tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15473755697470104542024-03-17T20:30:31.978-04:00it's been a slicejosh pincus is cryinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09302062659860682118noreply@blogger.comBlogger743125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1547375569747010454.post-62944797828015945392024-03-17T05:00:00.020-04:002024-03-17T20:30:01.231-04:00ghost town<p></p><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlz2ZKdgJSfUZpfDQoBMEXWaKi5OIS__HnSDOBxChyDctgRZFpbA3ZY4jA6NuPy4bfSA0e7kq4rXpoQ6r88R9CA7Ladsm821t-_oNcJKBDWNzcO5aVd9vSOhOxjJpFgDGqfj6vIjN-Hlq1L_xVpbfDRx1pebK39namo8IFyMngb7XGN8KhgXFY7UPYgRk/s4032/20240315_070039.jpg"><img border="0" height="278" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlz2ZKdgJSfUZpfDQoBMEXWaKi5OIS__HnSDOBxChyDctgRZFpbA3ZY4jA6NuPy4bfSA0e7kq4rXpoQ6r88R9CA7Ladsm821t-_oNcJKBDWNzcO5aVd9vSOhOxjJpFgDGqfj6vIjN-Hlq1L_xVpbfDRx1pebK39namo8IFyMngb7XGN8KhgXFY7UPYgRk/w370-h278/20240315_070039.jpg" width="370" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I was perusing my favorite website — <a href="http://findagrave.com">findagrave.com</a> — and I stumbled across something unusual... and a little upsetting. Actually, a <i>lot</i> upsetting.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">The place I discovered — a small cemetery — is just a few blocks from where I work. It sits just off of bustling Route 130, between a nondescript apartment building and a laundromat. Well, it's not <i>actually</i> a cemetery any more. It's a park. But<i> technically</i>, it's still a cemetery.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div><div style="text-align: justify;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVLciGC_rQ9zGHI669h7OKAEzMWtIEIk7A1LXJHouNievBHToYbODzX_gzOgMvu_bwdn4eWVU-O6-gdzcc3pm8B0qEfsA5eWjuITte2nIOQuq4kQJhLBM3aqaITl34GzxWvevv8QQgcc-TTeFXafnVSPlAv7yNiHEHNmSbBK6OCiF2wuAuX-fEVl06bOw/s4032/20240315_070216.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="216" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVLciGC_rQ9zGHI669h7OKAEzMWtIEIk7A1LXJHouNievBHToYbODzX_gzOgMvu_bwdn4eWVU-O6-gdzcc3pm8B0qEfsA5eWjuITte2nIOQuq4kQJhLBM3aqaITl34GzxWvevv8QQgcc-TTeFXafnVSPlAv7yNiHEHNmSbBK6OCiF2wuAuX-fEVl06bOw/w162-h216/20240315_070216.jpg" width="162" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Jacob Johnson founded this small cemetery in East Camden, New Jersey in 1854. It was <i>specifically</i> and e<i>xclusively</i> created for interments of middle-class African-Americans who were turned away for burials at other, larger cemeteries (re: <i>whites only</i> cemeteries). It is the final resting place for an estimated 300 remains, including over 100 who served in United States Colored Troops (USCT) regimens during the Civil War. Most of these soldiers joined the Union's efforts at Pennsylvania's Camp William Penn, established for African-Americans who wished to serve their country. New Jersey did not offer such a service, so those wanting to join the military had to cross the Delaware River. Under the leadership of all white officers, the troops from Camp William Penn were given mostly menial labor assignments — cooks, drivers and similar — rather than infantry. Those African-Americans from the Camden area who were killed in the war were interred at Johnson Cemetery. Along with Civil War veterans, Johnson Cemetery is the last reward for William Butts, Camden's first African-American police officer, as well as Peter Postel, the city's first African-American firefighter. It is also where convicted murderer Nicolas Lambert is buried. He was hanged for the 1893 murder of William Kairer, a Camden baker.</div></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div><div style="text-align: justify;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJKJh89KaXcNxWM_qToxsaZ6SVpBj5tJOZ5S10oL1XSLhH0OkVTRC0OfXKVgUCo9tNPvftbOFReK5uwvL27QyW4-aI9pl29VBLwdg8GH-tXeZwrFwy1msbDjrBK1eFURYzjDaQ4erdBtKc6TbUpvlg8XoUnJVJzH2yySEO-F2FfM6MbreOejLODuUQo48/s4032/20240315_070100.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJKJh89KaXcNxWM_qToxsaZ6SVpBj5tJOZ5S10oL1XSLhH0OkVTRC0OfXKVgUCo9tNPvftbOFReK5uwvL27QyW4-aI9pl29VBLwdg8GH-tXeZwrFwy1msbDjrBK1eFURYzjDaQ4erdBtKc6TbUpvlg8XoUnJVJzH2yySEO-F2FfM6MbreOejLODuUQo48/w159-h212/20240315_070100.jpg" width="159" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Over the years, Johnson Cemetery became neglected. The trees and grass were overgrown. Grave markers were damaged by either weather or acts of vandalism. It became a "needle park," the site of drug deals. Trash began mounting on and around graves. Between 1975 and 1980, under the administration of Mayor Angelo Errichetti (later convicted in the notorious ABSCAM bribery case), the city of Camden decided to convert Johnson Cemetery into a municipal park. Workers began to remove and relocated headstones. The stones were laid flat and embedded in the ground in a semi-circular pattern along the rear of the park. Headstone that were not part of the pattern were discarded, some used as breakwater along the Camden side of the Delaware River. The graves themselves were left undisturbed. The remains were not moved. So, while the headstones create a pleasing pattern, they no longer mark any graves. Benches were installed around a cement "welcome" area and a large sign was placed curbside on Federal Street, facing the laundromat. Eventually, abandoned cemetery became an abandoned city park.</div></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">In 2015, volunteers from a nearby charter school took it upon themselves to clean up the park. Local filmmaker Kevin Walker produced a documentary entitled <i>The Lonely Bones</i> that traces the history and eventual fate of Johnson Cemetery. There was a rededication ceremony on Memorial Day 2015 with city officials turning out for a photo opportunity along with a good amount of pomp and circumstance. Local news reported on the rededication. But soon, the park reverted to a home for the homeless and a place to dump trash.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I visited Johnson Cemetery Memorial Park earlier this week, stopping by on my way to work. Neighborhood folks on <i>their</i> way to work passed Johnson Cemetery Memorial Park without a glance. In the dim light of the coming sunrise, I could make out the buried headstones poking through a few bare patches in the grass. While I didn't see any trash, I really didn't see much of anything. Granted, it was early in the morning. But, the place looked as though I was the first visitor in quite some time. As I strolled slowly across the grass, I took pictures and read the names on some of the headstones — Charles H. Brown, who died in July 1891; John W. Hamilton, whose headstone sports a carved anchor, died in 1854; Samuel Hankins, whose date of death has been wiped away by time and weather; Private Edward Custis, who served with K Company of the 2nd Regimen of the USCT. Edward died in March 1882. Some stones (or parts of stones) were so worn that just a few letters and numbers were visible.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I have always considered little hobby of visiting cemeteries as a living (so to speak) history lesson. Johnson Cemetery is a forgotten chapter of that history.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><a href="http://www.joshpincusiscrying.com"><i>www.joshpincusiscrying.com</i></a></div>josh pincus is cryinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09302062659860682118noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1547375569747010454.post-53462442872698965672024-03-10T05:00:00.007-04:002024-03-17T07:22:28.472-04:00another nail in my heart<p></p><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVY3tUUIEAcdhBUsxfuK5EOkDRM-dP2wZ-9XOLB5yPJjXfRaMpJJgi618FfkDClHiZL39r56ql6lug6lBdKNE8nqU_T8vdkv6TTjjhG5MfUIEWKb48PrtJKJGsaBvD47WNYFLFJUettO0WtkuU6BN55Qw3fetbdKzAxPF4DSrpEkKWGIpAc034bBwFMHM/s2048/HeroArticleTPMSLightColdWeatherDesktop_2048.webp"><img border="0" height="167" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVY3tUUIEAcdhBUsxfuK5EOkDRM-dP2wZ-9XOLB5yPJjXfRaMpJJgi618FfkDClHiZL39r56ql6lug6lBdKNE8nqU_T8vdkv6TTjjhG5MfUIEWKb48PrtJKJGsaBvD47WNYFLFJUettO0WtkuU6BN55Qw3fetbdKzAxPF4DSrpEkKWGIpAc034bBwFMHM/w428-h167/HeroArticleTPMSLightColdWeatherDesktop_2048.webp" width="428" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>When did this become the car blog?</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">One morning last week, I got into my car and pressed the ignition button. This is something I have been doing for years except for the <i>"button pressing" </i>part. It <i>used</i> to be a key, but since I entered the 21st century this past spring when I purchased a <a href="https://beenaslice.blogspot.com/2023/06/whats-new.html" target="_blank">2024 Subaru</a>, I press a button to start my car.</div><div><br /></div><div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSoUZ5V44retYDlcQnYYlAysROrTznD3EvUQ78X3X5IzaRDYXBQ1XNgm3tfkH8n8xBuMAB0gLrBpadfmOo3O1N0tUB94_6Kt41AOu3bC0ki-wIvUM9ad_e6-k_1eOrU_xwOK_cDHvwM36-hVVq8k9kWl2axGlzTYoMMC_2D7EETqg6e02bdC_V_gR7ftE/s1000/subaru.png" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="106" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSoUZ5V44retYDlcQnYYlAysROrTznD3EvUQ78X3X5IzaRDYXBQ1XNgm3tfkH8n8xBuMAB0gLrBpadfmOo3O1N0tUB94_6Kt41AOu3bC0ki-wIvUM9ad_e6-k_1eOrU_xwOK_cDHvwM36-hVVq8k9kWl2axGlzTYoMMC_2D7EETqg6e02bdC_V_gR7ftE/w227-h106/subaru.png" width="227" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;">On this particular morning, I spotted a light on my dashboard — a light with which I am very familiar. A few years ago, my family and I were in Southern California. On my insistence, my wife and I went out one afternoon for some celebrity grave hunting... as one does when Disneyland just doesn't cut it. We headed out to <a href="https://blog.marshotelonline.com/cemetery-visits/other-magic-kingdoms/" target="_blank">Melrose Abbey Memorial Park and Mortuary</a>, just a few miles south of Walt's first theme park. As we pulled in to the parking lot, Mrs. P pointed to a light on the dashboard of our rental car. We determined that it was the "flat tire indicator" and a call was placed to a local AAA service station while I strolled among the graves.</div></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">More recently, my wife's car sported the same light. A little closer to home, she took the car to our somewhat suspect mechanic who made the repair... and then some. (You can read about that HERE.)</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">So, when I saw the same light on the dash of my eight-month-old car at a time when I should have been well on my way to work — I was less than pleased. Among the many things that I hate, I would rank "inconvenience" somewhere near the top of my list. I turned the car off, stomped back into my house, stomped up the stairs, stomped over to my wife's side of the bed to wake her up from a sound sleep.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">"My car has a flat!," I grumbled, as I lightly — <i>lightly!</i> — shook her awake. I told her I'd have to take her car to work and I asked if she could call AAA to change the tire. I added that I could not tell <i>which</i> tire was flat, because, after a quick check, all the tires appeared the same to me.</div><div><br /></div><div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_G-hleVuiOkDnRpp6QaPu1R2HdHRpnf9lL_EYRlsS-jKreyh4I96lV4v1Goo0EncefoFpNYIc03q5YrSarnpoK4fKprkgwoAPYLn1RdgOhIDNpSANklx-WSBuqZdXhyMQawq_PW3oUO-a9ggRBgLMXx5bwsvRS7JOL4Q1oiyK3JJwMd6ePRCqAAly6bM/s792/4_Q5649DonJoeMunchH_0084_Lo.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="169" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_G-hleVuiOkDnRpp6QaPu1R2HdHRpnf9lL_EYRlsS-jKreyh4I96lV4v1Goo0EncefoFpNYIc03q5YrSarnpoK4fKprkgwoAPYLn1RdgOhIDNpSANklx-WSBuqZdXhyMQawq_PW3oUO-a9ggRBgLMXx5bwsvRS7JOL4Q1oiyK3JJwMd6ePRCqAAly6bM/w225-h169/4_Q5649DonJoeMunchH_0084_Lo.jpg" width="225" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Later in the day, Mrs. P called me with a progress report. She said instead of taking the car to <a href="https://beenaslice.blogspot.com/2024/02/moneygrabber.html" target="_blank">our usual mechanic and be subjected to a probable fleecing,</a> she drove to a small garage just about the corner from our house. This place has been in its location for as long as we have lived in our house, but we never gave them the opportunity to service our cars. But, today was the day! Mrs. P told me the guy at the garage was pleasant and helpful. He assessed the tires and determined that the recent snap of cold weather was causing the tires to lose pressure. He pumped the required amount of air into each of the tires and — <i>sure enough!