a plate o' cole slaw

When I was a kid, there was a restaurant near our house called The Heritage Diner. My parents — especially my father — loved The Heritage Diner. My mother liked going there for two reasons. One - it meant she didn't have to cook. The second reason was she could order liver. My mother loved liver, but no one else in the house did (despite the fact that my father was a butcher by trade). My parents were old-school carnivores, with some sort of meat dish featured in practically every Pincus family dinner. Steak, roast beef, London broil, beef stew... but liver... that's where three-fourths of the Pincuses drew the line. So a trip to The Heritage Diner fulfilled my mom's craving for liver. After my mom died, I believe my father ate every meal — breakfast, lunch and dinner every single day! —  at The Heritage Diner. However, I don't believe he ever got the liver.

I liked going the The Heritage Diner, too. I marveled at the big display of desserts that greeted diners as they entered the establishment. I was fascinated my the enormity of the menu. I was given free reign to order whatever I like from the Heritage Diner's vast selection. There were burgers, hot turkey sandwiches covered with bright yellow gravy, even omelets were available in the evening hours and "breakfast for dinner" was always a welcome treat. On Sundays, the already -huge menu was bolstered with a typewritten sheet listing several dozen additional entrees to make choosing "what's for dinner" even more difficult. Each entry on the supplemental menu included soup or salad and dessert along with two — count 'em two — vegetables from a list of about fifteen or so choices. My go-to dinner (if I didn't feel like having a hamburger) was a massive slab of breaded fried flounder. Served on a large oval plate with smoky red trim, the hunk of fried fish was so large that it covered the entire platter, the edges flopping over the sides. Sometimes a second, slightly smaller piece of fish would come out on the plate, as though the first piece wasn't big enough. As part of my order, I was required to state which two vegetables from the list of the evening's offerings I'd like. I was not the most ravenous eater when it came to vegetables. I read the list of vegetables over and over, turning my nose up at things like "Harvard beets" and "French cut string beans." Those were things my mom ate at home and I turned my nose up at them there, too, so I was certainly not going to order them in a restaurant. I was cautioned about ordering two kinds of potatoes, as I narrowed my choices down to French fries and a baked potato. I was also not permitted to get corn and French fires. Something about "two starches" that — to this day — I still don't quite get. Well, I knew I wasn't going to get spinach or peas, so I settled on the final item on the list to share my plate with my fries... and that was cole slaw. I already knew that I wasn't going to actually eat the cole slaw. Sure, it came in a tiny plastic ramekin containing less than two forkfuls worth of shredded cabbage, mayonnaise, celery seed, carrots and vinegar. I knew that as soon as the waitress brought my dinner plate, that little cup of cole slaw would be pushed onto my mom's plate before it hit the table.

As I got older and became a more adventurous eater, I began to like cole slaw. I discovered that if it was added to a corned beef sandwich and slathered with Russian dressing, it made a sandwich that was unmatched and positively delicious. If the corned beef was substituted with turkey, it created an equally-delicious assemblage. I would sometimes order fried fish and eat all the accompanying cole slaw first.

Somewhere around 2006, I became a vegetarian. I stopped eating red meat and poultry. However, I did not eliminate fish from my diet (after all, fish are just asking for it) so, I continue to order and enjoy cole slaw with fried flounder — which is still a favorite of mine. I will sometimes finish my dinnermate's cole slaw, just because I know that most people don't really like it. 

There is a writer whose blog I have been reading for years. His regular job is writer and producer of the Garfield cartoon, but he has been a comic book writer for years. He also hates cole slaw and doesn't hide his hatred. In 1978, he wrote a story that appeared in the Hanna Barbera TV Stars issue Number 2. The story, illustrated with drawings by Jack Manning and featuring characters from a short-lived NBC cartoon called "C.B. Bears," was entitled "The Great Cole Slaw Conspiracy." He wrote the story to — and I quote — "educate children on the evils of cole slaw." He explained, in a blog post, that his editor shared his dislike for cole slaw and the story was given an enthusiastic "green light." He also regularly reminds readers of his blog how much he hates cole slaw and wishes for its removal from existence — in case you had forgotten. I continue to read his blog, but I bristle when he derides cole slaw. (Sort of how you cringe when I insult Ringo,)

