driving to our home in suburban Philadelphia to pick up their purchase.

Another buyer bought an item — this time it was a wicker baby carriage from the early 20th century — and inquired about shipping. Once again, they interpreted "local pickup" to their own needs. This buyer lived in the area of the Chesapeake Bay. After some email back-and-forth, my wife (the nicest person in the world, as we have previously established) made the offer to deliver the item herself, if the buyer could wait a week when my wife would be visiting family in Northern Virginia. 

I guess, by now, you understand that Mrs. P sells items that fall into the "nonessential" category. Although, based on some of the desperately needy buyers, you'd think she operates a blood bank or a vital organ repository. Poor Mrs. P has been harangued by over-eager buyers negotiating quick delivery for a 30-year-old coloring book as though it were a pint of AB negative blood.

This past week, a potential buyer ("potential" at this point in the story) contacted Mrs. P regarding a particular item in her eBay stock.

TUESDAY 1:20 PM

Mrs. Pincus was contacted by a fellow who is interested in purchasing a pair of wooden crutches. He explained in his email that he needs — needs — these crutches for the weekend. (Let me point out that nobody needs a pair of wooden crutches. The Red Cross does not accept donations of wooden crutches, as they are difficult to disinfect. Lightweight aluminum crutches are the standard now and have been for some time.) Mrs. P acknowledged that several options for delivery could be made, however, because of the unusual size of the item and the immediate need (there's that word again), the cost could run towards the high side. She did not receive any further correspondence from the potential buyer.

WEDNESDAY 11:18 AM

Mrs. Pincus takes it upon herself to contact the potential buyer, offering another option for delivery. The potential buyer lives in New Jersey. North Central New Jersey to be more specific. She offered to meet in a convenient location, as she would be going to an appointment in Cherry Hill, New Jersey, which is actually no where near this guy's location... but, Mrs. P is nice and likes to be as accommodating as possible to make a sale. She received no response.

THURSDAY 9:02 AM

Mr. "I Need Wooden Crutches" sent an email, reiterating his intent to purchase. Although he had not made the actual purchase yet, he listed a number of delivery options including overnight express via the US Postal Service and hiring an Uber driver to pick the crutches up. (This is a service I was not aware Uber offered. To be honest, I have never availed myself of any of Uber's services.) Once again, Mrs. P suggested the "meeting halfway" option, to which he — once again — did not acknowledge,

THURSDAY 12:22 PM

Still no purchase.

THURSDAY 2:10 PM

Still no purchase.

THURSDAY 5:30 PM

The first word in over seven hours arrived. The potential buyer had decided to use the services of Uber to deliver his not-yet-purchased crutches to his location. He requested our address, which Mrs. P wisely will not reveal until a purchase had been made and confirmed.

THURSDAY 8:03 PM

Success! The crutches were purchased! Mrs. P sent our home address to the buyer and he confirmed that an Uber drive will be at our house at approximately 10:30 PM. Some of us (namely me) have to go to work the next day. Usually by 9 o'clock at night, Mrs. Pincus is waking me up on the sofa to go to bed. At this time, Mrs. P began readying the crutches for pick-up. She removed the rubber tips and put them in a small plastic bag. Then, she put the crutches themselves into a large trash bag as far as they would go, tying the bag securely. Then we waited.

THURSDAY 10:24 PM

As I sat dozing on the living room sofa, Mrs. Pincus checked a message on her phone. An automated text message informed her that the Uber driver was just minutes away.

THURSDAY 10:31 PM

A car pulled up in front of our house. Mrs. P woke me up and I ran out to the vehicle, gripping the knotted trash bag with the crutches in one hand. The driver of the car lowered her window and I asked if I should just put the bag in the back seat. The driver smiled and nodded, answering, "Sure" before the driver's window went back up. I opened the back door of the car and was immediately hit with the heavy overpowering aroma of cigarette smoke. I held back a cough, placed the bundled crutches on the seat and slammed the door shut. The car drove off into the darkness of our street.

"I wonder where the crutches are headed now," Mrs. Pincus asked aloud. "I wonder if they are going right to the buyer or if he is picking them up at another location."

