a must to avoid

Have you ever walked or driven past a place that you have never been to and, just by the looks of things, thought to yourself, "I am never going there!"? I do this a lot. Sometimes it's a store. Sometimes it's a restaurant. This time, it's a restaurant.

I take the same route to work every morning. I wind my way through northeast Philadelphia towards the Tacony-Palmyra Bridge and eventually to the mostly industrial burg of Pennsauken, New Jersey. Every morning, at around 6:30, I pass a small strip center on Levick Street. Wedged between a Chinese restaurant whose curtains are always drawn and whose neon "OPEN" sign is always lit even when they are not open and a Little Caesar's which I will never set foot in again is an intriguing little restaurant. Well, intriguing to me, anyway. Every morning, when I pass by this place, I find myself craning my neck to get a closer assessment. The place is marked by a large backlit sign (that is never lit) that reads "Breakfast & Lunch" with a small subhead that guarantees "Homemade Style" along with the phone number. Beneath the sign, the grease-streaked windows display several pieces of paper taped to the inside. I can only assume that these papers delineate some important information for those who are close enough to read their contents. Perhaps the day's specials or a change in business hours or maybe a plea for qualified and experienced restaurant help. Whatever they may say, from my position behind the steering wheel of my car and doing approximately 40 miles per hour, I am not privy to that information. I can, however, see that there is never — never! — a single customer inside the place. Never. I can make out a few figures moving around at the back of the interior, behind what is most likely a service counter. I can make out an array of tables and chairs but they are all always empty. I can see a large cooler with a PEPSI logo glowing at the top, but there are no customers helping themselves to sodas nor employees taking some drinks out to fill an order... at least never during the four or five seconds that elapses as I drive past.

First of all, I am intrigued by the sign. I wonder what was the discussion that led to the decision to call the place "Breakfast & Lunch?" Did the owner make a list of possible names, scratching out the ones that were too obscure? Was "Petit-Déjeuner et Déjeuner" not used because the majority of the neighborhood residents did not speak French? Was "Elevenses" passed on because the Tolkien reference would have been lost on the working-class folks who make the immediate area their home? Perhaps "Breakfast & Lunch" was the just best option in the owner's short list. After all, that is what they serve... sort of like the General Putnam Motel Diner featured in the film My Cousin Vinny.

I am also intrigued by the general description of the cuisine, as described by the subheading on the sign. "Homemade Style" is not exactly enticing. "Homemade" is, but not homemade style. Does this imply that the food is not homemade, but, instead, mimics the type of food that one would expect to be homemade. Is your food homemade? Well, it's homemade style! When we rip open this 300 pound bag of hash brown potatoes that were frozen in some processing plant last month, they will be prepared in the style of homemade food. Same goes for when we rehydrate these powdered eggs. Or maybe it's more along the lines of when you see a "kosher style" designation at a delicatessen, yet you find bacon among the breakfast side orders or Swiss cheese melted on your corned beef in the ever-popular, but decidedly trayfe, Reuben sandwich. Well... maybe "homemade style" isn't as "cut and dried." "Homemade style" sounds... sounds... I don't know.... weird. It's a bit too noncommittal and very suspect.

Two doors away from Breakfast & Lunch is a DMV location where people regularly line up hours before the official opening time. You would think that Breakfast & Lunch would do some kind of business from the folks waiting for state-issued identification. But, no... the queue stays just outside the doors of the DMV office and no one gives a glance in the direction of Breakfast & Lunch

I decided to see if Breakfast & Lunch has an internet presence. Sure enough, they do!  It seems that food from Breakfast & Lunch is readily available via Door Dash, Uber Eats and various other independent delivery services. My search also revealed that the place also goes by the name "B L Kitchen." This alternate moniker is emblazoned on the laminated menus from which a customer could select a meal... if there were indeed any customers.