</i> — the offending light on the dashboard went out. He waved off my wife's attempt to give him a few bucks for his trouble. Instead, Mrs. P returned to his shop with a Dunkin "Box o' Joe" and a dozen donuts. This gesture set her back more that just a "couple of bucks," but it appeared that the problem was solved. No more inconvenience and that was good enough for me. </div></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">This was Friday, so I had the opportunity to take my car to the Subaru dealer for a "just to make sure" check. After driving my car around the block, the tire pressure light didn't come on. I decided to forgo a trip to the dealership.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">On Monday, I got in my car to go to work and — <i>goddamn!</i> — if that light didn't come on again. I got out and looked carefully at all of my tires. I even pressed on them. Hard! They felt firm and steady. None looked the least bit flat. So, against my better judgement, I drove it to work. I defiantly drove the 15 miles, spanning a bridge into another state, to my job (as well as the 15 miles home). I did that all week. A couple of those days, it rained. The thought of getting struck somewhere between my house and Pennsauken, New Jersey crossed my mind <i>more</i> that a few times. The thought of how <i>dumb</i> and <i>stubborn</i> I was being <i>also</i> crossed my mind. But, nevertheless, I drove my car — with its low tire pressure light mocking me from the dashboard — for five consecutive days. On Day Six — Saturday — I woke up bright and early and took my car to the Subaru dealership... something I should have done five days earlier.</div><div><br /></div><div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3lWVBc2mB3OZ8vyqVWzI2LbwX2A246OnyYGb28gJJ2lMWaTke6Sqi0e1_t-WjcWd2H_lkK-oFljSsLwwzh2Ir7yy88m5v7mj_wpdOWJW-ublIMTPnbyKHL50KrP6xuUK7ATgf2d8FvSIIQwhEIig4h0ejAIuzhuVkq55l_XhlJ5qsT_KpWyqCP6r10cE/s1000/nail-in-a-tire.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="169" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3lWVBc2mB3OZ8vyqVWzI2LbwX2A246OnyYGb28gJJ2lMWaTke6Sqi0e1_t-WjcWd2H_lkK-oFljSsLwwzh2Ir7yy88m5v7mj_wpdOWJW-ublIMTPnbyKHL50KrP6xuUK7ATgf2d8FvSIIQwhEIig4h0ejAIuzhuVkq55l_XhlJ5qsT_KpWyqCP6r10cE/w255-h169/nail-in-a-tire.jpg" width="255" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;">A friendly service technician asked me what was the nature of my visit. I explained all about the low tire pressure light and the encounter with our neighborhood mechanic. I reluctantly told her that I drove the car for five days before bringing it in. She had me initial a form and then directed me to the waiting area in the service department. I had no sooner poured myself a cup of complimentary coffee when the service technician approached me to say that a nail was discovered in the driver's side rear tire. I authorized a repair and — one hour and twenty-seven dollars later — my car was mine... <i>sans</i> "low tire pressure" alert,</div></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">No more inconvenience... and no more visits to neighborhood mechanics.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><a href="http://www.joshpincusiscrying.com"><i>www.joshpincusiscrying.com</i></a></div><p></p>josh pincus is cryinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09302062659860682118noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1547375569747010454.post-77082507648969657932024-03-03T07:24:00.003-05:002024-03-03T07:24:28.501-05:00searchin'<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEishpSQhsGasq0mQl4izecHQwN4vbnxCdKSwON815alzHSx7CRlAU3CDrvFDaTSzwalaFaeiitWrgXLI5RPJ8MFJhYo5_6GcojH_E4gp7HNqzClfNa5tUGYrXnke47Mz-1ujMqE4-Xn5MQGyKAie5gwKG203JBZBEHVWAxBJfeLEl2NpSNBX4PTzIMWjeA/s683/intention.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="683" data-original-width="504" height="342" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEishpSQhsGasq0mQl4izecHQwN4vbnxCdKSwON815alzHSx7CRlAU3CDrvFDaTSzwalaFaeiitWrgXLI5RPJ8MFJhYo5_6GcojH_E4gp7HNqzClfNa5tUGYrXnke47Mz-1ujMqE4-Xn5MQGyKAie5gwKG203JBZBEHVWAxBJfeLEl2NpSNBX4PTzIMWjeA/w252-h342/intention.jpg" width="252" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><i><blockquote>This story appeared on my illustration blog twelve years ago, complete with a drawing of my father. It's a funny story that wasn't too funny while it was actually happening.</blockquote></i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">I'm pretty sure my dad's <i>intentions</i> were good, but he had his own quirky method of making them known.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><p>My father followed an old-time, though slightly skewed, set of ethics. He was a hard worker and blindly devoted to the company he worked for — no matter how little that company gave a shit about him. He tried to instill his work ethic into my brother and me and he somewhat succeeded, as we are both hard workers. However, the Pincus boys just never bought into the "blind loyalty" part, as we came to know after years of working for various employers, that most employers feel that their employees are expendable and easily replaced.</p><p>My father loved his family and his way of showing love was to keep constant tabs on their schedules and their whereabouts.<em> </em>As my brother and I came into our teens, that task proved increasingly difficult for my father. <em>Where are you going? How long are you staying there? When will you be home? Who will you be with? </em>these were all part of the regular barrage of questions my brother and I were riddled with when we made a motion toward the front door during our adolescent years. My older brother's teenage antics made a wreck of my father's sense of family order and when I reached "driver's license" age I was no better.</p><p>In the summer of 1980, when I was 19, I ran a sidewalk produce stand for my cousin at 16th and Spring Garden Street in downtown Philadelphia. My cousin awakened in the wee hours of the morning and would spend several hours purchasing stock for the stand at the massive Food Distribution Center in South Philadelphia. He'd load his van with crates of fresh fruit and vegetables and I'd meet him at the stand around 8 a.m. to help unload the van and set up for the day. I did this every weekday for the entire summer and, even though I would sometimes stay out fairly late on weekday evenings, I was never on that corner later that 8 a.m. the next day. No matter what. Never.</p><p>At the beginning of that summer, I went on my first vacation without my parents. I went to Florida with three of my friends. When I returned home, my cousin recruited me to hawk plums and lettuce and I was just getting into the daily routine that the job required. I had also just met a girl at a local record store and we made plans for a date. Late one afternoon, I came home tired from a full morning of weighing out cherries, bagging bananas and persuading passers-by to pick up some tasty spuds for their family's dinner. After a shower and a change of clothes, I was ready to take this new girl out to a restaurant and who-knows-what-else. I met my father on the front lawn as I was leaving the house and he was arriving home from work. Right on schedule, the questions began.</p><p>He opened with his old favorite — "Where are you going?"</p><p>"I have a date."</p><p>"When will you be home?"</p><p>"I don't know. Later, I guess."</p><p>"You know, you have work tomorrow.," he informed me, as though I would not have otherwise been aware of my employment.</p><p>"I know.," I answered as I opened the driver's door of my mom's car and slid behind the wheel. My father stood on the lawn, arms folded across his chest, and watched me drive off. It was apparent that he was not pleased with my limited answers to his inquiries.</p><p>I arrived at Jill's house and offered her the passenger's seat in my mom's tank-like Ford Galaxie. We chatted as we drove and at one point I glanced in her direction as she nonchalantly popped a Quaalude into her mouth. We pulled into the parking lot of the Inn Flight Steakhouse on Street Road and I helped Jill through the entrance doors as her self-medication affected her navigational ability on the short walk from my car. At dinner we talked and joked and exchanged other typical "first date" pleasantries. Before we knew it, we had spent several extended hours at that table, although I'm sure I was more aware of the time than she was. (Under the circumstances, I sure I was more aware of <em>a lot </em>of things than she was.) She invited me back to her house, explaining that her parents were away for a few days (hint, hint). We drove to her house and, once inside, she motioned to the basement, telling me she join me in a few minutes.</p><p>Meanwhile, my father was manning his usual post at the front door. He stood and stared out through the screen with an omnipresent cigarette in one hand, checking his watch approximately every eight seconds.</p><p>"Where the hell <i>is</i> he?," he questioned my mother.</p><p>"He's on a date. He told you. You saw him when you came home from work.," she replied, as she had countless times before.</p><p>"He has to go to work early tomorrow morning. Doesn't he have a watch? Doesn't he know what time it is?" My father was convinced that if <i>he</i> personally didn't inform you of the current time, you couldn't <i>possibly</i> know. He fancied himself humanity's "Official Timekeeper". He would have made a great town crier.</p><p>My mother — that poor exasperated, sleep-deprived woman — tried to reason with my father. "He'll be home. He knows he has to work. He's responsible. You <em>know</em> he's responsible."</p><p>Suddenly, he grabbed his coat and scanned the living room for his car keys. "What are you doing?," my mother asked, suspiciously.</p><p>"I'm gonna go look for him. Maybe he has a flat tire.," he said, trying to sound concerned, but my mom was not convinced.</p><p>"You don't even know where he is. You don't know where the girl lives. You don't even know her name! Where are you going to look?" My mother knew he was up to something. No one could get <em>anything</em> past my mother. Especially my father.</p><p>"Then, I'll drive around and look for him." Ignoring her words, my dad got into his car, backed down the driveway and sped off to a planned destination. He had no intention off driving around. He knew exactly where he was going. Somewhere around the time that Jill was descending her parent's basement steps wearing little more than a blanket and a smile, my dad was bursting through the doors of a police station several blocks from our home.</p><p>"My son is missing.," my frantic father shouted at the policeman on duty, "I don't know where he is!"</p><p>The unfazed officer grabbed a pen and, with it poised above a notepad, asked my father, "When did you see him last?"</p><p>"About seven hours ago," my dad replied, "when he left for a date."</p><p>The policeman dropped the pen, cocked one eyebrow and stared blankly at my father. "He's probably still <em>on </em>the date, sir." He instructed my dad to go home, assuring him that I'd probably be home any minute. Annoyed and dejected, my father shuffled back to his car and drove home. A few minutes after he pulled into the driveway, I steered my mom's car along the curb in front of my house. As I walked up the front lawn, searching for my house key, the front door opened and the shape of my father was silhouetted by the living room lamp. My mother was lurking several feet behind him.</p><p>"What are you still doing up?," I asked.</p><p>"Where the <em>hell </em>were you?," my father yelled, "I just came from the police station looking for you."