"You got paid, right?," I asked.

"Yes.," my wife replied.

"My wondering has ended."

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

weird scenes inside the goldmine

One night for dinner, Mrs. P wanted spaghetti. Now, we are — in no way — "food snobs." We are not particular about where we go to get spaghetti. I am not one of those people who turns up their nose at ordinary, unimaginative, run-of-the-mill, neighborhood Italian restaurants that serve the basics. You know the type of place to which I'm referring. It's a big, boxy, dimly-lit place with a zillion teenage girls bustling behind the counter, a pen perched behind an ear and cracking chewing gum while they juggle a tray filled with generic-looking and plainly-prepared pasta dishes. Over in the corner is an older, balding gentleman in a white t-shirt and a  sauce-smeared apron, his overly-hairy forearms flexing as he grabs a knurled wooden peel and extracts a piping-hot pizza from the oven. A younger fellow — a family relation to the older man — is barking orders to the girls in a combination of broken English and fluent Italian. That sort of place. I know there's one in your neighborhood. It's usually called "Vincenzo's" or "Pizza Palace" or "Mama's Place," although "Mama" is no where to be seen.

In our neighborhood, that place is called "Roman Delight." It is only vaguely "Roman" and not anywhere near a "delight." Despite this misnomer of a name, it's been supplying mediocre, overpriced, somewhat Italian food to the northern Philadelphia suburbs for decades. Mrs. P and I have been infrequent patrons for about as long as we have lived in our house. (That's almost forty years!) Once we have whittled down our dinner options and Mrs. P doesn't feel like cooking, we will reluctantly call Roman Delight and get a perfectly okay meal for a little bit more that I think it should cost. Our order is usually the same each time. I get baked ziti in marinara sauce. Mrs. Pincus gets eggplant parmigiana over spaghetti and we will split an order of greasy garlic bread. Call-in orders sometimes need a bit of explaining and clarification with the order-taker — primarily to make sure they understand which items from their expansive menu I would like. Twenty or so minutes after my call-in order, I'll drive over to pick it up. We eat and that's it. It's not great. It's not horrible. It just serves as "dinner."

So when Mrs. Pincus wanted spaghetti for dinner, we just automatically thought to call Roman Delight. 

But, I stopped. "Let's try someplace different!," I suggested.

My wife gave me a puzzled look. "Where?" she questioned.

Several jobs ago, I worked for a place that designed and printed take-out menus for area restaurants. I remembered there was a place a block or so away from Roman Delight that boasted a similar menu. I pulled the place up from a quick Google search and scanned their menu. Their prices and selection were comparable to Roman Delight. "Let's give this place a try," I pressed on. Mrs. P appeared indifferent. So, we went.

The place I proposed is in a shopping center that we rarely visit. The last time I was there, the "Michael's Craft Store" that occupies the far end of the strip of businesses was a supermarket. The Rite Aid at the opposite end is now closed, a casualty of the pharmacy chain's slow and inevitable demise. In-between is a nail salon, a beauty supply store and a Chinese restaurant that never looks open. There's a Chipotle that I wrote about in 2014 and — in a space once occupied by a Baja Fresh — our destination Italian restaurant.

We entered the front door. The place was totally devoid of customers. It was 6:15 PM — dinner time for most — on a weekday evening. Not a single one of their dozen tables and booths were occupied. Behind the big, tile-front counter, two young ladies were staring off into space. Alongside the counter, a man in an apron sat in a chair. He greeted my wife and me with a big smile and a hearty "Hello!"

As I reached for a take-out menu from the small counter display, the man in the chair said to me: "Do you believe in UFOs?"

"Excuse me?," I replied, taken off-guard.

"Aliens! You know.... from outer space!," he explained.

Mrs. Pincus looked at me with wide eyes. Having seen those eyes over the past 42 years that we have been acquainted, I knew the message they were silently expressing. "I am not comfortable here." That's what my wife's eyes were telling me. We pretended to read the menu a little bit longer. The staff — the man in the chair and the two young ladies — did not say anything further to us. They didn't even look in our direction. They continued their conversation about aliens and UFOs.