And then there is Yelp! — the internet's great equalizer. The Yelp! reviews of Breakfast & Lunch are required reading. Evidentially, they do have customers. Regular customers! I suppose they patronize the business at other times besides 6:30 AM and 6:30 and five seconds. The Yelp! reviews feature a lot of photographs of very generic looking platters of standard breakfast food. Eggs, just plain eggs. Toast accompanied by a little plastic container of commercially-packed jelly. The amateurly-written sentiment ranges from high praise and sworn loyalty to vivid descriptions of disgusting and traumatic experiences endured by unsuspecting customers just looking for a couple of scrambled eggs and some coffee. There are repeated complaints of wrong orders, undercooked or overcooked food, not to mention dirty silverware, dirty plates, dirty tables and dirty floors. Other reviews stated that while the food was okay, the staff was rude, obnoxious, slow, unresponsive, unknowledgeable and — in one case — stoned. Sprinkled among the viscous and disparaging reports are glowing accounts of ambrosial pancakes and heavenly sausages with just the right amount of seasoning and condiments. These are immediately followed by a tirade about ketchup packets being pulled from a customer's take-out order and a manager scolding the waitstaff for putting so many packets in a customer's order in the first place.

And then there are the roaches. A number of reviews — too many for my comfort — describe troupes of roaches on tables, on walls, on counters, near food preparation areas, and, of course, in the bathrooms. That was all I needed to see.

I have no intentions of ever stopping at Breakfast & Lunch. I will never let my curiosity get the best of me. I will continue to pass Breakfast & Lunch a little before sunrise and again on my return commute hours after its 3:00 PM posted closing time. Even before reading Yelp! reviews, the place just looked.... uninviting from the outside. It is just one of those places. If you live in the Philadelphia area, patronizing Breakfast & Lunch is totally up to you. You won't see me there.... or anyone else, as far as I can tell. 

Although, this guy sure seems to like it... whoever he is.

originally posted on Yelp!

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

wide open spaces

Every summer, Mrs. Pincus and a couple thousand other folks converge on Camden, New Jersey for a three-day music festival put on by my favorite Philadelphia radio station. The XPoNetial Music Festival — now in its twenty-fifth year — brings bands from all different genres to two stages for a celebration of fun, food, camaraderie and positivity. At least that's what it attempts to do.

The show is outdoors — rain or shine. Most years, the weather has been spectacular. A few times, performances have been cut short because of rain. One year, recently, schedules were shuffled around (with some acts being canceled completely) because the festival was scheduled the same weekend as a hurricane. This year, thankfully, the weather was wonderful. Bright sunshine, cool breezes coming off the nearby Delaware River and moderate temperatures never inching past the low 80s. Of course, an outdoor show is much more laid back. Attendees are free to stretch out and make themselves comfortable. Sure there are crowds right up in front of the stage, but for the most part, people keep a comfortable space between each other. Blankets are used to mark off territory and keep things orderly. But, there's always that one guy...

On Saturday afternoon — Day Two of the festival — brought a variety of musicians to the two stages. Early in the afternoon, local singer Owen Stewart brought a full entourage to the River Stage to play songs from his debut album. From our regular vantage point — at the very top of the hill of Wiggins Park's natural amphitheater — we could barely make out the number of band members, let alone any recognizable faces. They played and we listened and, like most other people, we engaged in conversation with our fellow concert-goers.

Later in the day, Swiss-born Sophie Allison — who goes by the stage name "Soccer Mommy" — took the River Stage with her band. I have heard a few songs by Soccer Mommy on the radio, but I don't recall anything special about them. A few songs into her set, I found myself losing interest. I began absentmindedly scanning the crowd and finding my attention drawn elsewhere. Just then, I spotted a friend of mine sitting just a few feet away. He is a local guitarist and has played in a bunch of bands in the area. He is also a fellow graphic artist. Although we are connected on several social media platforms, I have not seen him in person since the last time one of his bands played the XPN Festival in 2022. I scooted over to where he was sitting to say "hello." He smiled when he saw me and introduced me to his blanket-mates, who happened to be his parents. We talked a little about his upcoming solo musical project and the current status of his current band. Then I asked him how his design career was progressing. Before he got a chance to answer that one guy (from the second paragraph) who was sitting in front of my friend, turned around and tapped my forearm. "Hey," he began in an angry growl, "If you two wanna talk, take it somewhere else!" The last part of his demand was bathed in a particularly venomous tone.