On October 28, 2009, while the rest of Philadelphia was glued to their televisions to watch the Phillies in a return trip to the World Series, my son and I went to see off-the-wall comedian Emo Philips at a little comedy club. With Game One of the World Series as competition, the entire audience was comprised of just four people. Emo, in top form, sat on the edge of the tiny stage and delivered his hilarious routine while leaning forward with his elbows resting on the surface of our stage-side table. After the show, Emo came out and mingled with the audience... if you can call talking with four people "mingling." I asked him if he would sign our admission ticket. He obliged, taking the ticket from my hand and — without prompting or any sort of suggestion on my part — wrote "To Josh, King of Cole Slaw! Emo"

Even Emo knew.

Maybe one day, I'll tell you about my love of Cream of Wheat. But, not today.

www.jopshpincusiscrying.com

listen to the countdown, they're playing our song again

At the end of last year, my favorite radio station, Philadelphia's WXPN, interrupted their regular programming to present the "885 Greatest Songs of the 21st Century." Culled from an online poll of loyal listeners, the countdown (played back in reverse order) offered a wide variety of songs from a wide variety of artists. The content was comprised mostly of WXPN's so-called "core artists," the ones who receive regular play on the station and are beloved by listeners for their musical output, their longevity, and because WXPN says they are beloved or some combination of  the above. So, of course the countdown featured 18 songs by Radiohead (a band I do not care for), 11 songs by Hozier (a singer I am indifferent towards), 9 songs by Bruce Springsteen (a singer I am sick of hearing, especially his 21st century releases) and slew of non-descript singer/songwriters who — honestly — all seem to blend together. The countdown included 8 songs by Kendrick Lamar, rapper and recent Super Bowl halftime showman. WXPN rarely plays Kendrick Lamar in their day-to-day playlist. As a matter of fact, the station receives a number of complaints from its predominantly white, predominantly older audience when ever a rap artist interrupts their Dawes and The War on Drugs listening time. (Yes, WXPN is my favorite radio station. Imagine what I would say if it wasn't my favorite!)

People love to rank things. They love to make lists of pretty much everything in their lives in the order of how much they are loved. They love to tell other people how they have ranked things and try to convince those people to rank these things in the same order, often leading to heated arguments, insults and animosity. That's just human nature, I suppose. In 2020, I reiterated how much I dislike... no, make that hate countdowns. Countdowns and lists and rankings are based on opinions. And — boy! — do people have opinions. Opinions are meaningless in the big scheme of things. If you insist on things being ranked and rated, it should be based on measurable facts, not on how much you like or don't like something. Everyone has different likes and dislikes, yet people want everyone to share their opinion. And they get very, very defensive when their opinions are not shared. Very defensive.

Every year, the Oscars, the Emmys, The Grammys, the Tonys and countless other awards are given out based on the opinions of a specific group of people. Record sales, box office receipts and other factual, measurable criteria are tossed aside in favor of arbitrary opinions based on likability, personalities and politically motivated feeling. That's why Glenn Close or Alfred Hitchcock never received an Oscar. That's why Paul Newman was finally given an Oscar for a 1987 performance in a less-than-stellar sequel to the movie for which he should have won an Oscar. Paul Newman skipped that Oscar ceremony in 1987, later stating: "It's like chasing a beautiful woman for 80 years." Paul knew bullshit when he saw it. 

The same goes for various Halls of Fame. The Baseball Hall of Fame is chock full of statistics, but, when it comes to selection for induction into the coveted Hall, players are chosen based on the opinions of a committee. They know what statistics are and what they represent, yet they choose to ignore statistics when it really counts. Induction into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame has been a "bone in the throat" for a lot of die-hard rock and roll fans. Each year, when nominees are announced (by the same opiniated group that will eventually vote on who gets in), tempers flare and voices raise in protest. "Why hasn't (insert your favorite snubbed rock & roller here) gotten in?" is the frequent gripe. The word "deserves" is brought up a lot, mostly by people who don't fully understand what "deserves" means. Non-rock and rollers like Dolly Parton have been given the honor of induction, while Bad Company, Boston, Warren Zevon and Iron Maiden look on from the sidelines. Again, record sales, concert receipts and radio (and now streaming) airplay are not considered for induction. Only opinion. According to the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame's website, "the Nominating Committee's selections are based on a number of criteria, including the impact and influence of the artist on music history, as well as their popularity, longevity, and musical innovations." That just another, more complicated way of saying "opinion."