I placed the folded menu back into the counter display. Mrs. P and I slowly — and as inconspicuously as possible — backed out of the empty restaurant towards the door. Still, no one said a word to us.

As we made our way to our car in the parking lot, I was already on the phone with Roman Delight — explaining which items from their expansive menu I would like.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

if a picture paints a thousand words

I draw. I draw a lot. If you follow my online antics, you already know this about me. A little while ago, I decided to see if I could turn my drawing ability into some cash. I posted a little "ad" on my website offering my "alleged" talents to my alleged "legions of fans." For a small, reasonable fee, I will draw a portrait of the person of your choosing in that "Josh Pincus" style you've come to love (or revile, depending on your particular taste in art). I've been taken up on this offer a few times. More recently, I have branched out in the sticker and t-shirt business, but my portrait proposition has remained open and available.

On Friday morning, I was posting my daily celebrity death anniversaries (as one does) on Instagram. Then, as is my habit on Friday mornings, I posted my weekly "Dead Celebrity Spotlight." This is a drawing of a recent or not-so-recent celebrity, accompanied by a little story about why they were significant. Sometimes it's someone of worldwide renown. Other times, it's a long forgotten name, whose claim-to-fame endeavors are unsung and usually forgotten. Once posted, I get a smattering of "likes" and comments from a tiny, online faction who share my fascination with death, celebrities or any degree of combination of the two. As I settled back to finish a cup of coffee and figure out the plot points of the My Three Sons episode that was flashing across my television screen, a notification of a private Instagram message popped up on my phone. It was from someone with whom I was not connected. I get these a lot. After I post a photo of my son's cat, I will get inundated by unsolicited offers to become a "brand ambassador" for a line of cat toys. Just this week, I got a message from someone noting my affinity for singer Orville Peck and asking if I'd like to promote their similar-sounding songs. Both of these types of messages were deleted by me.

However, the message I received on Friday morning — the one that drew my attention away from a 60 year-old episode of the Fred MacMurray sitcom — asked if I was available for commissions.

I quickly responded that I was indeed and sent a link to the area of my website that details the steps to make one of my portraits your own. This person — who we'll call "Jimmy" — immediately and anxiously responded. He said he'd like me to draw his kids and sent me a photo of two young men standing on a driveway and looking like they'd rather not have their picture taken. I said I'd be happy to draw them once I received payment of $100 (the reasonable fee I mentioned earlier). I sent my wife's PayPal account info, reiterating that I would begin the drawing after I received payment. He asked for the PayPal user name on the account. I replied with an explanation that PayPal does not really employ "user names" like other payment apps and that the email address would be enough to accept payment.

He pressed for an account user name... somewhat relentlessly.

I spoke with Mrs. P, who assured me that — as I already knew — an email address is all that is required for PayPal payments. But, this guy Jimmy wasn't convinced. He pressed again and he pressed harder. Each of my explanations were met with an angry-toned "WHAT IS THE USER NAME" reply. Finally, Mrs Pincus logged into her PayPal account. She saw that PayPal recently added a "user name" that is essentially meaningless. It seems this useless addition was created to pacify those folks who were used to the "user names" associated with online payment upstarts Venmo and CashApp. I informed Jimmy of this new-found information and repeated the $100 fee and the proposed start time for his drawing. He asked if this was my first commission. I replied: "No. I have been doing this for forty years."

Then, I should have ducked to avoid the monkey wrench that Jimmy hurled at me.

"I am willing to support your artwork to the sum of $500," he said via text message in the Instagram app.

SCREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!!!!! The biggest red flag began waving in my head! A red flag so big that it could bring the participants in the Indy 500 to a grinding halt. No one — and I mean no one offers five times the agreed-upon price to an artist whose name is not Picasso, Renoir or Dali. And especially one of questionable notoriety and named Pincus.

"Thank you," I quickly replied, "but $100 will be just fine. Please do not send more than $100 for a drawing."

"I am doing this willingly," Jimmy replied aggressively, "so don't worry about it, hun."

This sounded really, really fishy. "If you'd like me to do a drawing, please just send $100.," I repeated.