I stopped talking. My friend stopped talking. We exchanged puzzled looks. I whispered that it was good to see him and I sheepishly slunk back to my blanket. I thought to myself: "Wow! That guy must be Soccer Mommy's biggest fan!" and I kind of felt bad that I was impeding on his moment. I glanced over to where I once was, expecting to see that one guy grooving to the monotonous sounds of Soccer Mommy, now that the air was rid of the distracting cacophony of my rude voice. Surprisingly, that one guy was gone. It took me less than ten seconds to get back to my staked-out, blanketed territory and that one guy didn't even stick around to the end of the song I was interrupting.

As afternoon turned to evening, I spotted that one guy over by the smaller Marina Stage. He was standing by the side of the stage while venerable folk-rock mainstay Richard Thompson was addressing the crowd between songs. During Richard's stage banter, that one guy was screaming incoherently, trying to raise his voice above that of the electronically-amplified Richard Thompson. As the next song began, that one guy turned on his heel and headed in the opposite direction.

Throughout the rest of Saturday and many times over the course of Sunday, I spotted that one guy in various places on the festival grounds. Every time I saw him, he was alone... and yelling. 

I hope he had a good time.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

just another story

I love movies. Love 'em, I tells ya! I have favorites, just like you. Those movies that I'll watch over and over again. There are others that I am happy to have seen, but don't feel the need for a second viewing. Then there are those that I could have gone the rest of my life without seeing and things would have been just fine.

I tend to shy away from big Hollywood blockbusters that are overhyped and loved by the masses because the masses have been told to love them. I have never seen any of the films in the Matrix franchise. Same goes for the Fast and Furious and Mission: Impossible series. I saw the first three Star Wars movies (Chapters 4, 5 and 6, for those of you keeping score), but that's it. And — to be honest — I didn't really like those three. To tell the truth, I don't care much for science fiction or movies based on popular comic books. I have, however, seen several entries in the Superman canon, only because my wife is a long-time fan of The Man of Steel. And, against my better judgement, I have seen a few of the Batman films, having grown up on the campy 60s TVB series. After 1989's Batman starring Michael Keaton, I kind of lost interest. Christopher Nolan's resurrection with Christian Bale did nothing for me.

I have always loved the horror genre. In my youth, I was a fan of the classics from Universal Studios, including the original Frankenstein, Dracula and The Wolfman. The subsequent reboots of those titles... not so much. I don't like the whole slasher trend and even more so, the so-called "torture porn" and "body horror" films that seem more like endurance tests than forms of entertainment.

As far as films go, I like a good story first and foremost. It seems, sadly, that Hollywood is more interested in blowing stuff up than a well-conceived story. Convoluted premises and totally implausible scenarios are frustrating to me. Also, movies that are "lovingly shot" and move along at the pace of paint drying do not bring me enjoyment.

Recently, I stumbled upon two — two! — films that I thoroughly enjoyed. These films shared similar attributes. They each featured an ensemble cast that deftly brought the story and their characters to life. They felt like real people, living real lives. They offered a thoughtful peek into the lives of people that you and I could know. — just regular people experiencing regular situations in their regular lives. No explosions. No evil plots to take over the world. No diabolical schemes driven by revenge. No outlandishly intricate action that the perpetrators execute precisely the first time, achieving impossible results. No. None of that. As a matter of fact, if you ask me what these two movies are about, I'm not sure I could answer. They were just a small glimpse of the lives of people. Just people.