</p><p>With this information coming to light for the first time, my mother and I simultaneously emitted a loud, angry and incredulous '<em>WHAT?'</em></p><p>"You went <em>WHERE?,"</em> I screamed, "You knew I was on a date! Are you <em>INSANE?"</em> I glanced down at my watch (contrary to my father's beliefs, I <em>did </em>own one and I referred to it often). "I don't have time to talk about this. I have to wake up in a couple of hours to go to work." I echoed my father's ingrained work ethic and looked him square in the face. "And so do <i>you.</i>," I finished.</p><p>With that, I stomped upstairs, flopped down on my bed and drifted off to sleep to the muffled tones of my mother's reprimanding voice coming from my parent's bedroom below.</p><p>I know my father's main concern was my safety and well-being and his intentions were honorable, but he desperately needed to take a course in Parental Behavior. Lucky for him, I think my mom taught those classes.</p><p><a href="http://www.joshpincusiscrying.com"><i>www.joshpincusiscrying.com</i></a></p></div><p></p>josh pincus is cryinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09302062659860682118noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1547375569747010454.post-84135894654033692762024-02-25T07:46:00.003-05:002024-02-25T09:41:12.296-05:00only you know and I know<p></p><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiY9ffbQXej3tCW1TTwcNf_kPZwiBS4lSrNLY1kzikKKVzWCD6rP7SfiRsQCW099uwBbY8yW0EI48ruglT9-8svGmfAjmaNPk2wOrBaFr25lFmwNXy50-cMos64-KLPy5fAxwpaVA9-4YOBZO1qiqG-15MHQk__P7_N5hAFw0X3XMu4AbvNiuSKvz5Vb5U/s500/watching-you.png"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiY9ffbQXej3tCW1TTwcNf_kPZwiBS4lSrNLY1kzikKKVzWCD6rP7SfiRsQCW099uwBbY8yW0EI48ruglT9-8svGmfAjmaNPk2wOrBaFr25lFmwNXy50-cMos64-KLPy5fAxwpaVA9-4YOBZO1qiqG-15MHQk__P7_N5hAFw0X3XMu4AbvNiuSKvz5Vb5U/s320/watching-you.png" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Both of my parents died from colon cancer in their 60s. That puts me — statistically — on the <i>bad</i> side of susceptibility of getting colon cancer. I have been to my doctor many, many times since my parents passed away. Whether it was for a yearly check-up or a follow-up for one of several hospital visits, my doctor has always asked me — in his run-down of "the usual questions" — "Have you had a colonoscopy?" As I shifted uncomfortably upon the examination room table, rebuttoning my shirt, my answer has always been the same. And that answer is "No." His reaction is always the same. He frowns, tells me I should really have one, and then he hands me a many-times Xeroxed list of area doctors who will happily perform the procedure. I take the paper, fold it up and, when I get home, I toss it on the pile of <i>other</i> copies of the <i>same</i> information I have received on <i>previous</i> visits.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">It's not like I am <i>afraid</i> of getting a coloscopy. I'm not. Not at all. My brother — four years my senior — has had about a <i>thousand</i> since he turned fifty (the ideal age at which the medical profession suggests that a regimen of coloscopies begin). A friend of mine encouraged me to get one, reporting that the drugs they give you to knock you out prior to the actual procedure are — and this is a direct quote — <i>"fucking awesome." </i>You would think that the promise of an experience usually associated with the side effects of a Grateful Dead concert <span>would be enticement enough to get me to make an appointment, but.... I still didn't. The </span><i>actual</i><span> reason </span><i>(excuse?) </i><span>I have been lax in scheduling a colonoscopy is </span><i>convenience</i><span>... or in my case </span><i>in</i><span>convenience. Yeah.... I know. LAME! That is that lamest excuse. But, taking a sick day off from my various jobs has been — for lack of a better word — a hassle. When I worked at a law firm, my boss would throw so much guilt on me when I scheduled a vacation, as though the most important person at a multi-office law firm was the graphic designer. My next three jobs didn't offer as many sick days and vacation days as I would have liked, so a day off was pretty precious and I didn't feel a preventive care procedure was worth a day off from work. (Stupid, </span><i>right?</i><span> Yeah, I know.)</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div><div style="text-align: justify;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhod8pMo20dcGgqLx2cq7Q415T5J0n6n11wS7EoNn7ytkkkPyn9XHXlqiY5k1_HnDzefgvxsALF5RQsQUCFRxuokyduY-TJ6IAowOZwZLl5jhqkb0ZHtWfwAuy0GPW35ew-Yvj9O2sJ0jwzXLg1fYEJyoLAHvRBDlrYGieUkvBAmBb152MGolzVDRWmavg/s400/cologuard_vertical_color.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="125" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhod8pMo20dcGgqLx2cq7Q415T5J0n6n11wS7EoNn7ytkkkPyn9XHXlqiY5k1_HnDzefgvxsALF5RQsQUCFRxuokyduY-TJ6IAowOZwZLl5jhqkb0ZHtWfwAuy0GPW35ew-Yvj9O2sJ0jwzXLg1fYEJyoLAHvRBDlrYGieUkvBAmBb152MGolzVDRWmavg/w238-h125/cologuard_vertical_color.jpg" width="238" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;">In January, I was in the hospital for a few days and, as my discharge instructions recommended, I scheduled a follow-up visit with my family doctor. As usual, as my visit drew to a close, the subject of a colonoscopy breached the line of questioning. My doctor cocked his head at me, expecting my answer to be one he had heard before. Then, he asked if I would be willing to take a Cologuard <i>home</i> colon cancer detection test.. He offered this alternative as sort a a "secret weapon" to counter my usual "no" response. Once I agreed to the Cologuard test, he muttered "you seem to be afraid of a colonoscopy" and he trailed off. <i>I </i>agreed<i> to the Cologuard, dammit! and I'm </i>not<i> afraid of a colonoscopy</i>! I thought. Instead, I forced a grin and said nothing. A Cologuard test was ordered for me and I was told it would arrive at my house in a few days.</div></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Because of the television programming I usually watch, I have seen a lot of commercials for the Cologuard home test, mixed in with those for other prescription drugs, incontinence remedies, retirement homes, Medicare supplements and reverse mortgages. The Cologuard commercials are clear in their purpose, but are somewhat vague on the actual procedure. To be honest, I didn't pay that close attention to them. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">As promised, a few days after my doctor's visit, a plain white box arrived at my house. I actually ignored it for a couple of days. I also ignored the texts that the good folks at Exact Sciences (Cologuard's distributor) sent me on a twice-daily basis. Finally, I watched an instructional video that one of the texts contained.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div><div style="text-align: justify;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5gD6ZDg1I1YNVljXPSBcZgUa1UwfhpobOAMMn0bBFd9XvZvLQNFpw5u2a6mCanyv_8N0ayDPnA6ORkjuWydpN9G-FJdk_mkDJqZg1vYX85-LSL6PM0gI0m0W0yAI1Q5g2A_MU354Ccol_pn1hW5nuIAvOitO1Ppa16JIXoB5Ec00ytWiYJcA-3By6rTU/s400/cg-box.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="96" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5gD6ZDg1I1YNVljXPSBcZgUa1UwfhpobOAMMn0bBFd9XvZvLQNFpw5u2a6mCanyv_8N0ayDPnA6ORkjuWydpN9G-FJdk_mkDJqZg1vYX85-LSL6PM0gI0m0W0yAI1Q5g2A_MU354Ccol_pn1hW5nuIAvOitO1Ppa16JIXoB5Ec00ytWiYJcA-3By6rTU/w109-h96/cg-box.jpg" width="109" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I will not elaborate on the actual details of preparation, procedure, post-procedure and getting the completed test back to the company for analyzation. However, I am <i>well aware</i> of what <i>everyone</i> who has taken a Cologuard test at home has done. And, conversely, they are aware of what I did. I know what you were <i>instructed</i> to do and, if you followed the instructions, I <i>know</i> what you did. I will not say what we did. Now, we are like Freemasons. We are now part of a secret society with covert, unspoken rituals known <i>only</i> to those who have been let into the fold. We did these things behind closed doors. Alone... while hundreds or even <i>thousands</i> of <i>other</i> folks were doing the same thing at the same time. We don't wear a badge or any kind of insignia to identify ourselves to each other. We know that we are <i>not</i> the only ones who did what we did. In five years, over <i>two million</i> people did what we did. When we see someone at the UPS office holding that square white box, we know the sequence of events that transpired to bring you to this moment.</div></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">We just know.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">My test came back negative. Let's just leave it at that.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i><a href="http://www.joshpincusiscrying.com">www.joshpincusiscrying.com</a></i></div><p></p>josh pincus is cryinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09302062659860682118noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1547375569747010454.post-9084931679203745762024-02-18T05:00:00.005-05:002024-02-18T10:13:52.895-05:00are you ready, kids?<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJvxrfk5aTNMGlgtw71JV8WsTv-k_Yku7oGhaVlIEamzpRyhR1xIauocmzgvVW7cXIgsjTy26r2IqREyYOOwXN0SLEnvU9hV9NcQwx4UDyeu1Z-8DF7Bu0aJ_Ekw1nkZ_1cFdtIcGYq4bQ6kN9E4w6k4tIP1TJkQCF1bQVdUjRxzk3fEI-D-u94uqd9YE/s210/NFLSlimetimeLogo.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="129" data-original-width="210" height="222" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJvxrfk5aTNMGlgtw71JV8WsTv-k_Yku7oGhaVlIEamzpRyhR1xIauocmzgvVW7cXIgsjTy26r2IqREyYOOwXN0SLEnvU9hV9NcQwx4UDyeu1Z-8DF7Bu0aJ_Ekw1nkZ_1cFdtIcGYq4bQ6kN9E4w6k4tIP1TJkQCF1bQVdUjRxzk3fEI-D-u94uqd9YE/w362-h222/NFLSlimetimeLogo.png" width="362" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">I grew up in a house that loved sports. My dad and my brother would spent countless weekend afternoons watching as many sporting events on television as they could pack into their waking hours. Baseball, basketball, hockey ( Well, not <i>hockey</i> for my <i>father</i> so much. He complained that the game moved too goddamn fast for his liking). But, come football season...! Oh my gosh! The television was unapproachable! Unless you wanted to watch a football game, the television was off-limits. From early afternoon until sometimes late Sunday evening, my father and my brother would watch and cheer and scream and over-analyze plays that transpired hours earlier. Knowing full well that I wouldn't get a chance at the TV until this nonsense was over, I voluntarily sequestered myself in my room and drew pictures. (That's called "foreshadowing.")</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">I watched two complete (and one partial) football games in my life. The partial was the Philadelphia Eagles' first Super Bowl appearance in 1981. They were defeated by the Oakland Raiders 27-10. I actually "Googled" that, because I have no recollection of any part of the game. I do, however, remember watching the Eagles' <i>second</i> Super Bowl game. This was the Eagles redemption game, one they were determined to win. I watched every single second of that game. I had absolutely no idea what was going on, but I watched. I didn't understand any of the terminology used by the television announcing crew. I couldn't follow any of the maneuvers taking place on the field. I remember an unspectacular performance from Justin Timberlake at halftime, playing it safe 14 years after the notorious "wardrobe malfunction" with Janet Jackson. I remember that back-up quarterback Nick Foles led the team to a victory, replacing the injured Carson Wentz. I couldn't tell you what he did that was special, I just know the Eagles won. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">I watched the Eagles play last year in Super Bowl LVII and lose in a heartbreaker after being ahead for nearly the entire game. Once again, I was baffled by the action on the field, but I do remember enjoying Rianna's weird halftime antics, despite not being familiar with any of her songs.