That was the last of our exchange. That was last night. So far, no PayPal payment has been received from Jimmy... nor do I think there will be.

The internet is filled with weirdoes. And they all know how to find me.

If you'd like a drawing and you're not a weirdo, you can contact me HERE.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

break of dawn: reprise

Two years ago, I posted a story about my friend Dawn, a girl I knew in my youth. Dawn and I were very close friends, but we drifted apart and eventually lost touch with each other around 1979. I encourage you to read that story (HERE'S the link) before continuing with this one. It'll only take a few minutes and it will give this story better understanding. Go ahead. I'll wait....

Wow. That was quick. Are you sure you read it? 'Cause you'll appreciate this post more if you did.

Well, the story of Dawn garnered 48 comments — from people I don't know — when I reposted it on a private Facebook group concerned with growing up in Northeast Philadelphia. I received many comments from people who had a similar experience and lost touch with a close friend — or, in some cases, a first love. Several folks asked for a follow-up report, in case I chose to further continue my on-again-off-again pursuit for Dawn. Interestingly, mixed in with the comments were a few leads on how I could track Dawn down after all these years. People my age on Facebook certainly have presented themselves as "yentas."  

Well, seeing as I had a lot of time on my hands — what with zero employment prospects and a worldwide pandemic. I decided to conduct a little bit more of my investigation. A couple of Google searches led me to LinkedIn, the business networking website. I had been semi-active on LinkedIn for years and I, very quickly, was able to locate Dawn under her married name. I sent a request to "Join Her Network" and sat back to wait. Actually, I had forgotten all about it, despite a few persistent members of the Facebook group contacting me to see if I heard anything.

Nearly a month after I sent my request, I got a LinkedIn notification of acceptance from a name that I didn't recognize. I jogged my memory and realized it was Dawn. I sent a simple reply through LinkedIn's messaging service, not too pushy and not overanxious. I merely said "Hi Dawn! How have you been?" Almost 15 minutes later, Dawn replied. Look... I understand that few people spend as much time online as I do, but I thought that 15 minutes was a lengthy period to get a response from someone I hadn't seen in 40 years. Especially someone with whom I was so close. I don't want to read anything into this... so I won't. Dawn said: "Hi Josh! Doing good... can't complain... how's about u?" 

You didn't think I'd really
post her photo, did you?

I thought this was sort of odd. I didn't detect a shred of excitement. It was as though we converse regularly and had been doing so for years. (Damn! There I go again! Looking for some hidden meaning.) We messaged for a bit - our respective replies at intervals of 30 to 40 minutes apart. I sent her the link to the story I wrote about her and our relationship. After a time where, I assume, she read the story, she made a comparison to a show she watches on Netflix. I dispensed with chit-chat and fired the first salvo. I asked if she was married and if she had children. She told me that she has been married for 22 years with no children. Now, we were getting somewhere! Without waiting to be asked, I told her that Mrs. Pincus and I just celebrated 36 years of marriage and our son just turned 33. Dawn's reaction was: "Holy cow!! That is awesome Josh! Wow...." I thought that was sweet and very reminiscent of the Dawn I remembered. I sent her a link to my illustration blog with a bit of background explanation. I didn't hear a reply until the next morning. That reply was simply: "Pretty cool." In a subsequent message, I explained to Dawn that I had some pressing personal matters that I had to address, but I want to catch up. I was so happy that we re-connected and I want to hear about what she's been doing and where her life has led her. 

Her reply was one I never expected. 

She said: "As you know each marriage has its own intricacies and complexities that perhaps outsiders wouldn't understand. While it would be fun to chat and catch up on the last 40 yrs, my husband and I have a marriage that neither one of us really has separate friends of the opposite sex. I just wouldn't feel comfortable catching up.. our marriage is based on respect and I wouldn't do what I wouldn't want done to me. It is nothing at all against you.. as I said, these 22 yrs are working well for each of us and I wouldn't do anything to jeopardize it. And again, it's nothing at all against you Josh. You are a good person and I have nothing but fond memories of our friendship." I read and reread this several times, just to make sure I understood it. And I understood it alright. I thought back and it hit me that maybe this was the reason that none of my friends went on a second date with Dawn. 

