you wanna try ...?

I can't imagine how my internet algorithm translates in terms of... of...  honestly, I don't think it falls into any sort of definable terms. On any given day, I log into some aspect of the internet a few dozen times. On Facebook or Instagram, I see all sorts of videos (or "reels" or "stories," as the different platforms call their videos) from people talking to their cats, to clips of comics' stand-up routines, to insider "hacks" at Disney theme parks, to pan-and-scan shots of cemeteries accompanied by wind-blown off-camera narration from someone who cannot pronounce anything. Mixed among this seemingly unrelated content, I recently started seeing videos from a woman named Emmymade. I see Emmymade's videos more and more frequently. I suppose since I watched one all the way through, my algorithm was adjusted to show me more of Emmymade's videos. And her videos are adorable.

I am a nearly 65-year old white male. I would consider myself "out-of-the-loop" as far as trends in current pop culture go. I don't think I could identify a Taylor Swift song. I'm not quite sure why Sydney Sweeney is famous. Considering my longtime undying love of television, there are dozens of shows on dozens of streaming services that I have never heard of nor seen. I find myself Googling various phrases I see written or hear spoken on the internet to get some context as to their meaning. So please forgive me if I'm a little late to the party where Emmymade is concerned.

A little quick research answered some basic questions. California-born, Rhode Island-raised Emmeline Cho began making videos sixteen years ago when she was living in Japan. With her very first video, demonstrating how to use a Japanese candy-making kit, she attempted to combat her boredom and show what it was like for a foreigner living abroad. She continued making videos after moving back to the United States. She branched out with her content, presenting herself taste-testing new foods, examining and tasting the contents of military ration packs along with simple recipes for comfort food or unusual food combinations. To date, Emmymade has amassed over three million subscribers.

What makes Emmymade so compelling is her unpretentious demeanor. She displays a sense of naivete that manifests as bewilderment. For someone whose main focus is food and food-related subject matter, she seems astonished by things like bread and butter and forks and plates. One video, shot in her car just after getting food from a Burger King drive-thru, was highly enjoyable. Her description of the fast food outlet's signature Whopper came across as though she is the first person to ever try a Whopper and you were there to witness it! She says things like "the bun is soft and chewy... really fresh and it has these little sesame seeds all over it." or "the meat is good and well-seasoned." Then, with her mouth full, she politely dabs the corners of her lips while nodding her head in approval and offering several affirming "hmm-mm, hmm-mm"s, careful not to speak with her mouth full. It was just delightful.

In the majority of her videos (at least the ones I have seen), Emmymade is just positively gobsmacked by the things that emerge from her oven... or her blender... despite the fact that she put the individual ingredients in there just minutes prior. She is shocked when she opens a can and it is filled with the contents pictured on the label. She is overjoyed when a finished loaf of bread is extracted from a vintage breadmaker after adding the required ingredients and waiting the prescribed amount of time to bake. She smiles and tells her loyal viewers that the whole house smells like bread. She enthusiastically slices the freshly baked loaf, awkwardly adds a little butter and takes a dainty bite. For a moment, while she is close-mouthed chewing, she offers her trademarked "hmm-mm, hmm-mm" before swallowing. Her assessment of the bread is usually "it is very chewy and bready, slightly sweet, very airy".... you know, the way you or I would describe bread. But, the whole presentation is so endearing and Emmymade is as cute as a button.

I was telling my son about my discovery of Emmymade's videos. He laughed and told me that there are dozens if not hundreds of people on the internet that do this sort of thing. (there I go revealing my "out-of-the-loop"ness again!) He went on to say the funniest one of these folks is the woman who makes fun of these "content creators." In her videos, she tries the most everyday foods as though it's her first time. In one video, she explains that she will be eating chocolate chip cookies and she has never eaten chocolate chip cookies before. After a hesitant, but healthy bite, she describes the experience with such adjectives as "chocolatey" and "crunchy." She further admits that she never expected them to be so filled with chocolate chips. Once she is finished, she moves on to the next item she will be tasting, and that item is chocolate chip cookies. She repeats the entire first segment, as though she didn't just do that very thing, again confessing that she has never had a chocolate chip cookie before.

I still watch Emmymade's videos when they pop up in my feed. She's still entertaining and unintentionally comical. However, my algorithm has determined that I'd also enjoy watching a personable young Scottish guy named "Hugh Abroad" who travels to various Asian countries to sample their culture, primarily through their street food.