So, because I do not like countdowns and I do not subscribe to the importance that is placed on countdowns and ratings and rankings, I avoided the "885 Greatest Songs of the 21st Century." I listened to the radio before the countdown began, but I was already at my desk at work by the time it started and each subsequent day when it picked up where it left off the previous day. I avoided it for its entire ten day (or so) run. When it was all over, I casually glanced at the results that were posted on the WXPN website — just out of curiosity.

And there was a glaring omission.

Sparks 21st Century albums

The parameters for inclusion in this countdown was songs released between January 1, 2000 and right up until the day the countdown voting closed. That encompasses 25 years. The list of 885 songs was totally devoid of a single entry by Ron and Russel Mael, the brothers who have been performing for the past 54 years (in one capacity or another) under the name Sparks. Since their debut in 1971, Sparks has flown just under the mainstream radar of the music industry. As a band, they are hard to define. They have dabbled in many musical genres including pop, rock, new wave, dance and electronica. Along the way, they have poked playful fun at they genres they so expertly mimicked. Although their humor is quite prevalent in their songs, they are not a novelty act, like Weird Al Yankovic (who, by the way, has five Grammys). Sparks are a legitimate band. Yes, they have popped their heads up here and there, scoring with a few minor hits in the 80s, but mostly they are one of the cultiest of cult bands. They get very little airplay despite their musical output of 41 albums (including 2 soundtrack albums, a live album and 12 compilation albums) and 79 singles. They have appeared and performed on network television (including briefly on an episode of Gilmore Girls). They were featured in the 1977 thriller Rollercoaster and more recently, they were the subject of and acclaimed documentary by edgy filmmaker Edgar Wright.

Sparks met the criteria for inclusion in the "885 Greatest Songs of the 21st Century." Beginning in 2000, Sparks released 11 albums. Eleven! including the two soundtracks and a collaboration with Scottish band Franz Ferdinand (whose "Take Me Out" ranked at Number 93 according to someone's opinion). Within the past 25 years, several Sparks songs were played on WXPN for a brief period of time, mostly just after a new album release or when the documentary came out. After that, the new Sparks songs disappeared from the airwaves and 1983's "Cool Places" would pop up on the station's 80's themed specialty show.

However, not a single Sparks song made it to the "885 Greatest Songs of the 21st Century." Not a one. The alt-metal band Incubus had a song come in at Number 859. Pop punkers Jimmy Eat World were included at Number 689. Even Taylor Swift took the 133 spot with "Shake It Off" — a song that is rarely if ever played on WXPN. But no Sparks.

Is the  "885 Greatest Songs of the 21st Century" really an accurate assessment of the "885 Greatest Songs of the 21st Century?" Before you answer, understand that it's just your opinion.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

Footnote: I went an entire post about music without a single shot at Ringo or The Dave Matthews Band.

a cover is not the book

I love to read. Unfortunately, I don't have nearly enough time to do so anymore. Years ago, when I used to take the train to work, I read a lot. An awful lot. I used to go through several books a month. I read so much, that I tried to have several books lined up, so when I finished the current book I was reading, I could start right in on the next one uninterrupted.

I was always looking for books to read. I began by reading classics — books I was supposed to read in high school but just never got around to it. I remember when I read The Catcher in the Rye — a favorite of serial killers —  nobody would ever sit next to me on the train, a rarity in the busy, early-morning rush hour. I read I, The Jury — my first exposure to the 1950s hard-boiled detective genre. I enjoyed the book, but couldn't help but feeling that I was reading a MAD magazine parody. I honestly couldn't get through The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, but I loved The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll. I was surprised by how much descriptive story and suspense was built up, despite its abbreviated length. I felt the same about the many novels I read by Edgar Allan Poe.