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUK_SphyphenhyphenuvxOjf54_hQqfbpSYqRitOnNJ9nd4iLW-_UgGotIyEfENulqpqwMshKxgPMC7onyskQY4pYnfLcH3NDcHyWp_26tZ9xC9Yh-dz-n7c1bDZ_MfCjqAwblVJqwJce9rEGELRPG21z1SB7r-QeRoezVrcBj-EyYehcdweLc_crWdEYwwq1U2FgUM/s1581/spongebob-superbowl.webp" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1054" data-original-width="1581" height="141" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUK_SphyphenhyphenuvxOjf54_hQqfbpSYqRitOnNJ9nd4iLW-_UgGotIyEfENulqpqwMshKxgPMC7onyskQY4pYnfLcH3NDcHyWp_26tZ9xC9Yh-dz-n7c1bDZ_MfCjqAwblVJqwJce9rEGELRPG21z1SB7r-QeRoezVrcBj-EyYehcdweLc_crWdEYwwq1U2FgUM/w210-h141/spongebob-superbowl.webp" width="210" /></a></div>This year, I started seeing promos on television that touted a Super Bowl broadcast hosted by beloved cartoon characters SpongeBob SquarePants and his loyal pal Patrick the starfish. In the days and weeks leading up to "The Big Game," Mrs. Pincus and I made plans to see if SpongeBob could stir interest in a game in which we had no interest. The Eagles were not playing and the two teams that were... well, I couldn't name a player on either.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiM-pgJo5hoIm-v1QTcXfodFCUPZ-WJxSUsyFQ14zRHZzGon_evDD4Pogkz3l9KTTmGwW1nrqIgpknrnP-dItnHRXj1gyuxB_y68GDLMGDtLjHhEAgIg6-RCBFWdyCQ-WOFBp9mYBWuRO642ZjGKlwm1MkRrogx_rItAxP2oqSqrqdDE6lQi24Z_nlVCv8/s4032/20240211_195043.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="176" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiM-pgJo5hoIm-v1QTcXfodFCUPZ-WJxSUsyFQ14zRHZzGon_evDD4Pogkz3l9KTTmGwW1nrqIgpknrnP-dItnHRXj1gyuxB_y68GDLMGDtLjHhEAgIg6-RCBFWdyCQ-WOFBp9mYBWuRO642ZjGKlwm1MkRrogx_rItAxP2oqSqrqdDE6lQi24Z_nlVCv8/w234-h176/20240211_195043.jpg" width="234" /></a></div>But, <i>goddamn!</i> if that little absorbent and yellow and porous guy didn't make things interesting. The broadcast opened with the typical fanfare, but the good folks at Nickelodeon used up-to-the-minute technology to overlay jellyfish and bubbles and assorted sea life on the field and in the stands. The familiar orange blimp circled the rafters of Allegiant Stadium and cameras focused on "fish-ified" celebrities like "Claumuel L. Jackson," "Doja Catfish" and "Billie Eelish," who were in attendance. Touchdowns were punctuated by end-zone cannons spewing Nickelodeon's signature "slime" in all directions.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg42gc8kec_MTl6hmFYH8-2ljo4caJPEBqhN1C0_TOjhU8DUmyfE-Ex7Ond91ExJKQrDSvIPbGCNswSGgBNXh8hcPGsjmjXS8Ig1yGSDL6DeiniGvBkXxm42ErLcufsKdk3zMljBFdUXCIpbsgNIf0fdKlbjdFsvFHWAQukT0_kKYFOzVDmYNnTG3SYyFM/s3414/20240211_190408.jpg" style="clear: left; display: inline; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2196" data-original-width="3414" height="164" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg42gc8kec_MTl6hmFYH8-2ljo4caJPEBqhN1C0_TOjhU8DUmyfE-Ex7Ond91ExJKQrDSvIPbGCNswSGgBNXh8hcPGsjmjXS8Ig1yGSDL6DeiniGvBkXxm42ErLcufsKdk3zMljBFdUXCIpbsgNIf0fdKlbjdFsvFHWAQukT0_kKYFOzVDmYNnTG3SYyFM/w255-h164/20240211_190408.jpg" width="255" /></a></div>In addition to the action on the field, a remote camera followed SpongeBob's curmudgeonly neighbor and coworker Squidward as he waited impatiently to use the men's room. Commentary was lively — and funny — if not perhaps a bit <i>above</i> the intellect of the target audience. I wondered <i>who</i> was actually <i>watching</i> this broadcast... besides a 60-ish husband and wife whose child aged out of the Nickelodeon demographic decades ago. I assumed that in <i>most</i> football-watching families, <i>Dad</i> controlled the TV (much like my dad did all those years ago). There is no way any typical "I-Couldn't-Be-Bothered" father was sitting though the biggest event in sports with Patrick Star complaining "I don't understand" every two seconds. Nevertheless, my wife and I watched <i>and enjoyed</i> the cartoon high jinx. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3Xli8UM1XzMUwZzWPdYMdwUbDc5OCbAa2Z2_WjL2AGapN5ndnGaEnM9mPSPRPY-ASYlb0nIj_2g7ANt_bib0MCqNsvRxBnR1rz7wAl6WtGFQ_clXbzRUKmGIPpxd3d4bkbxxfYszl1kjXEE4JL6cFJqftYmyO8LONXwfXXYqHS4NM3k0O3GioJcW2kW4/s546/Clarissa-Explains-It-All-clarissa-explains-it-all-20688951-640-480.png" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="273" data-original-width="546" height="160" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3Xli8UM1XzMUwZzWPdYMdwUbDc5OCbAa2Z2_WjL2AGapN5ndnGaEnM9mPSPRPY-ASYlb0nIj_2g7ANt_bib0MCqNsvRxBnR1rz7wAl6WtGFQ_clXbzRUKmGIPpxd3d4bkbxxfYszl1kjXEE4JL6cFJqftYmyO8LONXwfXXYqHS4NM3k0O3GioJcW2kW4/s320/Clarissa-Explains-It-All-clarissa-explains-it-all-20688951-640-480.png" width="320" /></a></div>Actually, I was quite appreciative of Dora the Explorer's pop-up appearances to explain the meaning of each game-stopping penalty called by officials. In plain, understandable language, Dora made sense of "holding," "clipping" and "off-sides." While it was informative, I would have much preferred Clarissa giving the explanations. After all, wasn't that <i>her</i> schtick anyway? (Am I dating myself?)</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">The time flew by. Granted, we were not glued to the game, as though we had a couple grand riding on the outcome. But, all in all, I would consider watching <i>future</i> Super Bowls under these circumstances. As a matter of fact, I propose that SpongeBob and Patrick host <i>all</i> major sporting events and even awards shows. It would certainly liven things up and make the whole thing more interesting <i>and</i> entertaining.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">Who's with me? I can't <i><b>HEAR</b></i> you......!</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><a href="http://www.joshpincusiscrying.com"><i>www.joshpincusiscrying.com</i></a></div> <p></p>josh pincus is cryinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09302062659860682118noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1547375569747010454.post-41203345089083295462024-02-11T05:00:00.002-05:002024-02-11T21:07:02.152-05:00you don't have to put on the red light<p></p><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCUIiN6xe29ptmV5tHY0Zqg9e12yz2986j8Eyn-G1WfgFwcn296Wy0xuxSMMnxxewGWGulAkcDhmZGMVsk3pbtEF2OtIqRlt1_Vn-KWcZ-Hdf0Gcpre3Lb8xdR4FdUkXjp7fTUyLWRI5ycQQJfz7Bbit0vLOpqjgXd9RPeavoe_JDdnM1ClKWCSLp3sVg/s764/REDLIGHT.webp"><img border="0" height="219" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCUIiN6xe29ptmV5tHY0Zqg9e12yz2986j8Eyn-G1WfgFwcn296Wy0xuxSMMnxxewGWGulAkcDhmZGMVsk3pbtEF2OtIqRlt1_Vn-KWcZ-Hdf0Gcpre3Lb8xdR4FdUkXjp7fTUyLWRI5ycQQJfz7Bbit0vLOpqjgXd9RPeavoe_JDdnM1ClKWCSLp3sVg/w387-h219/REDLIGHT.webp" width="387"></a></div><div>After many, many comfortable carefree years of taking the train, I returned to the white-knuckle endeavor that is my daily commute to work.</div><div><br></div><div>I do not like driving. I openly admit that I am not a good driver. I can operate a car and I can get from one place to another. But, I do not enjoy the actual <i>activity</i> of driving. I think the main reason for this is <i>other drivers. </i>Other drivers are angry, aggressive, impatient, self-centered and oblivious to their surroundings and other drivers. I am very wary of other drivers making last minute decisions to change lanes without signaling. I try to make myself aware of that particularly erratic driver who — I just <i>know </i>— is <i>not</i> going to make that turn he has been promising for over ten blocks via his blinking turn signal. I keep alert to be ready to hit my brakes when the vehicle in front of me decides to stop, activate its hazard flashers and remain in an active lane, <i>despite</i> the availability of numerous curbside parking spaces.</div><div><br></div><div>More recently, I have witnessed a driving phenomena that just baffles me. I see it nearly every morning in the span of my forty minute commute to and from work. My morning and evening drive takes me through several small, residential Philadelphia neighborhoods. Like most neighborhoods, there are houses packed tightly into to a checkerboard of streets. There are cars in driveways and on the street and children running across lawns and sidewalks and sometimes into the street to chase an an errant ball. With all of this activity, I am still shocked — <i>shocked!</i> — to see drivers failing to stop at red lights on a regular basis.</div><div><br></div><div>Almost every single day, I as I apply my brakes at an intersection where the traffic signal in my direction is displaying a red light, a car next to me continues without slowing down and with no regard for the automated signal. However, a <i>new</i> twist has been added by some particularly brazen drivers. This new trend, which seems to be gaining popularity every day, involves an <i>actual</i> stop of the vehicle. The driver <i>has</i> acknowledged the existence of the red light and has stopped his vehicle accordingly. But, then, the driver has determined that the length of time that the red light is displayed is <i>too long. </i>He's got places to go and things to do and cannot waste any more precious time waiting for this silly light to turn green and allow him passage. So, taking the law into his own hands — and after stopping for his assessment of a <i>reasonable</i> amount of time — the driver proceeds right through the red light. Since he <i>stopped</i>, he is <i>very consciou</i>s of what he has done. It is much different from "Oh, I didn't see that the light was red!" Instead, it is, "Oh, I saw the red light. I just had enough." I see this a lot. An <i>awful </i>lot. I have even seen this occur with a police car stopped nearby.</div><div><br></div><div>What have we become? Why are the basic rules of society breaking down right before our eyes? It's not just blowing a red light. It's refusing to wait in line. It's taking photos at a concert or play, despite pre-performance announcements of "No photography, please." It's demanding substitutions in a restaurant when the menu clearly states "No substitutions." It's parking in places that are obviously <i>not</i> parking spaces. It's not owning up to our own mistakes. It's a lot of things.</div><div><br></div><div>A civilized society is supposed to evolve. At least I thought that was the plan.</div><div><br></div><div><a href="http://www.joshpincusiscrying.com"><i>www.joshpincusiscrying.com</i></a></div><p></p>josh pincus is cryinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09302062659860682118noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1547375569747010454.post-54742518525697219282024-02-04T05:00:00.004-05:002024-02-10T15:12:48.653-05:00moneygrabber<p></p><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjobmSwcFGzsn0GpY3N4VlY5171LnK-Qj1P4ROixXEJ_QSJy_6Zxp4kRzLV6T2jz2wHUMKRjRAf2zUc8bV_C5n25nSieEySveD_SvJe5uxHhm3-o83ddCM8btuFxjh_VChgazxXbfLAwLcvVI57qpV_itjxEY_r7_favsBdblN15lVSJT1zdTqZAjdvb30/s612/istockphoto-840497622-612x612.jpg"><img border="0" height="244" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjobmSwcFGzsn0GpY3N4VlY5171LnK-Qj1P4ROixXEJ_QSJy_6Zxp4kRzLV6T2jz2wHUMKRjRAf2zUc8bV_C5n25nSieEySveD_SvJe5uxHhm3-o83ddCM8btuFxjh_VChgazxXbfLAwLcvVI57qpV_itjxEY_r7_favsBdblN15lVSJT1zdTqZAjdvb30/w367-h244/istockphoto-840497622-612x612.jpg" width="367" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;">There's an old joke. A guy calls a plumber to fix a small leak in a pipe. The plumber arrives and he's led down the basement steps to view the leak. The plumber examines the pipe from all angles, assessing the situation. Finally, he says to the homeowner, "This looks like a 'Miami job.'" The homeowner asks, "You mean you saw a similar type of leak on a job in Miami?" "No," the plumber clarifies, "I mean with the money I get from you for this repair, I'll be able to spend a month in Miami."</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Before <a href="https://beenaslice.blogspot.com/2023/06/whats-new.html" target="_blank">I purchased a new car this past May</a>, I drove my trusty Toyota RAV-4 for nearly twenty years. Over the course of two decades — as you can imagine — my car required its fair share of maintenance and repairs, as well as yearly safety inspections required by the state of Pennsylvania. When my car needed service, I took it to a mechanic named Dewey whose shop is in my neighborhood. Dewey is a nice guy, I guess. He would sometimes pick my car up at my house and drop it off when the work was completed. He has a genial demeanor, often limiting the technical jargon when he was explaining the repair that my car would need after I told of the abnormalities I thought my car was experiencing. