will the circle be unbroken

Mrs Pincus and I spent the first couple of years of our marriage living in a small townhouse apartment in Northeast Philadelphia. We had accumulated a small savings in the bank with regular deposits of our meager paychecks. One day, Mrs. P, who maintained and monitored our finances (because we certainly didn't want me taking on that responsibility, seeing as I have difficulty with any equation whose answer is more than double digits), brought up the possibly of purchasing a house. I was puzzled by the idea at first. After all, I was just 24 years old and buying a house was something that adults did. Even though we were married, I still viewed us as two crazy kids. For goodness sake, we still frequented Chuck E. Cheese, despite not having any children of our own. We attended performances of Disney on Ice. We even went to the circus in full clown make-up. Are these the kind of people who buy a house? Well... we would soon find out.

We did things in the proper order. We looked at a number of houses in Elkins Park, the suburban community where Mrs Pincus grew up. Elkins Park is a lovely little area known for its classic architecture, close proximity to public transportation and ridiculously high property taxes. After seeing a few potential homes, we chose one and made an offer... which was promptly accepted. Our next step was to gather all of the required forms and receipts and paycheck stubs and tax returns to prove to a financial institution that these two youngsters could be responsible for a mortgage. We submitted everything that was asked and we waited. Eventually, we were approved for a mortgage and we had to go to a big, sterile looking office to sign the final paperwork.

A young woman — a secretary — led Mrs. P and I to a room and we were offered seats at a large table. The secretary returned with a comically huge stack of paper, which she plopped down on the table's surface. She then informed us that the mortgage officer would be joining us momentarily. True to her word, the doorway was soon breached by an expressionless man in a very conservative business suit. (If I recall correctly, he resembled actor Joseph Maher, who portrayed a drunk airplane passenger in a Season Three episode of Seinfeld.) The man introduced himself as "Mr. Cassidy" and he extended his hand for the the obligatory shake. As Mrs. P shook Mr. Cassidy's hand, she smiled and proudly stated that we have a cat named Cassidy. (Our "beloved" pet was just one in a long line of cats that we would own whose names were inspired by the titles of Grateful Dead songs. Cassidy was a beautiful tabby cat with very distinct striped patterns on her sides. She had the disposition of someone with a perpetual toothache and she liked to sit on high shelves and push knick-knacks off to watch them shatter on the floor.) Our assigned mortgage officer — in his starched white collar and equally starched demeanor —was less than thrilled to hear about his feline namesake. With the exception of an ever-so-slight grimace, Mr. Cassidy did not acknowledge my wife's comment. Instead, he removed the top sheet of paper from the stack and pushed it in our direction, pointing our where we were to sign. This procedure was repeated over and over for the next 90 minutes until the stack of paper was reassembled in reverse order, now boasting the Pincus signatures on the majority of its pages. Mr. Cassidy thanked us, begrudgingly congratulated us and left the room. We were now officially members of that exclusive club and heretofore would be known as "homeowners."

Flash forward to today — forty years after two crazy kids signed on to become homeowners. Today, we were just approved for a home equity line of credit. This procedure differed greatly from the very tactile experience of gathering hard-copy documents to present to an actual face-to-face person at a desk in a brick-and-mortar bank. This time around in the age of the internet, electronic documents were uploaded to a secure website with instructions from faceless people working from various locations across several states. We were assigned a specific online portal with passwords and two-step verifications and several other security measures that weren't even dreamed of when we applied for our mortgage. During this application process, Mrs. Pincus received an actual phone call from an actual human being. In this rare case, she needed to clarify some minute piece of information that was previously submitted. The woman on the phone identified herself as "Cassidy" before proceeding to explain the reason for her call. Mrs. P laughed and interrupted. The woman asked what was funny.

Mrs P told her about our mortgage application. She told about the staunch gentleman who presided over the mass signature process on the day of closure. She told the woman on the phone — Cassidy — that the man's name was "Mr. Cassidy." Mrs. P explained that — at the time we had a cat named "Cassidy" and the little anecdote about name similarity did not amuse Mr. Cassidy in the least. The "Cassidy" currently on the phone, however, giggled. She said she thought the story was sweet. She even momentarily dispensed with any sort of financial conversation to find out more about the origins of the "Cassidy" name. Mrs. P was only too happy to expound on the Grateful Dead connection. She mentioned that the song "Cassidy" is a beautiful acoustic ballad that was rarely performed by the band (339 times as opposed to "Playing in the Band" which was performed nearly 700 times. This is for your benefit. These facts did not make it into the Mrs. Pincus/Cassidy phone exchange.) Cassidy thanked Mrs. Pincus for the information. She also said that she would seek out the song on YouTube during her lunch break. Quickly, the conversation switched back to the request of clarification of some financial document. Before the call ended, Mrs. P noted to Cassidy that our experience as homeowners had come full circle — beginning and concluding with a "Cassidy."

Our "Cassidy" — gone over thirty years — would be happy. She'd knock something expensive off a shelf in celebration. Then, she'd bite me.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

out of touch

This is my favorite time of year! No more snow. No more cold weather. And a whole season of free concerts in nearby Camden, New Jersey. 