The first film is My First Mister, a 2001 release that served as the directorial debut (and, so far, only directorial effort) of actress Christine Lahti. It is a small movie that had limited release in its initial run. It stars Albert Brooks — this time just as an actor and not portraying a character in his own script — and Leelee Sobieski, a talented young actress, who has since left the acting business to focus on her family and budding art career. The two main characters are skillfully supported by the likes of Carol Kane, Michael McKean, John Goodman and Mary Kay Place. Brooks plays an irascible menswear salesman who strikes up an unlikely friendship with Sobieski's angst-filled goth teen. But, My First Mister is so much more than that. It's a study of humans — their actions, reactions and interactions. It's a sweet, sad, funny, poignant way to spend an hour and a half. The insightful script was written by Jill Franklyn, best known for penning the "Yada Yada" episode of Seinfeld and the single season black comedy Gravity. The performances were spot on, as was the sharply accurate dialog. 

The second movie is The Station Agent, a 2003 film, marking another directorial debut, this one for actor/screenwriter Tom McCarthy (no, not the announcer for the Philadelphia Phillies). A dozen years later, McCarthy would win an Oscar for his screenplay for Spotlight, which he also directed and which won the 2016 Academy Award for Best Picture. What brought me to The Station Agent was McCarthy also co-wrote the screenplay for the Disney animated feature Up. The Station Agent, like My First Mister, is a little, unpretentious film that offers a candid peek into the lives of ordinary people and their ordinary lives. An early entry into his huge and celebrated body of work, the film stars Peter Dinklage as a quiet man who just wants to be left alone. His co-star, the versatile Bobby Cannavale, is a gregarious hot dog vendor who doesn't want to leave poor Peter alone. Filling out this unexpected trio is Patricia Clarkson as a mentally-preoccupied artist dealing with her own internal and external issues. Michelle Williams, John Slattery and the delightfully deadpan Raven Goodwin offer suitably realistic supporting characters. The story unfolds slowly and purposely, allowing the actors to fully flesh out their respective roles and create believable, relatable and emotion-filled people, not just actors reading line that were written for them to recite. It's funny and sad, joyful and nerve-wracking, sweet and touching. The plot of The Staiton Agent is ancillary. The real focus is the characters and how they are brought to life and how they evolve, thanks to the talents of three (and more) adept and very well-cast actors. (Screenwriter/director McCarthy noted that he wrote the characters with Dinklage, Cannavale and Clarkson in mind.)

I don't recommend movies. I don't know your particular taste in movies. I don't know if you'll like a particular film. I do know that I liked — really liked — My First Mister and The Station Agent. You might, too. But, you might not. There are no explosions or car chases or monsters or space ships. Just some solid acting and solid writing. 

I liked them. You? You're on your own.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

the hottest spot north of havana

Just this week my son told me he was going to a show at a newish venue in Philadelphia called Nikki Lopez. I say "newish" because Nikki Lopez opened in the former location of South Street stalwart, the infamous JC Dobb's. JC Dobb's was a little hole-in-the-wall bar that featured the live music of a number of popular Philly bands as well as early career performances by bands like Nirvana, Pearl Jam and Rage Against the Machine. Dobb's opened and closed several times since its "official" closing in the mid-90s. Allegations of sexual assault by some of the venue's employees forced the current owner to put the place up for sale in 2023.

Early in 2025, JC Dobb's emerged again, this time under the name Nikki Lopez. Along with drinks and the promise of hot dogs, Nikki Lopez presents the same caliber of bands that Dobb's featured in its heyday— updated to fit into current trends in 21st century live indie music. The show my son went to fit square into that category.

On his way to Nikki Lopez, my son called to tell me that Copabanana, another staple on the South Street of my formative years, had closed. For good.

That made me sad, although I had not been to Copa (as it was affectionately known) for years. And by years, I mean way too many to count.

I have such fond memories of Copabanana. When I first met the future Mrs. Pincus, she lived in a small apartment just a few walkable blocks from South Street. We went to Copa often for a quick dinner and a taste of  their signature Spanish fries. Those were incredible. They were a simple combination of French fries, mixed with fried onions and fried green peppers. I could have sat at a table in Copa and eaten basket after greasy basket of their Spanish fries. I used to work at a popular ice cream shop on South Street. After work — sometimes around midnight — I'd stop at Copa and get an order of Spanish fries for Mrs. P and I to share, despite the late hour..