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div><div style="text-align: justify;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgAaAjOqVgeHMb5-xXyDaSY96UPXh3Z40tWw7gZAymXhijrGYDzoZg32iY2IO0XNH8zrPW_kTeC67DR3cAq3tW7mXS4JLuJehHr9kAS63bOS0620xc22Esa8-Chmid-Msa-HsRczS0h0cem4fQbv-OgHKwyd8_b_jXTfoTmEpw5gn2r9yDjW4w_DtEEYA/s949/bfaa7022fac2e94193439c64b27ff74a.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="181" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgAaAjOqVgeHMb5-xXyDaSY96UPXh3Z40tWw7gZAymXhijrGYDzoZg32iY2IO0XNH8zrPW_kTeC67DR3cAq3tW7mXS4JLuJehHr9kAS63bOS0620xc22Esa8-Chmid-Msa-HsRczS0h0cem4fQbv-OgHKwyd8_b_jXTfoTmEpw5gn2r9yDjW4w_DtEEYA/w269-h181/bfaa7022fac2e94193439c64b27ff74a.jpg" width="269" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;">The repairs that my car required — at any given visit to Dewey's shop — were <i>extensive.</i> <i>Always.</i> Even for annual inspections, at times when my car was running — in <i>my</i> opinion — just fine, Dewey would find <i>something</i> within the confines of my vehicle's body that would cost me a couple hundred dollars. <i>Always.</i> Once I needed a new headlight. While changing the headlight, Dewey told me that discovered that the intake valve of the deferential influx capacitor was not in tip-top working order. He innocently asked if I'd like it replaced and soon, a lousy new headlight was costing me four hundred bucks. State inspections that should cost around fifty dollars, would always require some crucial engine component. Without a replacement, my car would <i>not</i> pass inspection and possible lead to a more serious issue. Of course, the <i>new</i> part would set me back a few hundred dollars. This went on for years. I don't think Dewey was an incompetent mechanic. I think he just went <i>out of his way</i> to <i>find</i> something wrong with my car every time I brought in. He wasn't going to let me take possession of my vehicle without a payment of at least a hundred bucks. I know nothing about the innerworkings of a car, so I was at the mercy of Dewey's perceived "expertise." So, I had him make any repair he suggested and I paid whatever he told me the bill was.</div></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">... until this year when I purchased a 2024 Subaru Crosstrek for the price of my 2004 Toyota RAV-4 and an undisclosed amount of cash. Because of the delicate computer system that is standard on new cars, I purchased an extended warranty on my new vehicle, thus eliminating any future dealing with Dewey. I would be taking my new car to the Subaru dealership for state inspections, any future maintenance and eventual repairs. My wife, who drives a 2018 Toyota takes her car to a Toyota dealer for maintenance, so, as far as I can see, Dewey is out of our lives. As a matter of fact, Mrs. P ran into Dewey at the supermarket and told him that I had purchased a new car. She said he appeared happy and wished me "good luck" with the car.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">One day last week, Mrs. Pincus returned from running errands to discover that her car had a flat tire. After the involuntarily voicing of a few choice words, she called AAA and waited for someone to come and change the tire. Afterwards, we discussed her options for getting the flat tire repaired... and repaired quickly. First, we considered the Toyota dealer, but without an appointment for service, who knows how long the wait would be for a "walk-in" repair. The last thing Mrs. P — or <i>anyone</i> — wants to do is spend countless, non-productive hours in car dealership waiting room. The next option was rather obvious — Dewey.. We were fairly sure that Dewey, who operates a one-man repair shop, — would be only <i>too happy</i> to fix a quick flat tire for a member of the Pincus family. After all, we were loyal customers for over twenty years. (Yep, we took our cars <i>before</i> my Toyota to Dewey!) </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">The next morning, Mrs. P took her "temporary spare tire equipped" car over to Dewey's shop. I, of course, had left for work a few hours earlier. That afternoon, I called my wife to see about the progress of — what I <i>assumed</i> — would be a fast repair. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">"How's your car?" my text to my wife read.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">A few minutes later, I received this response...</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDOnU8AOWk2rzet0XZYTYj-HIlHiZJlMmZsccFGATrWHbwtkgPxHOCaopvnjvKZljsK9VH0mmlEbB7fhCBHchLfqDBRsq3N6qb08RnJX2NGNiOBaKZT1i4CU2RAhjar5SsCptTvtsbueuHamv1_I5pcGjMcw5ebZog98ru-2xGrnmBwUaTZZvLgdXPPu8/s1030/Screenshot_20231217-111913_Messages.jpg"><img border="0" height="90" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDOnU8AOWk2rzet0XZYTYj-HIlHiZJlMmZsccFGATrWHbwtkgPxHOCaopvnjvKZljsK9VH0mmlEbB7fhCBHchLfqDBRsq3N6qb08RnJX2NGNiOBaKZT1i4CU2RAhjar5SsCptTvtsbueuHamv1_I5pcGjMcw5ebZog98ru-2xGrnmBwUaTZZvLgdXPPu8/w438-h90/Screenshot_20231217-111913_Messages.jpg" width="438" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">She went to to explain that — according to Dewey's expert assessment — her car would need four new tires and rear brakes. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Apparently, Dewey missed us.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>Desperately.</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><a href="http://www.joshpincusiscrying.com"><i>www.joshpincusiscrying.com</i></a></div><p></p>josh pincus is cryinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09302062659860682118noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1547375569747010454.post-91264692953558454962024-01-28T05:00:00.006-05:002024-01-28T12:08:25.730-05:00moon over parma<p></p><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTnyLWA4y82Hp75SMdZaQ7SsirleLGJzJCjGlCs5L076uqWfNUgoA14sJ6c9IU94PEPAJayqoQ0-QeTmnyuHAK5HCJB5mW2pKw4vGLf9ww4TdIuhpE585fd5taNIauX7lG694QuTd3p1hDpdRRWxMWzEGkDNHDrTeAArmrUFuz-e-afC2uW0FomHtCPR0/s2080/NINTCHDBPICT000377559478.webp"><img border="0" height="255" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTnyLWA4y82Hp75SMdZaQ7SsirleLGJzJCjGlCs5L076uqWfNUgoA14sJ6c9IU94PEPAJayqoQ0-QeTmnyuHAK5HCJB5mW2pKw4vGLf9ww4TdIuhpE585fd5taNIauX7lG694QuTd3p1hDpdRRWxMWzEGkDNHDrTeAArmrUFuz-e-afC2uW0FomHtCPR0/w383-h255/NINTCHDBPICT000377559478.webp" width="383" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I <i>love</i> television. I love<i> watching</i> television. I love <i>reading</i> about television. I love <i>talking</i> about television. and, if you are a regular reader of this blog, you know I love <i>writing</i> about television.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I grew up in the 1960s and 70s watching television. Those were some interesting years. The airwaves were filled with Westerns and police shows and anthology series and situation comedies. A lot of the current crop of independent "retro" TV channels have rerun some of the more popular programs from "back in the day." Of course, Nick at Nite revolutionized the "kitschy rerun format" that so many other networks have copied. I was a big fan of Nick At Nite in its early days. I relished the simplicity of <i>The Donna Reed Show</i>, the stupidity of<i> Mr. Ed</i> and the "shoot the bad guy and learn a lesson" repetitiveness of <i>The Rifleman</i>. Nevertheless, there I was, front and center, happily consuming everything Nick At Nite had to offer.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div><div style="text-align: justify;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFQ-XUNZXygKUqiP9_R2zwxE1peesvp1Opo8V4XNPrpaC6dEuEUO4uaVvpXEBDyp1PJYBfswOpccZRtohCu2Fo5r09jw4qpcrkb0GerZLPjvsvz8GMj7OZ7nqUN_ACIuUXuPdwZRuMBNpQiw_FsVi2o_Ge3d12VuXFaUT3e8XrV-9OGfJrkCVCGBvnMGM/s289/th%20(1).jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="170" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFQ-XUNZXygKUqiP9_R2zwxE1peesvp1Opo8V4XNPrpaC6dEuEUO4uaVvpXEBDyp1PJYBfswOpccZRtohCu2Fo5r09jw4qpcrkb0GerZLPjvsvz8GMj7OZ7nqUN_ACIuUXuPdwZRuMBNpQiw_FsVi2o_Ge3d12VuXFaUT3e8XrV-9OGfJrkCVCGBvnMGM/w223-h170/th%20(1).jpg" width="223" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Ten years after its cable television debut, Nick at Nite teased at having <i>Welcome Back Kotter</i> join its evening line-up in the spring of 1995. I was very excited by this news. I remember being a big fan of the Gabe Kaplan-led sitcom in its initial run in 1975 (when I was 14). I distinctly remember being in hysterics from the outlandish behavior of the "Sweathogs" — a group of unknown young actors whose antics were the centerpiece of each episode. <i>Welcome Back Kotter</i> enjoyed phenomenal ratings in its first two seasons and it made stars out of its cast — specifically John Travolta. During its run, Travolta launched his successful film career, garnering an Oscar nomination for his turn as a Brooklyn disco enthusiast in<i> Saturday Night Fever</i>. Mrs. Pincus and I anxiously looked forward to the return of <i>Welcome Back Kotter</i> and to reliving fond memories of our youth.</div></div><p></p><p style="text-align: justify;">On Monday, May 29, 1995, we excitedly tuned in... and<i> OH MY GOD!</i></p><p style="text-align: justify;">Just after the conclusion of the familiar theme song (a Number 1 record for former Lovin' Spoonful front man John Sebastian), the veritable shit hit the fan. The show was <i>nothing</i> like we remembered. It was <i>awful</i>. It was <i>painful</i>. The writing was <i>terrible! </i>The acting was amateurish. The premise was <i>stupid</i>. The jokes were <i>not funny</i>. Mrs. P and I shot each other helpless looks. <i>"Could this be the same show we loved?"</i> we collectively thought. <i>"What were we thinking?" </i>Sympathetically, we watched another episode or two during Nick at Nite's "Big Premiere." Finally, we changed the channel to something — <i>anything!</i> — else.</p><p></p><div style="text-align: justify;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3GCjHatu-HGNEdaAKlFb3f5548iFpdMj3vzNdtAYSXnqLsmaBGX9nInmLuzK05en1AdVSDi0AIaC0y4pRb0_70XIYdYDGhxr1pvQb4jqch6ZJ_gT4QJIQFsyqc1OoCobP_YuLNibJ_lBmgILzT21k3MWnExRmq5TAJFo-l-M-xzFf_uoHQC_9huKACR8/s2400/Drew-Carey-Show-Then-and-Now--e1567696477505.webp" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3GCjHatu-HGNEdaAKlFb3f5548iFpdMj3vzNdtAYSXnqLsmaBGX9nInmLuzK05en1AdVSDi0AIaC0y4pRb0_70XIYdYDGhxr1pvQb4jqch6ZJ_gT4QJIQFsyqc1OoCobP_YuLNibJ_lBmgILzT21k3MWnExRmq5TAJFo-l-M-xzFf_uoHQC_9huKACR8/s320/Drew-Carey-Show-Then-and-Now--e1567696477505.webp" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;">At the end of the summer of 1995, standup comic Drew Carey premiered his self-titled sitcom on ABC. The show featured Drew and his pals hanging out in a Cleveland bar, dealing with all life has dealt them in their working class life. Drew's character worked at large department store and the daily situations lent themselves to Drew's often funny, often off-the-wall humor. The show lasted nine seasons and was pretty popular, even through cast changes. Drew and his co-stars were consistently funny and, from what I recall, remained funny through its finale — despite lagging ratings. Curiously, after its first run, syndication of the show was sparse. A few local stations briefly showed episodes and several "retro networks" sporadically put the series in its lineup. Star Drew Carey was named the new host of stalwart game show <i>The Price is Right</i>. Drew's costar's found gigs in other series, films and on comedy club stages. I like watching Drew Carey on <i>The Price is Right.</i> He appears to be having a better time that the contestants and often delivers self-deprecating jabs to the bewilderment of the studio audience.