For the past few years, Mrs. P and I, along with some friends, have been going to this free outdoor concert program sponsored by the good folks at the Camden County Board of Freeholders... or something like that. Although Camden gets a bad rap as one of the most dangerous areas in the region, these free events are peaceful get-togethers where folks can enjoy a wide variety of musical genres in the throes of balmy weather at several easily-accessible outdoor venues. The acts presented range from local performers to nationally-recognized names... although some of them haven't had a hit record in years and often evoke head-scratching inquiries of "Are they still alive?" Over the past several seasons, we have seen Sheila E., The Sugarhill Gang (though the "gang" now just consists of Guy "Master Gee" O'Brien, the self-described "baby of the bunch"... who is 64 years-old), Arrested Development, Joan Osbourne, Richard Thompson and a Barenaked Ladies-less Steven Page. Also included were a bunch of bands whose names slip my mind at the moment. But they were free to see... so we saw.

It's all free, kiddies! All free!

This year's line-up boasts a similar array of old and new, famous and not-yet-famous. The music ranges from classical to classic rock to folk to Polynesian and island melodies to jazz to boy bands. And, once again... it's all free!

On Thursday evening, with the almost summer sun still high in the evening sky, we met up with our concert-going buddies Consuelo and Cookie, where we descended upon the grassy section of the Cooper River Park running track for a night of free entertainment. We set up our chairs alongside hundreds of other attendees. A pre-show DJ was playing selections that appeased the crowd. As I scanned the area, I noticed that the overwhelming majority was comprised of women at least twenty years my junior. But, of course! Tonight was another stop on the current Pop 2000 Tour, a multi-band bill featuring big names from the hey-day of boy bands. As a 64 year-old man, I am about as far from the target demographic for this tour as you can get. But.. free is free. So, here we are.

A different O-Town.

The show kicked off with the first of several performers whose body of work is foreign to me. A young man (at least from where I was sitting he looked young) with a high pompadour and a tank top revealing some heavily-inked biceps stepped up to the sole stage microphone and introduced himself as Ryan Cabrera. I can tell you more about Miggy Cabrera, the celebrate Detroit Tigers infielder whos name is spoken in the company as Hank Aaron and Willie Mays... but Ryan? Sorry, I never heard of him until he identified himself to a throng of squealing 40 year-olds. Ryan strummed a big acoustic guitar, cracked a few self-deprecating jokes and serenaded the audiences with a short set of innocently-poppy tunes (which all sounded the same — pleasant — but the same) before yielding the stage to a band called O-Town.

Confession

O-Town — according to a lengthy Wikipedia entry entitled "O-Town" — is a vocal group formed as a result of the first season of the reality show Making the Band. The group was originally assembled and managed by piece-of-shit par excellence Lou Pearlman, the sleazebag behind the development and marketing of Backstreet Boys and *NSYNC. They eventually ditched Pearlman in favor of new, less scummy, representation. I am not familiar with O-Town's musical output. Their debut was released in 2001, the same year they won the coveted Teen Choice Award for "Favorite Breakout Artist." In 2001, I was listening to Nick Cave, eels and Wilco. My only familiarity with "O-Town" was as the hometown of Nickelodeon cartoon wallaby Rocko. Even my then-14 year-old son steered clear of the whole "boy band" scene. As O-Town took the stage, I texted my son (now almost 39) to ask if he ever heard of them. He replied that he knew exactly one O-Town song. It goes "something something ALLLLL OR NOOOOOTHING at all." I think they sang it. They did perform a lot of very cute choreography, much to the approval of the shrieking soccer moms scattered across the grass.

The great O-Town debate was followed by another band — heretofore unknown to me — LFO. Formed as a trio in 1995 and now performing as a duo since the death of founding member Rich Cronin, LFO's two albums and seven singles are totally off my radar. However, true to my belief that "every band is someone's favorite band," I caught nearly everyone around me mouthing the words to "Summer Girls," their Number 3 hit from — fittingly — the summer of 1999. Via more texting, my son said he heard that LFO like girls who like Abercrombie & Fitch, a reference I didn't get until I heard those particular lyrics blasting through the PA speakers mounted on either side of the stage.

Bye bye bye bye bye bye bye

The night wrapped up with *NSYNC founder Chris Kirkpatrick at center stage, backed by members of all of the other bands. As the 54 year-old Chris wailed what I can only assume were beloved favorites from the *NSYNC catalogue, the boys/men behind him vogued and posed and pirouetted to the crowd's delight. I actually recognized a song during the set. It's that one where say say "bye bye, bye bye, bye." I think its called "Bye Bye" or "Bye Bye Bye." I honestly thought that was a Backstreet Boys song, but I stand corrected.

After the final number, the performers offered their thanks, as well as several pleas to visit the merchandise tent. Obviously, everyone can't be Justin Timberlake.