The atmosphere at Copa was always a little... shall we say.... shady. There was always some hoodlum-looking character catching a quick cigarette outside the kitchen door. He was the last person you'd want to be preparing your food. Once navigating the dark and foreboding bar — fully stocked with one unsavory individual after another — the dining room wasn't much better. The interior was a maze of close tables and winding passageways that, in another life, may have been a carnival fun house. The carpets were worn and sometimes damp. The air conditioning blew hot air and the in-house sound system broadcast more crackles than actual music. But it was funky and cool and it was the place to go on South Street. Their extensive menu offered burgers and sides and even a selection of vegetarian-friendly options long before that was "a thing."

More recently, from the confines of my safe suburban home, I would often keep up with local news concerning Copa. On a regular basis, stories would circulate about rent increases in the South Street neighborhood and Copa would face the possibility of closure. The stories and reports would dissipate and Copa would remain open... until the next story would make the local papers or appear as a footnote on the local news.

According to some superficial investigation, the current owner of Copabanana started a GoFundMe campaign in 2023 to help "save" the struggling restaurant from its financial burden. A proposed goal of $250,000, funds of which would be split between saving the restaurant and supplementing the health needs of its home-bound owner, had only garnered $165. 

I stumbled across a Reddit page on which both former employees and former patrons voiced their unbridled and uncensored opinions of the "beloved" bar and restaurant. Some called the place "disgusting." Others, including a user who claimed to have been a long-tenured waitress, labeled Copa "a shithole." Some wondered why the drug dealers who frequented the bar couldn't lend a financial hand. Another creative user posted a "musical" comment bookended with musical notes as "♬ Her name was Lola / She was a crackhead ♬," alluding to the similarly-titled Barry Manilow hit of from the 70s, while simultaneously noting the clientele. There were tender memories of fist fights, drunken regulars, surly and aggressive bartenders and that memorable damp carpet.

Still, there was something very comforting in knowing that Copa still existed, knowing I could still go there anytime I wished... although I had zero intentions of going.  But, I can still picture — with great clarity — the South Street landscape of the early 1980s. The TLA Cinema, Zipperhead, Paper Moon, Frank's Pizza, Keep In Touch, Skinz and yes, even Hilary's Ice Cream where I worked. And, of course, Copa — right there on the corner of 4th and South. Its purple walls and lime green trim standing like a guiding lighthouse for the punks and the weekend wannabe punks.

I remember when another legendary Philadelphia eatery closed its doors, the treasured Automat Horn & Hardart's. In the wake of changing trends in the restaurant industry, Horn & Hardart's, with over 100 locations, announced its closure in 1991. Folks, all sharing misty memories of the chain's glory days, flooded the corporate office with phone calls, expressing sadness and outrage. "How can you close?," the callers would demand. The corporate answer was a sardonic "When was the last time you ate at a Horn & Hardart's?"

I'll miss Copa, although I don't remember the last time I had their Spanish fries. They sure were good.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

razor's edge

I hate to shave. I. Hate. To. Shave. Hate it. Hate. It. I think I have made it pretty clear how I feel about shaving.... and that is..... I hate it.

I used to watch my dad shave. That was a nightly ritual for him. Nightly! My dad shaved every night. Every goddamn night! I had one of those toy razors that hung in the supermarket on the same racks as jacks and those little green army men whose feet were fused to a little slab of plastic so they could stand up. My mom would buy me one of those kiddie shaving kits and I would stand in the bathroom alongside my dad while he shaved. He'd smear lather all over my face and I'd mimic the faces my dad would make as he guided his razor around his nose and chin and Adam's apple. I imitated the same actions with my little one-piece, bladeless, plastic razor. One summer, my mom won a hot lather dispenser on a wheel in Atlantic City, Of course, she gave it to my dad. This little gadget, once loaded with a standard can of shaving cream, would spit out steaming lather, just like at the barber shop — well, at least the barber shops you saw on TV. My dad would extract a dollop of hot shaving cream for me and then one for himself and we were shaving like the rich folks did — in their rich bathrooms with their rich hot lather dispensers that rich people had... I guess. After the initial can of shaving cream was used up, my dad went back to shaving with unheated cream straight from the can.