</div><p></p><p style="text-align: justify;">While scanning the wide assortment of entertainment that I pay Comcast to pump into my house, I came upon a listing on Antenna TV. <i>The Drew Carey Show</i> was added to their Sunday evening lineup. My interest was piqued. <i>Should I watch? Will I be disappointed? After all, I hadn't seen an episode of </i>The Drew Carey Show<i> for years. </i>These thoughts ran through my head as I toyed with the remote control. As the 8 o'clock start time approached, I clicked over to Antenna TV... almost expecting to be disappointed <i>ala Welcome Back Kotter</i>.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">So, Mrs. Pincus and I watched through very, <i>very</i> discerning eyes.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">It was <i>surprisingly funny!</i> It held up, aside from a couple of dated references to John F. Kennedy, Jr, the jokes made us laugh and the situations were genuinely ...well ... <i>funny! </i>The <i>cast</i> was funny. The <i>writing</i> was funny. The <i>show</i> was funny. When the four back-to-back episodes were over, we changed the channel at the opening notes of the theme to the <i>absolutely dated</i> sitcom <i>Family Ties</i>.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">There are some shows from my youth that I can watch and there are some I cannot — all for <i>different</i> reasons. I'm glad I found out that <i>The Drew Carey Show</i> is one I can <i>still </i>watch.</p><p style="text-align: justify;"><a href="http://www.joshpincusiscrying.com"><i>www.joshpincusiscrying.com</i></a></p>josh pincus is cryinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09302062659860682118noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1547375569747010454.post-70781226413802216242024-01-21T05:00:00.007-05:002024-01-21T20:19:42.855-05:00needles and pins<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-acfNVrNzBOu-eadyicBWjdFPLIO3vHkQ0Sx1TX_muqQxQ1QZbThV8hnux5f-39IxlqVj_qpfBJazTTHNr_Kn7xFhCFXCzMTRWMPHvu4If4yS3SkSek6B0ybFPEyoKp1ayQdRnwqKri36od0BKWKdjInVFfYMFYdhg3EZB38uivU1e-jwofxXl1s7viU/s933/sharps.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="622" data-original-width="933" height="241" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-acfNVrNzBOu-eadyicBWjdFPLIO3vHkQ0Sx1TX_muqQxQ1QZbThV8hnux5f-39IxlqVj_qpfBJazTTHNr_Kn7xFhCFXCzMTRWMPHvu4If4yS3SkSek6B0ybFPEyoKp1ayQdRnwqKri36od0BKWKdjInVFfYMFYdhg3EZB38uivU1e-jwofxXl1s7viU/w362-h241/sharps.jpg" width="362"></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;">I just returned from a three-day, unplanned visit to the hospital. I spent the first twelve hours in the emergency ward, where I was poked and stuck and prodded by a variety of apologetic medical staff wielding a variety of sharp objects. After a quick assessment by a very astute doctor, it was determined that a regimen of antibiotics would clear up the nasty <i>pinna perichondritis</i> (Google that. Go ahead.) from which I was suffering. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;"><br></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHtxX8829Prl_leiyt5QGUUu5NS11St1l13Xq4PBWnIRKItS157g1-8YzOPCNsBjt-jAZ356dZF-YFoUFSAKYyTz_CYaASzsAUL7ddpy3aknIXhXagdFlJwAEKvFqbt7fG14ZSgSchXxc7atm9IoGRhVgumIOKJjx4xUxx1JrqiuMeqN4FpqCO51L4fYA/s432/teacup-ride2-wp.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="288" data-original-width="432" height="145" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHtxX8829Prl_leiyt5QGUUu5NS11St1l13Xq4PBWnIRKItS157g1-8YzOPCNsBjt-jAZ356dZF-YFoUFSAKYyTz_CYaASzsAUL7ddpy3aknIXhXagdFlJwAEKvFqbt7fG14ZSgSchXxc7atm9IoGRhVgumIOKJjx4xUxx1JrqiuMeqN4FpqCO51L4fYA/w218-h145/teacup-ride2-wp.jpg" width="218"></a></div>The antibiotics would be administered intravenously and a young nurse (Who am <i>I</i> kidding? <i>Everyone</i> on staff was <i>young!</i>) came by to insert an IV line into the crook of my left arm.
Now, admittedly, I don't like getting needles. I have been vaccinated. I have had blood taken from me. I've been hooked up to IVs. Each time I experienced one of these, I have to close my eyes and turn my head away from the arm in which the needle will be inserted. Usually the nurse or technician will offer a cute verbal warning — <i>"Little pinch..."</i> — before sliding that slender metal spike beneath the top layer of my skin. In reality, I don't ever <i>feel</i> anything. Sometimes, I don't even feel that <i>"little pinch"</i> that was promised. I just don't care to watch the actual process. I can't watch it happening to <i>someone else </i>and I can't watch it happening to<i> me</i>. Kind of like the teacup ride in Disneyland.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;"><br></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;">Once the IV port was inserted in my left arm, each bag of healing antibiotics would be painlessly connected to the long tube that was now securely taped to the inside of my elbow. However, after two bags were emptied into my bloodstream, the vein that had received the IV was determined to be "sluggish" </span><span style="text-align: left;">— which, I have come to understand, is a medical term. Another "little pinch" warning was issued and a new IV was inserted on my forearm just a few inches closer to my wrist from the original entry point. A third IV was connected and we were back in the "getting better" business. A lot of activity at 4 o'clock in the morning.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;"><br></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;">At around 6:30 AM, just after I quickly finished my hospital breakfast of Rice Krispies and horrible coffee, I was moved to a regular room in a new wing of the hospital, where it was quiet, secluded and devoid of any of the loud, wet coughs and woeful moaning that were rampant in the ER.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjotpeOU9m93rkHtFxsHk-lod0-1kJT-R6XJrNrTWOijgkRpo39hIwiDefNixCX1Ag4WWm9ODZAnu2tzQsv47HeW8utBiDG881cqX6d-UETuLmgKKXK0kNyiN39ST5ST0LGfo4Bql-OdMyk-BYonOiYgOPafQeVSoYE8FI2GoFtAUrZcU_2nwc4pJVm8rE/s4032/20240115_220604.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="157" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjotpeOU9m93rkHtFxsHk-lod0-1kJT-R6XJrNrTWOijgkRpo39hIwiDefNixCX1Ag4WWm9ODZAnu2tzQsv47HeW8utBiDG881cqX6d-UETuLmgKKXK0kNyiN39ST5ST0LGfo4Bql-OdMyk-BYonOiYgOPafQeVSoYE8FI2GoFtAUrZcU_2nwc4pJVm8rE/w119-h157/20240115_220604.jpg" width="119"></a></div>In my <i>new</i> accommodations, the antibiotic procedure continued. Every so often, a new nurse would come into my room and regretfully inform me that I needed to provide serval vials of blood. Since my left arm was otherwise occupied, my right arm would be the source of the required sanguine extraction. Once again, the "little pinch" heads-up was announced, immediately followed by a faint twinge in my arm. Because my eyes were tightly shut and my head was turned away from the action at hand, I could only <i>hear</i> a length of medical tape being ripped from a roll to hold a wad of cotton in place over the withdrawal point. I was asked to provide blood several times during my stay, each new procedure similar to the last.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">On the morning of what would be my last day in the hospital, a <i>new</i> nurse came in to my room to tell me that hospital policy requires all patients who are in bed for extended periods of time (like me) receive a blood thinner to combat clotting. This medication <span style="text-align: left;">— surprise! surprise! </span><span style="text-align: left;">— would be administered via a needle. And this particular needle would be delivered to my abdomen. Getting a shot in the abdomen for someone who does not possess a rock-hard, six-pack of <i>rectus abdominis</i> muscles is no treat. Unlike a shot in the arm, it is very difficult to brace and tighten the abdomen of someone who stretches out on a sofa rather than a rowing machine. So, while the nurse readied the sharpened syringe, I tried my best to tense up my gut. It didn't work and unlike my non-reaction to previous shots, I let out out little "<i>JEEZ!"</i> Well, maybe not <i>little</i> and <i>maybe</i> it was fully pronounced "<i>JESUS CHRIST!"</i> The nurse empathetically </span><span style="text-align: left; letter-spacing: 0.2px;">winced </span><i style="text-align: left; letter-spacing: 0.2px;">herself</i><span style="text-align: left; letter-spacing: 0.2px;"> and said, "Oh, I'm so sorry." </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;"><br></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;">I explained that I never had an involuntary reaction to an injection before, but that one caught me off guard. I went on to say that, while I don't <i>like</i> needles, I <i>can </i>tolerate them. She laughed and said that she has had patients </span><span style="text-align: left;">— brawny men whose arms and torsos are <i>covered</i> with intricate tattoos </span><span style="text-align: left;">— wince and scream from injections. She couldn't understand how a quick tiny needle could freak out someone who obviously had to sit for a considerable length of time while needles were <i>repeatedly</i> inserted and extracted </span><span style="text-align: left;">— over and over and over </span><span style="text-align: left;">— into their skin. Getting tattooed </span><span style="text-align: left;">— especially some of the more <i>elaborate</i> designs </span><span style="text-align: left;">— requires hours and hours of needle pricks. A blood sample or vaccine takes less that <i>two minutes</i>.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;"><br></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;">I looked at the nurse and answered: "It's simple. Tattoos are <i>cool</i>. Getting blood work done.... <i>not so much.</i>"</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;"><br></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;">She laughed.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwF4eSPST4JhaJy5YeH9cUSiTWII6xY4BGPm-hHCSukfxpK3PseGM-ri33ScAd_m-6rlG5VgSIwRq3x7MpJUsUVt_5HStTnsfo1rbOlRKDqCVIvC4LUYGdjh6dVj_En_FftvO7VQKml3d_gg_-b4CYHDo-bFVokWRlAeSjDKe8JUx2iqJpNy_QWtdN02U/s626/tattoo-artist-man-isolated-white-background-giving-thumbs-up-gesture_1368-266311.jpg" style="clear: left; display: inline; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="418" data-original-width="626" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwF4eSPST4JhaJy5YeH9cUSiTWII6xY4BGPm-hHCSukfxpK3PseGM-ri33ScAd_m-6rlG5VgSIwRq3x7MpJUsUVt_5HStTnsfo1rbOlRKDqCVIvC4LUYGdjh6dVj_En_FftvO7VQKml3d_gg_-b4CYHDo-bFVokWRlAeSjDKe8JUx2iqJpNy_QWtdN02U/s320/tattoo-artist-man-isolated-white-background-giving-thumbs-up-gesture_1368-266311.jpg" width="320"></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><a href="http://www.joshpincusiscrying.com" style="text-align: left;"><i>www.joshpincusiscrying.com</i></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br></div>josh pincus is cryinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09302062659860682118noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1547375569747010454.post-33243410922650593302024-01-14T05:00:00.004-05:002024-01-14T16:41:28.524-05:00weird scenes inside the goldmine<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6wDE_xlCxZlFEHNGD1PREDYGrw06JXLnwxKP49bL8paNtbg58Ubg1E8IEw-3vKiZtkFuXliftC_u1eKW85hDyf3cQn7nksnNQVTxNEQ0UV7DbsBXmAC23-pPIHvOWvLoELqAF2rAa_9ziqZ1v84UoYVzWFvI-qKyrcrGuTJbZbYfDhHOWKnBH5zmh4HI/s640/download%20(1).png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="514" data-original-width="640" height="257" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6wDE_xlCxZlFEHNGD1PREDYGrw06JXLnwxKP49bL8paNtbg58Ubg1E8IEw-3vKiZtkFuXliftC_u1eKW85hDyf3cQn7nksnNQVTxNEQ0UV7DbsBXmAC23-pPIHvOWvLoELqAF2rAa_9ziqZ1v84UoYVzWFvI-qKyrcrGuTJbZbYfDhHOWKnBH5zmh4HI/s320/download%20(1).png" width="320"></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">One night for dinner, Mrs. P wanted spaghetti. Now, we are — in no way — "food snobs." We are not particular about where we go to get spaghetti. I am not one of those people who turns up their nose at ordinary, unimaginative, run-of-the-mill, neighborhood Italian restaurants that serve the basics. You know the type of place to which I'm referring. It's a big, boxy, dimly-lit place with a zillion teenage girls bustling behind the counter, a pen perched behind an ear and cracking chewing gum while they juggle a tray filled with generic-looking and plainly-prepared pasta dishes. Over in the corner is an older, balding gentleman in a white t-shirt and a sauce-smeared apron, his overly-hairy forearms flexing as he grabs a knurled wooden peel and extracts a piping-hot pizza from the oven. A younger fellow — a family relation to the older man — is barking orders to the girls in a combination of broken English and fluent Italian. <i>That </i>sort of place. I <i>know</i> there's one in your neighborhood. It's usually called "Vincenzo's" or "Pizza Palace" or "Mama's Place," although "Mama" is no where to be seen.