There was one book that was regularly recommend to me by my wife's cousin Jerzy. He often gushed about one book in particular, extolling its satirical wit, its off-the-wall humor and its biting social commentary. Jerzy would bring this book up almost every time I saw him. So, after years of prodding, I purchased a second-hand copy of Jerzy's favorite book — John Kennedy Toole's A Confederacy of Dunces — to read on the train.

John Kennedy Toole

New Orleans native John Kennedy Toole taught English Literature at Columbia University after his graduation from Tulane, which he attended on a scholarship. He was drafted into the army in 1963 where he taught English to Spanish-speaking recruits in Puerto Rico. That's where be began writing A Confederacy of Dunces. He would finish the novel in his parents' home after his discharge. Upon its completion, Toole shopped the novel to various publishers. It was rejected by each one, including two different editors at Simon & Shuster, when it was deemed "pointless." Depressed and paranoid, Toole took his own life in 1969 at the age of 31. While going through his personal belongings, Toole's mother Thelma, with whom he had a close but tumultuous relationship and who served as the inspiration of the main character's overbearing mother in the novel, found her son's manuscript (in carbon copy form, no less!). Thelma was determined to have her son's book published. She literally pestered author Walker Percy to read the manuscript. He relented and loved it. In 1980, seventeen years after Toole typed the final words and over a decade after he committed suicide, A Confederacy of Dunces was published by LSU Press. Amid high praise, it won the Pulitzer Prize the following year.

Ignatius J. Reilly

Early one morning, I boarded the train to work, found a seat and cracked open my brand-new used copy of A Confederacy of Dunces. Almost immediately I was introduced to the likes of Ignatius J. Reilly, the slovenly, lazy, delusional, idealistic anti-protagonist of the story. Ignatius is educated but without ambitions. He has contempt for the world around him and the people who inhabit it. He perceives himself as a superior member of society. He is at odds with his mother, his reluctant girlfriend, the local police officer and his employers at several positions he is forced to take. He's a glutton, a pervert who points out the perverse actions of others, and a ne'er-do-well who blames his long run of bad luck solely on the work of an ancient deity — not his own decisions (or lack of). Ignatius's improbable interactions with the book's supporting characters were only somewhat amusing. To me, however, they were downright infuriating and eerily familiar.

As I continued to read A Confederacy of Dunces, I was nagged by an underlying feeling. I felt I had heard — even witnessed — the adventures of  Ignatius J. Reilly before. But, this was a silly thought. Ignatius J. Reilly was a fictional character. After a few more days and a few more chapters... it hit me. It hit me as to why I was not enjoying this book. It occurred to me who exactly Ignatius J. Reilly was. His antics. His "blame the world for my troubles" attitude. His "I am above everyone" ego. His skewed, "know-it-all" view on reality. Ignatius J. Reilly was... was... a member of my family. A particular member of my family. A member of my family whose personality and demeanor mirrors that of Ignatius J. Reilly's to a T. A member of my family with whom I have had a contentious relationship for years. A relationship that has exponentially deteriorated with each new audacious action he exercises. He is lazy, like Ignatius J. Reilly. He's unambitious, like Ignatius J. Reilly. He's unrealistic, like Ignatius J. Reilly. He's a buffoonish elitist, like Ignatius J. Reilly. He's an asshole, like Ignatius J. Reilly

I cannot — and will not — elaborate. If you know me, you know to whom I am alluding. If you don't know me personally, just know that I was not able to fully enjoy A Confederacy of Dunces to the level that Jerzy did. It's just one more thing that this particular family member has ruined for me.

I should really start reading again. It's a distraction.

Usually.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

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

welcome back my friends to the show that never ends

Greg Lake's
Bar Mitzvah 'do

I loved Emerson, Lake and Palmer... when I was 13. A friend from school introduced me to the 1973 progressive rock classic Brain Salad Surgery almost a year after its release. I remember sitting in my pal Bobby's bedroom, in front of his stereo, positively mesmerized by the otherworldly sounds emanating from the speakers. I was accustomed to the pop of The Jackson's Dancing Machine, Terry Jacks' clawingly sad elegy Seasons in the Sun, George McCrae's pre-disco Rock Your Baby and the inane "ooga-chucka"s of Blue Swede's take on Hooked on a Feeling. In comparison to the three-minute ditties I heard on the radio, Emerson Lake and Palmer were positively empyrean. Bobby also commented that he wanted to get his hair cut for his Bar Mitzvah in the style that Greg Lake sported in a photo included in the album package. But it was the music that got me hooked. I went right out and bought a copy of the album for my very own. 