I started shaving with a real razor when I was about sixteen. I started off using my dad's electric razor. (He had dispensed with his hot lather dispenser.) After using an electric razor, it never quite felt like I had shaved. When I was a teenager, however, it was cool to try to grow a beard. But, when I got a job scooping ice cream at a place where facial hair was frowned upon (like working at Disneyland or playing for the New York Yankees), I had to shave regularly. The guy that owned the ice cream place didn't care for the quality of the shave I received from my dad's electric razor. That's when I was forced to master the fine art of shaving with a razor. I bought a disposable razor (a cheapo Bic) and that did the trick. I was able to get rid of the first bits of "beard" that had sprouted on my teenage face — along with a layer of skin.

I've had a beard and/or mustache on and off for many years. It's not because I like how I look with facial hair. It's because I hate to shave (Please see the first paragraph to remind yourself of how I feel about shaving.) When I have grown a full beard, I rarely — if ever — trimmed it, because I considered that to be shaving. Once, at a job, a coworker asked me my age. I had a full beard at the time, peppered with gray hairs mixed among my natural brown. I chuckled and dared him to guess my age. He looked me up and down and ventured a guess that was fifteen years over my actual age. The next day, I saved my beard off. And I kept it off for years.

When I started working in the marketing department of a large law firm, I got into the habit of shaving every day. I was going through those disposable razors like firewood during a particularly cold winter. I was required to offer a presentable and professional appearance as a reflection of the law firm. Sure, I was dyeing my hair bright orange at the time, but it was always properly groomed and my face was always clean shaven. It was brutal and I hated shaving even more.

I no longer work at that law firm. Now I work for a commercial printing company. The dregs of society work for commercial printers and nobody gives a shit how I look. I can shave (or not shave) as often as I wish. So, I choose to not shave for as longa as I can, until I decide to finally shave. Sometimes I catch a glance of myself in the mirror and I notice I bear a striking resemblance to the guy that Aladdin runs into in the dungeon that's actually the evil Jafar in disguise. (Except for the teeth. My teeth are in better shape and I have the dentist bills to prove it.) My beard — which now is fully white — is wild and unkept and badly in need of a trim. Better yet, I will determine upon closer inspection of my reflection, my beard should be cut off entirely. I always keep a stock of disposable razors on hand, but, Mrs. Pincus found a Gillette Fusion razor she had received as a trial sample someplace. She asked if I wanted to give it a try. I shrugged and said, "Sure. What the heck!"

The Gillette Company makes a lot of razors in a wide variety of prices and they all do pretty much the exact same thing. The Fusion razor, which employs a five-blade cartridge, runs around twenty-two bucks. The one Mrs. P gave me was free — a promotion used to get a potential customer to purchase refill blades in the future. I got one shave out of the non-brand name disposable razors I was using. By the time I got around to shaving, my coarse beard would render the blades unusably dull by the end of a shaving session. I took the new razor, my trusty electric beard trimmer and can of shaving cream and went into the bathroom to rid my face of several week's of beard growth. The Gillette Fusion was terrific! Without trying to sound like a commercial, it was the closest, smoothest shave I have ever had. I rinsed off the Gillette Fusion and stuck it in the medicine cabinet,  hoping it would provide another close shave the next time I decided to employ its service — whenever that would be.

When I got around to shaving again (probably six or seven weeks later), I grabbed my Gillette Fusion and, once again, it delivered an equally close shave. No cuts, No nicks. Just a clean close shave. Jeez! I really am starting to sound like a commercial, but, I swear, I am not being sponsored by nor am I receiving any sort of compensation from the Gillette company. Again. I rinse any shaving cream residue and stray whiskers from my razor and stored it until needed.