I shared my correspondence with Dawn with my wife every step of the way. That's because my wife and I have a marriage that is actually based on mutual respect and trust. What Dawn describes sounded like something very different from the definition of "trust" that is familiar to me. When I read the final sentiment from Dawn, the always reliable, always sharp Mrs. P smiled and said "Bye, Felicia!" 

I have a friend who is a singer-songwriter. He wrote a song called "The Notion." The song is about how the idea of someone is sometimes better that the actual someone. It's a pretty astute observation. I think my memories — as fond as they are — of Dawn have been skewed and clouded by time. Perhaps I wasn't really aware of the real reason we parted ways so many years ago. So, this tale has come to an ending, just maybe not the ending you expected. 

Well.... that makes two of us.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

keep Baltimore beautiful

Well, we just returned from yet another cruise — our second one this year. We sailed on the Carnival Pride. This was our first cruise that left from the port of Baltimore, the so-called "Charm City," a misnomer if I ever heard one.

When Mrs. Pincus booked this trip, she arranged for an overnight stay and a shuttle to the cruise terminal through an online service called "Park Sleep Fly." (Wasn't there a serial killer with that nickname?) We packed our luggage and headed south on I-95 towards the Best Western BWI Airport Inn & Suites. For around a hundred bucks, they offered a room for overnight, parking for our car for the week we'd be away and shuttle service to the pier — plus a complimentary breakfast in the morning. Sounds good? Yeah..... we'll see.

We followed the directions as the indispensable Waze app guided us to our destination. Exiting I-895, Mrs. P navigated through what can only be described as a seedy-looking neighborhood, eventually arriving at our accommodations situated in a small courtyard at the end of Belle Grove Road, just past two auto body salvage yards.

The first thing I noticed as we pulled into the parking lot was the distinct lack of "Best Western" signage and branding. Nowhere was there any indication that this hotel was part of the Best Western chain. The backlit sign at the street very plainly identified the place as "BWI Airport Inn and Suites" The front of the building bore no signs at all. I found this strange and a bit suspicious. We parked and entered the building at the lobby. It looked like a million hotels we've seen (and passed) along the I-95 corridor, but still, not a single "Best Western" anything in sight. There was a large seating area opposite the front desk that was obvious used for the included breakfast in the morning. Mrs. Pincus confirmed our reservation with the slutty-looking blond behind the desk. We were informed that the cost of the shuttle was not included in the final price of our stay. Mrs. P quickly scanned the confirmation that she had printed out and we reluctantly paid the additional charge. The woman behind the desk rattled off a list of convoluted instructions regarding the timing and meeting area for the shuttle the next morning. She handed my wife a small cardboard portfolio with our electronic room keys and disappeared into a back room. Mrs. P and I exchanged silent glances, knowing full well that neither one of us was certain as to where and how we were to be taken to the pier tomorrow morning. We dragged our luggage over to the elevators.

The elevator arrived. We entered. The door closed. The inside of the doors were decorated with large, full-color graphics of the Baltimore Orioles — which were defaced with angry, jagged gouges obscuring the smiling visage of the familiar Oriole logo. The doors opened at the seventh floor and we followed the directional wall signs to our room. A pile of trash — two greasy pizza boxes, several Coke cans and some unidentifiable crumbled paper — was on the floor next to the small utility room that housed two vending machines and a commercial ice maker. The pile remained for our entire stay.

We found our room and Mrs. P swiped the plastic key card in the lock. A little green light above the knob flashed. I opened the door. The first thing I noticed was a black backpack sitting on the floor under the lone window. The lights were out. The beds were made. The room appeared clean and unoccupied... except for the backpack. Again, Mrs. Pincus and I exchanged bewildered glances. I slowly approached the backpack and gave it a gentle nudge with my foot. Mrs. Pincus exclaimed in horror, "What are you doing?"

"I'm checking to see if something is in it.," I replied, although I was quickly cut off by a stern "Don't touch it!" from my wife.