I played my copy of Brain Salad Surgery over and over and over. I loved it! The songs spanned a variety of styles, although they all seemed to complement each other. There were ballads and traditional madrigals and even a bawdy skiffle tune. It was all capped off with an epic, three-part pseudo symphony, chockful of Keith Emerson's signature synthesizers, Greg Lake's soaring vocals and Carl Palmer's inventive percussion. 

But, alas, my interest in Emerson, Lake and Palmer was short-lived. In the Summer of 1974, I discovered Queen and there was no looking back. Freddie Mercury and company — in my limited teenage opinion — were the epitome of innovation and experimentation. By the time the 70s ended, Emerson Lake and Palmer had gone their separate ways and I was entering my new wave and punk phase of musical interest.

As a white male in his 60s, I grew up in what is now looked back upon as the "classic rock" era. Okay, maybe I'm on the young side of that era, but, still, I was in the thick of it. To be honest, I loathe the classic rock era, with only a few exceptions. I still like the stupid bubble-gum pop of one-hit wonders like Reunion and  Paper Lace (ahhhhh.... Paper Lace....!). But, I cringe at the reverence that "classic rock" unjustly thinks it deserves. Well, maybe not the music itself. I suppose it's the fans of classic rock. The unwavering, narrow-minded, opinionated cranks that just know that "classic rock" is the greatest music ever produced. The ones that angrily try to convince the members of subsequent generations that they should be listening to classic rock and the music from their actual youth is frivolous and unimportant. Of course, their campaign is bolstered by the regular parade of classic rock-era bands that trot themselves out for a national tour with one original member and a subsidy of recruited musicians who weren't yet born when the band in question was enjoying the adoration of their youthful fans. (I experienced this at a recent show I attended purely as a social experiment and to get a blog post out of it.)

"Is this bloody thing on?
C'mere and help granddad
with this, luv?"

A few days ago, I was mindlessly scrolling through the "Reels" on Facebook. Between the brief clips of stand-up comics, mouse-eared folks traipsing through Disneyland and cats climbing up curtains, the algorithm powers-that-be saw fit to stick in a promo video for an upcoming performance by.... um.... Emerson, Lake and Palmer. The video, shot from the unnatural angle of a nasal cavity examination featured an older man that I swear I just saw picking though low-fat yogurt in the refrigerated section at Aldi. In a weak and scratchy British accent, this bloke implored the viewer (in this case, me) to come see him at the historic Levoy Theatre in glorious Millville, New Jersey. He revealed that for an extra fifty bucks, you could participate in a  Q & A session, as well as pose for an exclusive photo with him and his band. It turns out this older gentleman with the thick-lensed glasses and gray crewcut was none other than Carl Palmer. The video looped again and he repeated the details of the performance by Emerson, Lake and Palmer. I was puzzled for a moment. After all, keyboard maestro Keith Emerson had taken his own life nearly ten years ago. Later the same year, vocalist/bassist Greg Lake (he of Bar Mitzvah-style hairdos) succumbed to pancreatic cancer at the age of 69. I got bad news for you, Carl. Your former bandmates ain't joining you in South Jersey... or anywhere else, for that matter.

Additional research showed that the performance — "An Evening with Emerson, Lake and Palmer" — would consist of  the 74-year old drummer flanked by two giant screens (in the promo video, Carl emphasized the enormity of the screens) showing decades old footage of Keith and Greg. Carl will be accompanying the film live on drums. For an extra fifty bucks — over and above your ticket price —  you can meet Carl face-to-face and possibly ask him: "Jesus, Carl.... what the fuck?" before they kick you out the door. That sounds like it's worth fifty bucks. Maybe you can also tell him to center himself better in the camera frame when he makes iPad videos. Y'know, before the venue door smacks you in the ass.