This has been going on for months. I keep getting a great, close, clean shave from the same five blades attached to the Gillette Fusion handle. Months, I tell you! The blades are just as sharp, just as accurate as the day Mrs. P asked if I wanted to give it a try. Just to be safe, I bought a replacement pack of blades for fifteen bucks. I haven't touched those supplement blades yet, as the original set is just fine. The original blades have provided the greatest shaves I have had in nearly a half century of shaving.

I shaved just this morning (after catching a fleeting glimpse of what I thought was Santa Claus in a mirror). My ol' reliable Gillette Fusion is still showing no signs of dulling. I still hate shaving, but now... now.... it has become a test. A test of endurance. 

So far, Gillette is winning.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

dance for me

Halloween is a-coming! Time to decorate your house with ghosts and cobwebs (unless that is your everyday décor). Time to purchase giant bags of candy — some to even give out to groups of trick-or-treaters that will come a-knocking at your front door on October 31. You'll probably buy another bag of candy — the good stuff — that you'll eat before the days of the month reach double digits. The Reeses cups are too good to give out. The freeloading neighborhood kids will have to be content with Tootsie Rolls and Dum-Dums lollipops. If they don't like it.... well, you get what you pay for. (I believe that Halloween can be used as a teaching moment.)

When I was a kid, Halloween was a marathon of candy collecting. I lived in a big neighborhood with lots and lots of houses. Word would quickly spread through the groups of costumed children prowling the streets about a house that was handing out full-size Hershey bars. An apple received in good faith from some out-of-touch, childless old person would invariably be quickly returned via an impromptu Sandy Koufax imitation. Some years, I would stop back at my house to drop off my accumulated haul and to pick up a fresh pillow case that served as my collection bag. I could get enough candy to last nearly 'til Thanksgiving, with only a few unwanted Mary Janes and Bit O' Honey gracing the bottom of the bag.

When I grew up, got married and moved into my own house in the Philadelphia suburbs, Halloween was always active, but never as jam-packed or as busy as the Halloweens of my youth. When my son was little, we would only walk as far as the end of out block. He was usually too anxious to return to our house and see all the other kids' costumes. He figured that he could get candy from his parents anytime he wanted — and he was right.

Just after we moved in to our house and for several years following, we would recognize some of the kids who would come trick-or-treating at our house. And there was this one girl...  

Groups of kids would make their way up our front walk via a narrow paved path that stretches from the sidewalk to our front porch. Their parents, or the elected adult tasked with guiding them around for the evening, would wait on the sidewalk during the candy transaction taking place on our porch. Every year, a particular mom and dad would proudly present their precocious daughter for our entertainment pleasure. They'd help her climb the stairs to the "performance" area of our porch and prod her to amuse us with a little, choreographed dance routine, the result of countless hours of  afterschool and weekend practice. Decked out in a sequined and sparkly, but unrecognizable costume and a pair of shiny black tap shoes, this little girl would "5-6-7-8" her way into local Halloween immortality. Her parents would stand alongside of one of the stone support columns of our porch while this diminutive Shirley Temple wannabe kicked and tapped and buck-&-winged for a good three minutes. A good long three minutes. After the big finish and a loud round of applause from mom and dad, she'd stick her plastic pumpkin out for some sugar-spiked, chocolate-covered compensation. We'd oblige. The little girl would courtesy, just the way she was taught in dancing school, pirouette and descend the steps to the front walkway. Mrs. Pincus and I would, of course, scratch our heads and wonder what in the world we just witnessed.

This was an annual performance... until it wasn't.

In the over thirty years we have lived in our house, the amount of trick-or-treaters has slowly diminished. Kids grew up. Families moved away and the residents of the neighborhood got older. Some years, no more than five costumed kids have come begging for sweets.

I like to think that our yearly entertainer is probably knocking 'em dead on Broadway. For candy.

Or, perhaps, she's writing a letter to Dad-dy....