We decided that the removal of the backpack was the responsibility of a hotel employee. Still with our luggage in tow, we retraced our steps to the elevator (passing the trash pile along the way). Back at the front desk, we encountered a new member of the hotel staff. This woman was dress in a more professional manner and wore a name tag that identified her as the manager. The blond who greeted us earlier was nowhere in sight. Mrs. P told the manager of the strange backpack in our room. The manager listened and immediately asked if we'd like a different room.

"No," Mrs. P answered, "We just want someone to remove the backpack."

A fellow from the maintenance staff was summoned and he accompanied us to our room. Once inside, he fearlessly approached and grabbed the backpack. "Anything else?," he asked with a smile and without waiting for an answer, he grabbed the remote control for the television off the desk. "Let me make sure your TV works.," he said, and mashed a few buttons on the device until the screen lit up. We thanked him as he exited our room.

As night fell, Mrs. P and I ran through our dinner options using Google for nearby restaurants. Across the street was a Checkers, whose neon sign inexplicably flashed "Gheckers" from a side window. Next to that was a Dunkin Donuts. We ruled out both of theses choices, settling instead on hoagies from a nearby Wawa, the beloved Philadelphia convenience chain that has expanded down the east coast. I got directions to the closest Wawa. As we walked to our car, I spotted two young ladies exiting our hotel from the rear of the building. They were prancing towards a car parked in the corner of the parking lot. Both were dressed like stereotypical prostitutes you'd see in any episode of any police show on television in the 70s— short, tight skirts, sparkly tops, fishnet stockings and impossibly tall platform shoes. Glances were exchanged for a third time.

No microwaves for you.

The Wawa was a short drive from our hotel, but located in an equally sketchy neighborhood. We ordered from the touch-screen kiosk, just like at our hometown Wawa. While we waited for our order, a woman, possibly inebriated, burst in and approached the associate who was assembling our sandwiches. She loudly asked if they had a microwave that she could borrow, an odd request, in my opinion. The Wawa associate waved her off and continued with our order as the drunk woman staggered out of the store. More silent glances were exchanged. After dinner, we watched television and then went to sleep.

Pancakes!

The next morning, we packed up our stuff and headed down to the lobby. The lobby and breakfast area were bustling with activity. Folks were milling around — assembling a morning meal from the array of items set out by the hotel. Aside from the usual fare of coffee, bagels, cereal and yogurt, there was a self-serve waffle iron and a contraption that dispensed pancakes that looked like it was designed by Rube Goldberg.

Not included in this story.

We got clarification of the procedure for the shuttle. A woman with a clipboard scurried in and out of the lobby, checking off names and gathering groups together. A ten-seat mini van pulled up outside and folks were instructed to file in, leaving their luggage for the driver to pile up in the back storage area. After a bit of confusion and misinformation. Mrs. Pincus and I were directed to the van and soon we were officially off. Within twenty minutes, we were dropped off at the pier.

We cruised.

At the mercy of a bungee.

A week later, we returned from the sunny Caribbean to Baltimore, which was experiencing a heavy downpour. After a fairly simple debarkation process, we claimed our luggage and started towards the designated shuttle area. Trudging through the maze of people waiting for the departing cruise, we maneuvered to the small bus shelter where we spotted some families we recognized from our hotel (and a few we actually spoke to on our cruise). Our waterlogged colleagues told us that they had been waiting for some time, even after a call to the hotel assured them that "someone will be there in a few minutes." A familiar ten-seat mini van pulled up and our group hustled to find seats inside. Once our luggage was loaded, the driver struggled with the sliding side door, grinding it uncomfortably along its track, forcing it to close. His efforts were unsuccessful. Finally, he asked the husband of a young lady (we watched her sing a karaoke version of Dolly Parton's "Jolene" a few nights earlier) to grab and attach the free end of a rubber bungee cord to the inside door handle. This was as suspicious as the backpack in our room. The driver hit the gas and ascended the on-ramp of I-895. As the van gained speed, the sliding side door slid open — first an inch, then a few more — kept in check only by the flexible restraints of the bungee. The karaoke girl clutched and pulled her husband closer.