Look, I don't begrudge Carl Palmer (or Brian May or the guy from The Yardbirds who's not Eric Clapton or Jimmy Page or Jeff Beck) for wanting to earn a living. But do you really have to grab a buck at the expense of a dead and more popular bandmate? Is that the career path you had hoped for? If you ask Brian May, he'd confidently reply that "Freddie Mercury would have approved."

I guess Keith Emerson and Greg Lake are on board, too. Right, Carl?

www.joshpincusiscrying,com

i'm beginning to see the light

We moved into our house on Labor Day weekend 1986. That's nearly forty years ago. In that time, I have changed a lot of light bulbs in our house. 

Every so often, when I am in the main bathroom in our house — or even when I just walk by the open doorway to the bathroom, I glance up at the odd ceiling fixture and I think: "I don't think I have ever changed that light bulb." Sometimes, I find myself staring at it for way too long, wondering..

1. How a light bulb can last so long. That bulb had to have been originally screwed in to its socket by the previous owners, the couple we bought our house from

2. If I do have to ever change that light bulb, how on earth will I get my hand up into the long glass shade to get the bulb out

3. Why am I pondering this light bulb non-dilemma when have to get to work?

... then, I just go about my business, often putting a little speed into my step because I wasted so much time unnecessarily contemplating a light bulb.

Just the other day,  I was in the bathroom getting ready to go to work. I was leaning over the sink, brushing my teeth, when the lights dimmed — ever so slightly — above my head. I stopped mid-brush and looked up. The lights seemed fine. I returned my attention to my dental hygiene, and, once again, the lights flickered. And then they flickered more. And then, with the sun outside not yet up at 5:20 AM, I was plunged into total darkness. I stopped what I was doing. I spit out the foamy toothpaste in my mouth and dropped my toothbrush in the sink... and I let out a long, exasperated sigh to myself.

Before heading to the basement to check on the Pincus utility closet's lightbulb inventory, I hopped up on the edge of the bathtub to determine if the light bulb really needed to be changed... like l'm some kind of licensed electrician. I leaned over precariously, keeping a firm grip on the shower rod to prevent Mrs. P's discovery of a nasty scene when she awakens a few hours from now. I carefully fitted my hand up into the glass shade protruding vertically from the bathroom ceiling. The opening was just big enough for me to get my hand inside, but it was difficult to employ the digital dexterity required to extract this light bulb from its socket. Determined, I slowly rotated the bulb with the tips of my fingers pressed against its smooth glass surface. It was a slow and tedious process, but I finally was able to turn it enough times so as to release its threaded base from the receptacle. The bulb dropped into my hand. After all, there was little space for it to drop any place else. I examined the bulb. The glass nearest the metal base was darkened, most likely from the burnt filament that had once proudly illuminated our bathroom for so many years. The spent bulb was marked 60 watts. I noted the size as I started for the basement.

Downstairs, I rifled through the shelves of extension cords and cleaning products until I located our stock of light bulbs. We had a full box of 100 watt bulbs, a partial box of 100 watt bulbs and a box where the size had been torn off, yet was identified as "40 watts" in black marker in my handwriting, something I must have done years ago but could not recall exactly when as I stood shirtless and barefooted in my pajama bottoms holding a burned-out light bulb at five-thirty in the morning.

Disappointed with the selection at hand, I chose a 40 watt bulb. I climbed the stairs back up to the bathroom. This time, I brought a chair from the living room to stand on, as I no longer trusted myself on the edge of the bathtub where I would be working like one of the Flying Wallendas without a net. With the same patience I used to remove the old bulb, I inserted the new bulb in a display of skill that was slightly trickier in reverse. The words of Ginger Rogers commenting on the extra effort she was forced to utilize when dancing with Fred Astaire suddenly came to mind. The task finally completed, I flicked the light switch and the room was once again bathed in light — 20 watts less than previous, but bathed just the same.

When I got home from work, I went upstairs to our third-floor office where my wife was busily listing items  in her eBay store (no, she won't sell your stuff for you). I related the tale of changing the light bulb to Mrs. P, asking if she thought the bathroom light seemed dimmer. Before she answered, she produced a 60 watt bulb from a nearby desk, where it had been sitting in reserve, just waiting for the bulb in one of our desk lamps to blow. I frowned, but took the bulb downstairs to install it in the bathroom fixture. I repeated the steps — slow turns and all — until the bathroom once more glowed in 60 watt luminescence.