Once again, the algorithms are right.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

99 problems

Years ago, I used to design promotional posters for a local DJ who put on a monthly dance party. I did these posters for him for many years. There was another DJ who worked with him at these parties and one day, she decided to branch out on her own. Her solo effort was an amiable split with the main DJ. As a matter of fact, he recommended that she contact me to do the promo poster for her very first event. She did so and we agreed on a very very fair price. (This event was over fifteen years ago and the price we settled on was fifty dollars. That price was offered as a favor for a friend and far below what I would normally charge for such a project.) I sent the finished piece to her and sat back and awaited payment. Payment never arrived. The date of the event came and went and still no payment. I contacted her via email which was my only form of contact for her. I received no reply. I began to email her more frequently and still no replies. After months and months of no replies and no payments, I gave up. Almost a year after the event, I received a reply. A very short, indignant reply. She said that the event was not as successful as she had hoped and she had no money. I countered, expressing my sympathies about the poor reception of her event, but reminding her that we did have a business agreement. I did do the work and I did supply her with a product as promised. I received no further emails from her. A few months after this futile exchange, I saw her name pop up in an internet chat room of a local radio station. I identified myself to her and, once again, asked about payment for my work. She replied that she had no money after buying  Christmas gifts for her friends. Then she promptly left the chat room.

No money after buying Christmas gifts? What? What about priorities? What about obligations and responsibilities? 

Some time ago, I arrived home from work to find my wife in tears. She explained that she just came from the bank. She was discussing a situation with a bank officer with whom we had recently secured a line of credit. In the course of the conversation, it was revealed that he — the bank representative — had supplied us with incorrect information regarding some aspect of the agreement. Instead of admitting his error and apologizing, he berated my wife — insisting that she should have read the details more carefully. Then he lied — lied — saying that he told us the correct policy from the very beginning. I was furious. No one should ever leave a bank in tears — with the exception of being a victim in a robbery. Otherwise, "banking" and "crying" are mutually exclusive. I got back in my car and drove over to the bank. I asked for the bank officer and confronted him over his reasoning for making my wife cry. He hemmed and hawed and stammered and shuffled... until he finally spat out, "Well, my father just died!" I told him I was sorry to hear that, but perhaps he returned to work too soon and he still needed time to grieve without taking his "five steps" out on his customers. (As an epilogue to this incident, I called the corporate office of the bank and explained what had transpired. The bank officer in question was no longer seen at the bank after that.)

Yesterday, I arrived home to find a car parked directly across my driveway, completely blocking access. There was a woman sitting in the passenger's seat, but no driver. I tapped my horn. The woman looked at me. I gestured towards my driveway. She shrugged her shoulders. I tapped my horn again, but this time, I lowered my window and yelled for her to move the car. Instead, she got out of her car and called up to someone standing on my next-door neighbor's porch. "This guy wants you to move the car. He says it's blocking his driveway." The woman on the porch called back: "Oh, I'll be there in a minute." and she made no attempt to make a move towards her car. In the meantime, a car was stopped behind me and another was stopped behind the blocking car, unable to maneuver past. I lowered my passenger window and screamed: "MOVE YOUR CAR!" The woman on the porch slowly — s  l  o  w  l  y — sauntered down the front steps and headed toward my car. She stopped just in front of my car and wagged her finger at me. "Sir!," she began condescendingly, "there is a person in this house who needs assistance in getting around. There is no need to be rude." I was fuming! I pointed to her car. "But blocking my driveway isn't rude?," I hollered. She turned on her heels and walked to her car, got in and even more  s    l    o    w    l    y  turned her vehicle around and sped away. When I got inside my house, my neighbor had send a text to my wife that read: "Please apologize to Josh. He seemed pretty annoyed."

For the past twenty-five or so years, my next-door neighbor — or someone living in or visiting her house — has blocked my driveway no less that seventy billion times. And I have complained each and every one of those times. One would think that, after all those years, she would say to a visitor or resident of her home, "Oh don't block my asshole neighbor's driveway. He's a jerk and he gets mad when someone blocks his driveway, even if they have a perfectly good reason to do so." Nope. She has never done that. Instead, she just continues to block my driveway.

The common thread in these three incidents (and many others like them) is the excuse. An excuse for rude and inconsiderate behavior is always rendered with words that make the offender's problem a valid, inarguable reason for bad behavior. It is as though their problem or issue is so important — so undeniably crucial — that it negates any other situation. Any one of your trivial, insignificant dilemmas are meaningless when compared to their earth-shattering, life-threatening, monumental concern. 

The DJ for whom I designed the poster — she was not aware of my financial situation. She didn't consider that I needed that fifty bucks to pay a bill or purchase medication. She didn't think that I make my living as an artist and this was how I meet my financial responsibilities.

The guy at the bank — I am sorry that his father died. My father died. So did my mother. And my grandmothers (the one I like and the one I didn't like). So did my best friend from high school. So did a lot of people. People die. But the death of his father doesn't necessarily affect the lives of everyone. And a personal tragedy has no place and no bearing on the day-to-day function of a bank and its services. 