The shuttle lumbered into the parking lot of the Best Western BWI Airport Inn & Suites. A neon yellow emergency vehicle — its top lights blazing — was parked under the carport at the buildings entrance. Two men in reflective vests stood by the ambulance's rear doors. Mrs. Pincus and I — the first ones out — quickly collected our luggage from that back of the shuttle. We found our car at the rear of the building..... and got the hell out of Baltimore.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

my melancholy blues

Not Queen.

I loved Queen, the rock band that shook up radio playlists in 1974 with unique instrumentation and elaborate harmonies on their hit Killer Queen, brought opera to the mainstream, followed it up by reviving the rockabilly genre, then made a left toward funk and disco. Not bad for an art student, an astrophysicist, a dental student and an electronics engineer who stumbled into super stardom.

I saw Queen several times when I was in high school, at the height of adoration for the band. In 1977, I caught one of the coveted carnations tossed to the audience by charismatic front man Freddie Mercury during the encore of the band's Philadelphia date on the News of the World tour. I took my soon-to-be wife and my mother (um, those are two separate people) to see what would be Queen's final US tour in 1982. My mom, a long-time Queen fan experiencing her first concert, was brought to emotional tears. My almost-wife, an unwavering Dead Head, was also brought to tears — but for different reasons.

Freddie Mercury had kept his AIDS diagnosis a secret until the day before his passing in 1991. In Spring 1992, a crowd of 72,000 mourning fans packed London's Wembley Stadium for a star-studded show honoring the late singer. It was the last time the surviving members — guitarist Brian May, drummer Roger Taylor and bassist John Deacon — would perform together onstage. 

Deacon has since retired from the music business to a very non-public life, however Taylor and May have attempted to rekindle the magic of Queen's halcyon days. With May at the forefront, they recruited one-time Free and Bad Company vocalist Paul Rogers to fill Freddie Mercury's shoes (or ballet slippers, in this case). While Rogers' husky voice is typical "rock & roll," it is hardly in the same ball park as Mercury's five octave range. But that didn't deter Brian May from cashing in on the Queen legacy sans Freddie. He latched on to American Idol runner-up Adam Lambert to take on Freddie's vocal acrobatics, touting the young singer with the cringe-inducing blessing: "Freddie would have approved." (I commented at length on my current feelings for Mr. May nearly three years ago.) Needless to say, as far as I am concerned, there is no longer a band called "Queen," nor will there ever be.

Around the time that Mercury and company were telling the world that they were the champions, Broadway was alight with a show called Beatlemania. This multimedia production, billed as "not the Beatles but an incredible simulation," was a meticulous recreation of musical moments from the illustrious career of the Fab Four. It was an exciting and, for the time, unique undertaking, as well as a treat for those who had never seen the Beatles in concert (which was many, since the Beatles ceased live concerts in 1966). The four members of the cast talked like the Beatles, dressed like the Beatles, moved like the Beatles and, yes, sang like the Beatles. It was spectacular, if not a bit eerie. The production, which ran for over 1000 performances, spawned a new show business phenomena — the tribute band.

When I was younger, my friends and I would frequent any number of dive bars in our area. Besides cheap beer, these places would feature a band offering their interpretations of the hits of the day. In addition, some bands would do an entire set of the songs of one band. There was Witness, who did a Jethro Tull set.  There was the all-girl band Rapture, giving their best approximation of Blondie and, of course, local legends Crystal Ship famous for their Doors show. (Crystal Ship are famously mocked by The Dead Milkmen in the spoken intro of their song "Bitchin' Camaro.") These were just a bunch of guys playing songs by their favorite popular bands. But, more recently, tribute bands are big business. They tour regularly and get themselves booked into larger venues. Some even are officially sanctioned by the band to which they offer tribute. With clever (?) names like The Musical Box (a Genesis tribute), Strutter (a KISS tribute) and The Iron Maidens (an all-female tribute to guess who?) and some not-so-clever names like Australian Pink Floyd and 2U, these bands draw a loyal following of both the tribute and actual band.