Forty years went by without a change of light bulb in our upstairs bathroom. Today, I changed it twice.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

i know a place

You may not know it, but you are looking at the greatest parking spot on the planet Earth. Gaze upon it. Relish in its glory, Marvel at its very existence. This, by the way, is a very, very rare photo of this parking space without a car parked in it. But, rest assured, it will be occupied as soon as I finish taking this picture. Guaranteed.

Where — you may ask — is this coveted, exalted parking space? Why, it is right in front of my house.

My wife and I moved into our house on Labor Day weekend 1986. My wife regularly parked her car in our driveway. I would take the curbside space that was adjacent to our driveway, directly in front of our house. I began to notice that, on any occasion that I moved my car — to go to work or for just a quick trip to pick up a pizza — someone would immediately pull into the parking space in front of my house once I vacated it. I could be gone for eight hours, a full weekend or just a few minutes. When I returned, there was always — always! — a car occupying the space in front of my house.

For twelve years, I took the train to work, leaving my car parked in front of my house — untouched — for five days. I would rarely drive anywhere on weekends, but if I did — to pick up dry cleaning or to claim a package at the post office — the space would be taken when I got back. I started to take my wife's car on short errands, so as not to give up my parking space.

If correctly spaced, there is room for three cars between my driveway and my next-door neighbor's driveway. If the allotted space is not divvied up correctly, the available space is not big enough to accommodate a car. But, that doesn't seem to matter. On many occasions, in an effort to park in the most wonderful parking space in the world, cars have been carelessly left by their drivers with the rear bumper extending a foot or more into my driveway. I often wondered if the violators assessed their parking skills and have determined that they are fully within their rights to block my driveway. I wonder if they get out of the car, look at how much of their rear bumper of their car is not within the safe, legal confines of  a parking space, and think: "Yes. This is fine. I will leave my car here, because I don't care if the folks who live at this house and own the car parked in the driveway will need to move said car during the time my car is parked here." And then they leave. 

Every so often, I watched from my front door as someone pulls into the space and shimmies back-and forth until they are satisfied with the parking job they have achieved. When they exit their poorly-parked vehicle, I emerge from my house and tell them that they are blocking my driveway. Never — never! — have I ever received an apology, followed by the person sheepishly returning to their car to seek another spot in which to park. No, no, no! I am usually met with an angry reply of "You can get out!" to which I very calmly counter "You are blocking my driveway. If you leave your car there, I will call the police." This retort elicits an exasperated grumble from the driver, a lot of head-shaking and, eventually, a relocation of the offending car by way of gunning the engine and screeching away from the curb. 

I have left notes on the windshield of cars that I didn't catch in the act only to find my handwritten message crumbled up in a ball and laying on my front lawn.

My wife and I have been cursed at by drivers who, wanting so desperately to park in the greatest parking spot in the world, have parked across the apron of our driveway because there was already a car in the space. (Usually it's my car!)

I don't know what it is about this parking space that makes it so desirable. There are other spaces available up and down my street. But there is something about the space in front of my house that attracts cars before all of the other spaces on the block. There are no special services that come with parking there — no blockades, no barriers, no valet. There isn't a free car wash or oil change as though you are leaving your car at the airport. It's just a parking spot.

One day, during the time that I took the train to work and my car would sit for days (or weeks) at a time, I found a note under the windshield wiper. Scrawled on a torn piece of paper was a... a... threat from someone who, in direct violation of the Tenth Commandment, ordered me to "move my car so someone else could park there."

I sometimes think I am unreasonably obsessive (re: nuts) for wanting to park my car in front of my house. I won't even park my car in front of my next-door neighbor's house if that spot is available and the one in front of my house is not. I like to think he would afford me the same courtesy if the situation was reversed. (Surprise! He does not.) I was once asked (actually demanded) to move my car from the space in front of my other next-door neighbor's house. She referred to that space as "her space." (There is not designated parking anywhere on my street.) Ironically, she (or visitors to her house) has blocked my driveway numerous times over the years. But, it seems, I am not nuts. No, not at all. It appears that everyone — everyone! — just wants to park in front of my house.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com