That woman blocking my driveway — how does she know what may be going on in my house? Did she consider that I may be delivering important medicine for someone inside? Did it cross her mind that a long lost relative could be waiting to see me after many, many decades of little to no contact? Did she think that perhaps I was answering a desperate call from an elderly inhabitant of my house that had fallen and was in need of my immediate help?

When did we become a society of self-centered, self-righteous, inconsiderate, arrogant, narcissistic egotists? 

Sure, I can come off as an angry, complaining curmudgeon. Well, now you know why.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

sure know something

In early 1975, I purchased Dressed to Kill by KISS on 8-track. I had a portable Panasonic 8-track player called a Dynamite 8, so named for its cool resemblance to the explosive detonators used by villains in countless Westerns, as well as the perennially-exasperated Wile E. Coyote in his quest for the Road Runner. I played that 8-track over and over and over again. Due to the sequencing constraints of the 8-track format, the songs "Rock Bottom" and "She" were each split across two tracks, meaning the song stopped and a loud, audible "click" was heard to announce the second part of the song. For some time, I didn't realize that the dreamy introduction to "Rock Bottom" and the heavy drum-driven lyrical part were actually the same song. Nevertheless, I listened to Dressed to Kill relentlessly, until I purchased KISS Alive, the double disc live album, released just a mere six months later. This allegedly live set was a chronicle of the KISS concert experience, complete with Paul Stanley awkwardly addressing the crowd in his nasally Brooklyn accent and said crowd expressing their wild approval. (Of course, it was later revealed that the majority of this "live album" was heavily enhanced in the studio with recorded crowd noise added to create the illusion of a live recording.) Regardless, I listened to KISS Alive three times as much as I listened to Dressed to Kill... until I didn't.

Actually, I stopped listening to KISS altogether.

A few weeks ago, I obtained the fiftieth anniversary box set of Dressed to Kill. This sprawling, bombastic, overblown set expands the original 10-track collection to a whopping 107 tracks, including studio outtakes, remixes, unreleased takes, demos and two — count 'em — two full concerts. The original album clocked in at just a few seconds over the thirty minute mark. In commemoration of its half-century anniversary, no less that five discs are required for the full experience.

I listened to the first disc, which is a remastered version of the original album. It was the first time I listened to this album since I gave up on KISS when I was 14. I was surprised by how many of the songs I remembered. I was surprised by how many of the songs I didn't remember. But, I was most surprised by how terrible it was. I instantly figured out why I loved KISS when I was a teenager. They were loud. They were obnoxious. They sang about girls and partying and girls. But, the song lyrics were juvenile. The rhymes were amateurish "June-moon" stuff. The music was repetitive and unimaginative. It was just dumb. Yep. Dumb. That's the best way I can explain it. Dumb. There was no way I was gonna make it through four more discs of this.

I started to listen to the second disc and soon found myself skipping track after track. Jeez! How many times can you listen to the exact same intro of "Rock and Roll All Nite" and hear Paul warble out the un-"studio"-ized lyrics until he stumbles mid-take and is interrupted by a studio technician.. It was tedious. And, again, it was terrible. The two concerts (recorded on the same tour just a few months apart) included a number of the same songs and were just as bad. I stopped listening and listened to something else.

Earlier this week, I was listening to the radio. Philadelphia public broadcaster WXPN features a nightly show called "Highs in the 70s." This show is an hour-long showcase of music exclusively from "music's wildest decade," as promised by host Dan Reed. On this particular night, Dan was playing KISS's album Destroyer in its entirety to commemorate its release fifty years ago to the day. From the opening strains of "Detroit Rock City" through the faux menace of "God of Thunder" to the goofy repetitious party anthem "Shout It Out Loud" to the voice cracking sentimentality of power ballad "Beth," Destroyer was awful. Just plain awful. I briefly stopped helping Mrs. P prepare dinner and stared incredulously at the radio. I could not believe how extraordinarily bad this album was. Had I just forgotten? Did I just remember it differently? Had my musical tastes improved and matured over the past fifty years? I suppose it was a combination of the three.

KISS is music specifically for angst-ridden teenage boys, looking for a party, sneaking a fifth from dad's liquor cabinet and trying to get into some cheerleader's pants. It's dim-witted, insipid and sophomoric. KISS isn't a band. KISS is four accountants in clown make-up. They are a brand on the same shelf as Monster energy drink, Jack Links and Trojans. They should check IDs at KISS concerts or if you'd like to purchase a KISS album. If you are over 14, move along.

But, as bad as it is... it sure made those four guys a shitload of money.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com