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

brief encounter

I was sitting at my desk at work when my phone rang. Not my desk phone. My cellphone. If my cellphone rings, and it's not a number I recognize, I do not answer it. I hate to talk on the phone and I certainly don't like to waste my time talking to someone I don't know well enough to have their phone number programmed into my contacts list. I stopped what I was doing and picked up my cellphone that was charging on a pad on my desk. As it continued to ring, the screen displayed the name and phone number of my insurance agent. My insurance agent retired a while ago I want to say months, but, lately I have come to realize that I have no skills for gauging the passage of time, so, it was probably more like a few years ago that he retired. As part of his retirement, he passed his customer list over to a new agent. The new agent kept the same phone number. I just never bothered to change the name to the new agent's name in my contacts.

Not my agent.

Regardless of who my insurance agent is, I still pay premiums on my car insurance, homeowner's insurance and life insurance when the bills come due. I pay them online, through the State Farm website, with just a few clicks of my mouse. And that's it. I really don't give much thought to my various insurance policies. I know the insurance on my car went up a few years ago when I replaced my twenty-year-old car with a new one. Spoke with an administrator in the office of my new insurance agent about the new rate and to update my policy with the pertinent information for my new vehicle. Aside from that, insurance is rarely, if ever, a topic of conversation.

Ummm... no thanks.

So, there's a call coming in from my new insurance agent. I stared at the display briefly before declining the call and getting back to work. I was surprised when I didn't hear the little tone that lets me know that someone had left me a voicemail message. I didn't dwell on that thought for too long, as I had work to do. As a matter of fact, I totally forgot about the whole thing.

Just this week, there I was at work again and my cell phone rang. Again. In a wave of deja-vu, I looked at my cell phone screen to see the name of my former insurance agent shining brightly above the options offered to either accept or reject the call. And, once again, I swiped the "red" option to reject the call and returned my attention to my work. This time, however, I heard that little "beep," alerting me that the rejected caller had left me a message. Since I knew who it was from and I knew I had no pressing business with them, I decided to wait until later in the day to listen to the message.

You've got mail

When I got home from work, my wife and I talked while we prepared dinner. The call from the insurance agent didn't even breach the conversation. After dinner, Mrs. P and I settled in front of the TV for an evening of sixty-year old Westerns or perhaps a Phillies game. With only half of my attention on the television, I noticed the little "voicemail" symbol on my phone. I punched in my security code and listened. A female voice identified herself as a representative from my new insurance agent's office. She went on to say that she'd like to discuss my insurance needs. She explained that she'd like to schedule a conference call with my new insurance agent that would take about thirty to forty-five minutes. She then instructed me to call back to set up such a call, reminding me of the call's importance.

When my wife and I bought our house in 1986, I called the closest insurance agent to our new home to get the homeowner's insurance required by the terms of our mortgage. I went to the guy's office and discussed the particulars. As long as I was there, I inquired about car insurance rates and was quickly presented with a list that was considerably cheaper that what we were currently paying. At the end of a meeting that took under ninety minutes, I walked out of the insurance agent's office with policies for homeowner's insurance and two new, less expensive, ones for our cars. The following year, when our son was born, I arranged for a life insurance policy for myself. That was done entirely over the phone by my agent's assistant. Over the years, we have had several claims on our insurance policies, most of which were handled on the phone. If any required a visit to the insurance office, either I or my wife, dealt with our agent's assistant. So, over the course of nearly forty years, I met my insurance agent a total of one time. Now, he is retired. If he decides — in his retirement — to turn to a life of crime and he is arrested, the police cannot rely on me to pick this guy out of a line-up.

I really, really want to call my new insurance agent and explain to her that I see no need to meet with, conference call with, or otherwise relate the current or future status of any of insurance policies I currently hold. If I feel the need to increase, decrease or otherwise alter my current insurance situation, I will surely let her know. In the meantime, I'm good. I'd also like to tell her that the one and only time I ever met my previous insurance agent was, most likely, before she was born.

I really, really want to. But I won't.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com