We disassembled our chairs, gathered up our trash and looked forward to the next free show... that's free.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

root beer rag

One summer afternoon, we were participating in a blockwide yard sale. The rather quirky kid who lived across the street bounded over to our house and asked if we liked root beer floats. Apparently, he had just discovered the concoction. I, of course, beamed, explaining that I loved root beer floats, but I hadn't had one in quite some time. He offered to make root beer floats for Mrs Pincus and me, but he was just missing a few ingredients. He said he needed vanilla ice cream. And he needed some large glass mugs. Oh... and he had to get some root beer. He disappeared back to his house and we didn't see him for the rest of the day.

I love root beer. I always have. It was such a great alternative to Coca-Cola. With its distinctive sharp "bite" and its creamy, foamy head, it was unlike any other soda. And with a big scoop of vanilla ice cream plopped on top.... boy, oh boy... nothing could compare. Root beer floats were always a favorite of mine. Perhaps it was just me carrying on a Philadelphia tradition (the combination drink/dessert was invented right here in the City of Brotherly Love). Perhaps it was just that it tasted so good! Whatever the reason... I loved 'em.

I have been eating Honey Nut Cheerios for breakfast nearly every morning of my adult life. However, I follow several "new product" accounts on Instagram to keep apprised of new cereals that may appear on grocery store shelves. Although I have no intention of buying any of these new flavors or flavor combinations of cereal or flavor variations of old favorites, I like to see what the test kitchens at Kellogg's or General Mills have up their sleeves. Banana Milkshake Frosted Flakes or Orange Creamsicle Cap'n Crunch are amusing in theory, but I don't think I would start my day with either one. Early this year, I saw that the popular Cinnamon Toast Crunch would soon assault the shelves of Walmart with an exclusive flavor. After such variations as Cinnamon Churro Crunch, Dulce de Leche Crunch and the holiday themed Sugar Cookie Crunch, the innovative folks at General Mills were introducing Cinnamon Toast Crunch - Root Beer Float for a limited run. I was intrigued... and, to my surprise.... I gave actual consideration to buying and trying it.

Last week, I popped into Walmart for a few needed grocery items — bread, ketchup, coffee creamer. I wandered down the cereal aisle. I casually surveyed the shelves, sort-of looking for Cinnamon Toast Crunch - Root Beer Float. I saw several unappealing variations of Cheerios, a mystery flavor of Cap'n Crunch, a Stranger Things themed box of cereal... but no Cinnamon Toast Crunch - Root Beer Float. At least not yet. When I got to the end and turned towards the next aisle, I saw that the end cap was fully stocked with Cinnamon Toast Crunch - Root Beer Float. I looked... I considered... and I grabbed a box.

When I got home, started to put my purchases away in their designated areas of my kitchen. I put the box of Cinnamon Toast Crunch - Root Beer Float in the cabinet with the other cereals. Seven year-old Josh would have ripped the lid off of that box and shoved a fistful of the new cereal into his mouth. But 64 year-old Josh is an adult with self control. My first taste of Cinnamon Toast Crunch - Root Beer Float would wait until tomorrow morning and my regular breakfast time. I will admit, though... I was excited.

My alarm went off. I woke up and began to get ready for work. I washed, brushed my teeth and combed what little hair I have left on my head. I got dressed and descended the stairs to the kitchen to prepare my breakfast. I flicked on the Keuring and set a coffee mug beneath its spout. I set out a bowl (my special "milk splash" bowl for this auspicious occasion) and reached into the cereal cabinet for the star of this morning's breakfast show — my newly purchased box of  Cinnamon Toast Crunch - Root Beer Float.

I ran a finger under the top flap, breaking the glued seal. I gripped the top of the inner bag and gave it a pull to separate the factory crimp. I expected to be instantly hit with the unmistakable aroma of root beer and vanilla ice cream — or at the very least, a factory approximation of that familiar scent. Instead, there was... nothing. No real smell at all. I poured some cereal into the bowl. It looked like the Cinnamon Toast Crunch my son ate as a kid... which looked like the Cinnamon Toast Crunch I ate as a kid. I added some milk, grabbed my coffee and readied myself for my first (hopefully) tantalizing taste of Cinnamon Toast Crunch - Root Beer Float.

Root beer floats have a very unique flavor. Sharp. Spicy. Creamy. Rich... all in an equal blend of those components that make a root beer float a root beer float. You know what Cinnamon Toast Crunch - Root Beer Float doesn't taste remotely like? A root beer float.

My first disappointing mouthful of Cinnamon Toast Crunch - Root Beer Float exhibited none of the expected characteristics. Not a one. I shoved another spoonful into my mouth and assessed the flavor. I really concentrated on what I was tasting. A third serving really helped me come to a conclusion on the taste. It tasted like Cinnamon Toast Crunch. Regular old Cinnamon Toast Crunch... with absolutely no aspect of root beer, vanilla ice cream or even a glass mug or paper straw. I tasted only cinnamon and it crunched.

I am almost finished the box of Cinnamon Toast Crunch - Root Beer Float. I have had it for breakfast every morning starting with the day after I bought the box. I will continue to eat it every morning until the box is empty. I do not expect the flavor to change.

I look forward to eating Honey Nut Cheerios again. I know they won't try to deceive me.

FOOTNOTE: I bought a package of Maple French Toast bagels at Aldi. Guess what they don't taste anything like....?

www.joshpincusiscrying.com