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">In our neighborhood, that place is called "Roman Delight." It is only <i>vaguely</i> "Roman" and not anywhere <i>near</i> a "delight." Despite this misnomer of a name, it's been supplying mediocre, overpriced, <i>somewhat Italian</i> food to the northern Philadelphia suburbs for decades. Mrs. P and I have been infrequent patrons for about as long as we have lived in our house. (That's almost <i>forty years!</i>) Once we have whittled down our dinner options and Mrs. P doesn't feel like cooking, we will reluctantly call Roman Delight and get a <i>perfectly okay</i> meal for a little bit more that <i>I</i> think it should cost. Our order is usually the same each time. I get baked ziti in marinara sauce. Mrs. Pincus gets eggplant parmigiana over spaghetti and we will split an order of greasy garlic bread. Call-in orders sometimes need a bit of explaining and clarification with the order-taker — primarily to make sure <i>they</i> understand <i>which</i> items from their expansive menu I would like. Twenty or so minutes after my call-in order, I'll drive over to pick it up. We eat and that's it. It's not great. It's not horrible. It just serves as "dinner."</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">So when Mrs. Pincus wanted spaghetti for dinner, we just automatically thought to call Roman Delight. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">But, I stopped. "Let's try someplace <i>different</i>!," I suggested.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">My wife gave me a puzzled look. "Where?" she questioned.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">Several jobs ago, I worked for a place that designed and printed take-out menus for area restaurants. I remembered there was a place a block or so away from Roman Delight that boasted a similar menu. I pulled the place up from a quick Google search and scanned their menu. Their prices and selection were comparable to Roman Delight. "Let's give <i>this</i> place a try," I pressed on. Mrs. P appeared indifferent. So, we went.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">The place I proposed is in a shopping center that we rarely visit. The last time I was there, the "Michael's Craft Store" that occupies the far end of the strip of businesses was a supermarket. The Rite Aid at the opposite end is now closed, a casualty of the pharmacy chain's slow and inevitable demise. In-between is a nail salon, a beauty supply store and a Chinese restaurant that never looks open. There's a <a href="https://beenaslice.blogspot.com/2014/12/i-want-big-mexican-dinner.html" target="_blank">Chipotle</a> that I wrote about in 2014 and — in a space once occupied by a Baja Fresh — our destination Italian restaurant.<br><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmpmVf9DqbjUV8I99zSyNdrvYi8EgFKiFRut0HBjlLcDmS8oR1kY4p1yCGpOQ7DAoTIGgXteS-Gp0t9pYa-yOn5ygX-xVIOoOJsUy2oDmEURfSg-ebf8El1prxPNQqQsYCSItNqBqJPPnSg9gPMPeJzCuZRO5C1G3CQ08IoNMcwXSdvqinEKias1yTZ8U/s640/istockphoto-1077577650-640x640.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="360" data-original-width="640" height="133" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmpmVf9DqbjUV8I99zSyNdrvYi8EgFKiFRut0HBjlLcDmS8oR1kY4p1yCGpOQ7DAoTIGgXteS-Gp0t9pYa-yOn5ygX-xVIOoOJsUy2oDmEURfSg-ebf8El1prxPNQqQsYCSItNqBqJPPnSg9gPMPeJzCuZRO5C1G3CQ08IoNMcwXSdvqinEKias1yTZ8U/w237-h133/istockphoto-1077577650-640x640.jpg" width="237"></a></div>We entered the front door. The place was totally devoid of customers. It was 6:15 PM — dinner time for most — on a weekday evening. Not a single one of their dozen tables and booths were occupied. Behind the big, tile-front counter, two young ladies were staring off into space. Alongside the counter, a man in an apron sat in a chair. He greeted my wife and me with a big smile and a hearty "Hello!"</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">As I reached for a take-out menu from the small counter display, the man in the chair said to me: "Do you believe in UFOs?"</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhLZiEUkUPXQsYDfLn4DM3bmV7yRlazHzXoqsghV-it-ocdogtD2-8lZLXoP0wv5bVGbciBqzh4t4zd09MAi14JsHu3MN5r3RAMPIFsuNFGlZkXSe7EAJ8kSb-Q0Uz0Bj6cDV8T4XvbpbrfSC0nsUzw2wWlJ49a4uYbbBw1GHrzZAjzKLk-kbPhMtRRAI/s252/download.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="200" data-original-width="252" height="129" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhLZiEUkUPXQsYDfLn4DM3bmV7yRlazHzXoqsghV-it-ocdogtD2-8lZLXoP0wv5bVGbciBqzh4t4zd09MAi14JsHu3MN5r3RAMPIFsuNFGlZkXSe7EAJ8kSb-Q0Uz0Bj6cDV8T4XvbpbrfSC0nsUzw2wWlJ49a4uYbbBw1GHrzZAjzKLk-kbPhMtRRAI/w163-h129/download.jpg" width="163"></a></div><br>"Excuse me?," I replied, taken off-guard.<br><br>"<i>Aliens!</i> You know.... from <i>outer space!</i>," he explained.<br><br>Mrs. Pincus looked at me with wide eyes. Having seen those eyes over the past 42 years that we have been acquainted, I knew the message they were silently expressing. <i>"I am not comfortable here." </i>That's what my wife's eyes were telling me. We pretended to read the menu a little bit longer. The staff — the man in the chair and the two young ladies — did not say anything further to us. They didn't even look in our direction. They continued their conversation about aliens and UFOs.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">I placed the folded menu back into the counter display. Mrs. P and I slowly — and as inconspicuously as possible — backed out of the empty restaurant towards the door. Still, <i>no one</i> said a word to us.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">As we made our way to our car in the parking lot, I was already on the phone with Roman Delight — explaining which items from their expansive menu I would like.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><a href="http://www.joshpincusiscrying.com"><i>www.joshpincusiscrying.com</i></a></div><p></p>josh pincus is cryinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09302062659860682118noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1547375569747010454.post-37426166935500286562024-01-07T05:00:00.005-05:002024-01-07T11:13:01.293-05:00rescue me<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPsx_wqXePTkS0lmpChLET2AfPRF49omPTWlG3KRzl8baJYLG8FfsY_QRUCRevZ0bxhIz-b0GEE7MqXmv5yO4NefRdu798ydEb_U6ZNwdHT6tcS9-KbdhG7c5GTVbsy1alO4tedKEMfG-BtGRfQCOqkJlD7Lx-ymWVamd_K-ElaWL6Pnkru9QHoc9YcOk/s4000/-1x-1.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2667" data-original-width="4000" height="252" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPsx_wqXePTkS0lmpChLET2AfPRF49omPTWlG3KRzl8baJYLG8FfsY_QRUCRevZ0bxhIz-b0GEE7MqXmv5yO4NefRdu798ydEb_U6ZNwdHT6tcS9-KbdhG7c5GTVbsy1alO4tedKEMfG-BtGRfQCOqkJlD7Lx-ymWVamd_K-ElaWL6Pnkru9QHoc9YcOk/w379-h252/-1x-1.jpg" width="379"></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">This may surprise you, but I go to work <i>to work</i>. Over the years and over many, <i>many</i> jobs, I have pretty much kept to myself. I like to think that I am a diligent, focused worker and my prime concern when I am at work is <i>to work</i> — to do the job that I am being <i>paid</i> to do. I have had a few jobs where I became friendly with my co-workers and — to be honest — that took a bit of adjustment time. I never looked at work as a social situation. I never considered my "co-workers" to be my "friends." They certainly weren't my enemies (except for the few that actually were). I maintained a cordial, business relationship with my co-workers and the majority of my discussions with co-workers were business-related. I didn't socialize with my co-workers. As a matter of fact, I never even <i>considered</i> socializing with my co-workers. I will admit that, in the few <i>rare</i> instances when I let my guard down, I have maintained some friendships that carried on <i>long</i> past the time I spent at the particular job during which I first made them. (I just attended a birthday party for a close friend that started out as just a co-worker at I job I had <i>five</i> jobs ago.)</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">In my defense, one of the reasons I had not attempted to cultivate friendships with my co-workers is the <i>nature</i> of my chosen profession. I have been working in and out of the commercial printing industry with the better part of <i>forty years</i>. For those of you unfamiliar with the commercial printing industry, I can tell you that it employs the absolute scum of the earth and <i>lowest</i> of the <i>low</i> that society has to offer. The commercial printing industry is chockful of dopes, idiots and morons... and <i>that's</i> being <i>kind.</i> Those of you who either work <i>in</i> or have dealings <i>with</i> commercial printers know what I am talking about. If you disagree with me, well, <i>you</i> are the person I just described.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">At my current job, I rarely (if ever) speak to my co-workers. I will only talk to any of then if it pertains to print dates or the design of an ad. Otherwise, I have work to do. I don't have time for mindless chit-chat with a bunch of people who — despite three years of employment — I don't know their last names. Conversely, my co-workers know <i>nothing</i> about me. They know I live in Pennsylvania. (I work in New Jersey.) If they are observant, they have seen a wedding ring on my left hand, so, if they have a brain in their heads, they can assume I am married. But, I don't think <i>any</i> of them know my wife's first name or if I have any children... and that's just <i>fine</i> with me.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">The commercial printer I work for produces full color advertisements for supermarkets of all sizes. Personally, I am responsible for the layout and production of the ads for <i>two</i> markets — an on-going assignment that keeps me busy week in and week out. Recently, the company acquired the account of a chain of markets in the New York area whose ads they would like me to produce. In order for me to do this, they hired a new graphic artist whom I was tasked to train to take over one of my more needy, more cumbersome clients. (<i>That's</i> a story for another blog.) The new artist is a very quiet young lady. On her first day on the job, she sat attentively by my side while I offered a detailed "play-by-play" narration of how to layout the ad that would eventually be passed on to her. I talked and talked and explained and illuminated while she furiously scribbled notes in a notebook. Every so often, she would politely interrupt my barrage of instruction to ask for clarification, but overall, I talked and she listened. This method proved very successful. I the subsequent weeks, Kathy (the new artist) had taken over the ad like a pro. Her questions came few and far between and her work output was fast, efficient, accurate and professional. My watchful eye became relaxed as I realized that she no longer required regular supervision. A few times, she would ask for specific layout advice, but, overall, she was working independently and that was the goal.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">A few days ago, I was obligated (I think) to attend a holiday get-together for my immediate co-workers — the ones in my department. When this little <i>soiree</i> was first proposed, I thought that I would rather have root canal <i>sans</i> anesthesia, than sit in a restaurant with a bunch of people I didn't really <i>know</i> and didn't <i>want</i> to really know. But, I went.