Yesterday, my wife called me at work to tell me that her cousins Diahann and Heath (remember them?) were offering us tickets to see a Queen tribute show at The Borgata in Atlantic City. Mrs. P would pick me up near my office after work and we'd drive to the shore for dinner (again, complements of Diahann and Heath) before heading to the show. I did a quick Google search for this particular Queen tribute and discovered an officially endorsed tribute called "The Queen Extravaganza" starring one Marc Martell. The project, produced by Queen drummer Roger Taylor, was described as "much-buzzed-about" and has received much praise. Martell was commended as sounding "as if Freddie (Mercury) was in the room." However, further investigation revealed that the show we would be seeing was not that show. It appears that Mr. Martell has split with the official version, and taken his own rogue band in a similar direction, calling themselves "The Ultimate Queen Celebration." Ultimate, indeed.

After dinner, we entered the sparsely-populated venue a few minutes before showtime and were ushered to our eighth row seats. Mrs. P and I glanced around the room and assessed that the majority of the crowd had at least ten years on us... or perhaps they had all just led hard lives. Soon the lights dimmed and stage smoke enveloped the racked guitars and drum kit. In the dark, a man in our row screamed at the top of his nicotine-roughened voice: "Freddie's in the house!" Mrs. P and I exchanged surprised looks and Mrs. P whispered, "These people think they're at a Queen concert." On second thought, she may not have said "people." She may have said "idiots." Other folks were screaming wildly, bopping their heads and throwing up the "devil horns" (The same ones that KISS's Gene Simmons wants to trademark). The band members emerged from the violet-lit smoke, strapped on their instruments and launched into "Tie Your Mother Down," the lead-off track from Queen's 1976 effort A Day at the Races. Marc Martell, the alleged second coming of Freddie Mercury, stepped to the front of the stage and belted out the song's opening lines: 

"Get your party gown
Get your pigtail down
Get your heart beatin' baby" 

Was he good? He was okay. Was he Freddie Mercury? Not. Even. Close. Bud.

They were a cover band. A band doing other band's songs. Mr. Martell was making a half-hearted attempt at imitating some of Freddie Mercury's signature stage moves, while incorporating some of his own gestures. (Having seen the real Queen, I am very familiar with Freddie's faux ballet, stiff-finger punches in the air and microphone balancing.) The band was average, with the lead guitarist copying Brian May's well-known solos, but not his expression. Actually, he looked as though he had better things to do.

They delivered song after song, feigning excitement with each one. I physically winced at the opening strains of Sheer Heart Attack's "Now I'm Here," one of my favorite songs in the Queen canon. 

Not Queen.

Each new number — "Killer Queen," "Save Me," "Love of My Life," "Play the Game" — merely served as a sad reminder of how good Queen was. I silently reminisced about how much I once loved this band and how I still smile when I hear one of their hits and what a welcome shot of nostalgia it is to hear one of their more obscure songs. But, by Queen — not a cover band. Freddie Mercury oozed a certain amount of arrogance and pomposity, but it was earned. He was beloved by fans worldwide. When he greeted a local audience with "Hello Filthy-delphia! How are you motherfuckers?," it was received with reverence and esteem — especially when it was intoned with his upper-crust British accent. When Marc Martell, with the tiniest bit of smugness, shouted: "How are we, New Jersey?," it was met with a smattering of light applause. This was Queen karaoke by some guys playing rock & roll dress-up.

After a while, I was embarrassed. For the band and for the audience.

I don't know what would have made it better. Would I have appreciated it more if it was closer to Beatlemania, with the band members actually dressing like and imitating the members of Queen? I really don't know. I think that would have made it too close to the stage show We Will Rock You, the Ben Elton-penned Queen musical in the Mamma Mia vein. My son and I saw this ill-conceived debacle in Las Vegas and I hated it. I mean I really hated it. So, I don't know.

Was "The Ultimate Queen Celebration." an interesting evening? Oh sure. Hey, I got a blog post out of it. It also made me want to listen to my old Queen albums — something I haven't done in, literally, years.

The band wasn't bad. The performance wasn't horrible. But, most importantly, it wasn't Queen.

This is:

Queen.

Look, Diahann, I didn't even mention the pretzels.

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