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">Midway through dinner, I glanced around the table and noticed that a few co-workers were missing. Theresa, who organized <i>this thing</i>, was sitting next to me. Theresa is a particularly loud co-worker who was probably on the property when construction began on my employer's building, so they just built around her. I turned to Theresa and — against my better judgement — initiated a conversation.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">"I noticed," I began to Theresa as I gestured towards my co-workers at the long table, most of whom are close to my own age., "that some of the kids aren't here." By "kids," of course, I was referring to several new hires who appear to still be a few years from their thirtieth birthday, Theresa frowned and with a throaty, nicotine-tinged voice, said, "Yeah, none of them wanted to come." Then, she said with an accusatory tone, "What's up with <i>that Kathy girl?</i>" Theresa <i>seethed</i> a bit when she pronounced Kathy's name. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">"What do you mean?" I asked. I couldn't believe I was furthering the conversation.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">Theresa leaned right in. "There's <i>definitely</i> something <i>wrong</i> with her." </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">"She is shy.," I replied.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">"Oh no!," Theresa barked, "She's more that just shy! She's socially awkward. I looked <i>right</i> at her and she won't even say 'hello!' She's weird."</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">"Show me an artist that <i>isn't</i> socially awkward!" I began with a little levity, but I felt I couldn't let Theresa get away with her loudmouth, unwarranted condemnation of someone who I felt was doing a pretty good job — and wasn't there to defend herself. "Kathy happens to be doing a very job on the ad she took over. She knows what she's doing and she needs no supervision anymore. Sure, she's <i>quiet</i>, but she's there to do a job and she is <i>doing</i> that job." I concluded my defense of Kathy by adding, "Besides, Theresa... <i>I</i> don't say 'hello' to you <i>either.</i>"</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">Theresa laughed nervously and promptly changed the subject.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">The next day at work, my boss was making the bi-weekly rounds of distributing paystubs. He stopped at my desk and thanked me for sticking up for Kathy's work practices. He also expressed his displeasure, deeming Theresa's comments as "out of line," considering she has absolutely <i>no work-related</i> interaction with Kathy. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">I smiled and went back to work... because I had work to do.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><i><br></i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><i>Footnote to this story: Kathy tendered her resignation after two months of employment. I hope Theresa is happy.</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><i><a href="http://www.joshpincusiscrying.com">www.joshpincusiscrying.com</a></i></div><p></p>josh pincus is cryinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09302062659860682118noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1547375569747010454.post-85365430689123678652023-12-31T05:00:00.004-05:002023-12-31T13:42:57.623-05:00if a picture paints a thousand words<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijpxCVZtDX_FA6GZeghHPmGxhYjbaWFf84SmjjQiU4-91vPfAYYJ2e-h33O_wQuylAPohoutTXXfpjpRFPn26h8V8NAUQC-KZtRv4vePi7wjOLx0LGmLU65GO2XCyfU4HCVtY23WDZXqzrjv1MRzxe0OtZjBhQR9rp8b4_JESIKeP4UQt7emTmEpJVVAQ/s805/9portraits.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="805" data-original-width="613" height="353" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijpxCVZtDX_FA6GZeghHPmGxhYjbaWFf84SmjjQiU4-91vPfAYYJ2e-h33O_wQuylAPohoutTXXfpjpRFPn26h8V8NAUQC-KZtRv4vePi7wjOLx0LGmLU65GO2XCyfU4HCVtY23WDZXqzrjv1MRzxe0OtZjBhQR9rp8b4_JESIKeP4UQt7emTmEpJVVAQ/w269-h353/9portraits.jpg" width="269" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">I draw. I draw a lot. If you follow my online antics, you already know this about me. A little while ago, I decided to see if I could turn my drawing ability into some cash. I posted a little "ad" on my <a href="https://blog.marshotelonline.com/" target="_blank">website</a> offering my "alleged" talents to my alleged "legions of fans." For a small, reasonable fee, I will draw a portrait of the person of your choosing in that "Josh Pincus" style you've come to love (or revile, depending on your particular taste in art). I've been taken up on this offer a few times. More recently, I have branched out in the <a href="https://www.facebook.com/therealjoshpincus" target="_blank">sticker</a> and <a href="https://www.teepublic.com/user/jpic-designs" target="_blank">t-shirt</a> business, but my portrait proposition has remained open and available.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">On Friday morning, I was posting my daily celebrity death anniversaries (as one does) on Instagram. Then, as is my habit on Friday mornings, I posted my weekly "Dead Celebrity Spotlight." This is a drawing of a recent or not-so-recent <span style="letter-spacing: 0.2px;">celebrity, accompanied by a little story about why they were significant. Sometimes it's someone of worldwide renown. Other times, it's a long forgotten name, whose claim-to-fame endeavors are unsung and usually forgotten. Once posted, I get a smattering of "likes" and comments from a tiny, online faction who share my fascination with death, celebrities or any degree of combination of the two. As I settled back to finish a cup of coffee and figure out the plot points of the </span><i style="letter-spacing: 0.2px;">My Three Sons</i><span style="letter-spacing: 0.2px;"> episode that was flashing across my television screen, a notification of a private Instagram message popped up on my phone. It was from someone with whom I was not connected. I get these a lot. After I post a photo of my son's cat, I will get inundated by unsolicited offers to become a "brand ambassador" for a line of cat toys. Just this week, I got a message from someone noting my affinity for singer </span><a href="https://beenaslice.blogspot.com/2019/05/dead-of-night.html" style="letter-spacing: 0.2px;" target="_blank">Orville Peck</a><span style="letter-spacing: 0.2px;"> and asking if I'd like to promote their similar-sounding songs. Both of these types of messages were deleted by me.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">However, the message I received on Friday morning — the one that drew my attention away from a 60 year-old episode of the Fred MacMurray sitcom — asked if I was available for commissions.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">I quickly responded that I was <i>indeed</i> and sent a link to the area of my website that details the steps to make one of my portraits your own. This person — who we'll call "Jimmy" — immediately and anxiously responded. He said he'd like me to draw his kids and sent me a photo of two young men standing on a driveway and looking like they'd rather not have their picture taken. I said I'd be happy to draw them once I received payment of $100 (the reasonable fee I mentioned earlier). I sent my wife's PayPal account info, reiterating that I would begin the drawing <i>after</i> I received payment. He asked for the PayPal user name on the account. I replied with an explanation that PayPal does <i>not</i> really employ "user names" like <i>other</i> payment apps and that the email address would be enough to accept payment.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">He pressed for an account user name... somewhat relentlessly.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">I spoke with Mrs. P, who assured me that — as I already knew — an email address is all that is required for PayPal payments. But, this guy Jimmy wasn't convinced. He pressed again and he pressed harder. Each of my explanations were met with an angry-toned "WHAT IS THE USER NAME" reply. Finally, Mrs Pincus logged into her PayPal account. She saw that PayPal recently added a "user name" that is essentially meaningless. It seems this useless addition was created to pacify those folks who were used to the "user names" associated with online payment upstarts Venmo and CashApp. I informed Jimmy of this new-found information and repeated the $100 fee and the proposed start time for his drawing. He asked if this was my first commission. I replied: "No. I have been doing this for forty years."</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">Then, I should have ducked to avoid the monkey wrench that Jimmy hurled at me.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">"I am willing to support your artwork to the sum of $500," he said via text message in the Instagram app.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxdPM5RRCGfP6GSMoVV_mJmsFBOx5_h_rD2K0Y-Y_iLtkICiu3WmfBZpKb0TLNzGkuz6ZZnMHr5EskTByxpDPcvYPeGx3qEsCr9BTP3HEdY6MYYYNbtpZ_FFKwu-bBvLt3jMKYxGSdbUj3UwUIvaPWDkHG_zsDvTnqh1FYkyJGbejgvu8fyLir_tCU56g/s700/red-flag-std_1.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="700" data-original-width="700" height="186" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxdPM5RRCGfP6GSMoVV_mJmsFBOx5_h_rD2K0Y-Y_iLtkICiu3WmfBZpKb0TLNzGkuz6ZZnMHr5EskTByxpDPcvYPeGx3qEsCr9BTP3HEdY6MYYYNbtpZ_FFKwu-bBvLt3jMKYxGSdbUj3UwUIvaPWDkHG_zsDvTnqh1FYkyJGbejgvu8fyLir_tCU56g/w186-h186/red-flag-std_1.jpg" width="186" /></a></div>SCREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!!!!! </i>The biggest red flag began waving in my head! A red flag so big that it could bring the participants in the Indy 500 to a grinding halt. No one — and I mean <i>no one</i> offers <i>five times</i> the agreed-upon price to an artist whose name is not Picasso, Renoir or Dali. And especially one of <i>questionable notoriety</i> and named Pincus.<br /><br />"Thank you," I quickly replied, "but $100 will be just fine. Please do not send more than $100 for a drawing."<br /><br />"I am doing this willingly," Jimmy replied aggressively, "so don't worry about it, hun."</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">This sounded really, <i>really</i> fishy. "If you'd like me to do a drawing, please just send $100.," I repeated.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">That was the <i>last</i> of our exchange. That was last night. So far, no PayPal payment has been received from Jimmy... nor do I think there will be.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">The internet is filled with weirdoes. And they all know how to find me.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><i>If you'd like a drawing and you're not a weirdo, you can contact me <a href="https://blog.marshotelonline.com/about-2/josh-pincus-is-drawing/" target="_blank"><b>HERE</b></a>.</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><i><br /></i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><i><a href="http://www.joshpincusiscrying.com">www.joshpincusiscrying.com</a></i></div><p></p>josh pincus is cryinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09302062659860682118noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1547375569747010454.post-53875257986823761542023-12-24T05:00:00.002-05:002023-12-24T21:38:48.663-05:00stop right there, I gotta know right now<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJhPxvm3kSQ3ivp-JHRxwNvwb5UANii_-sLaeIKduEFu5O0sE_U0vBLY6A3h-nzDkDvoG4m9WRupgkQ-s0sdxCKnq2hEupJBw4saXJaMiAd7Q3m0hUagSRSFPWRIDk6E3WBuACclmv_7E7sM8KIM9KS0NS8597ryqmGyks6PMZmFm1Mj37g6dUDT0wda4/s285/images.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="177" data-original-width="285" height="243" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJhPxvm3kSQ3ivp-JHRxwNvwb5UANii_-sLaeIKduEFu5O0sE_U0vBLY6A3h-nzDkDvoG4m9WRupgkQ-s0sdxCKnq2hEupJBw4saXJaMiAd7Q3m0hUagSRSFPWRIDk6E3WBuACclmv_7E7sM8KIM9KS0NS8597ryqmGyks6PMZmFm1Mj37g6dUDT0wda4/w392-h243/images.jpg" width="392"></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">Ever since I unceremoniously lost my job in Philadelphia, I have worked in New Jersey. It is not unusual for people from Philadelphia (and its immediate surrounding area) to work in New Jersey. As a matter of fact, Philadelphians consider New Jersey to be a <i>suburb</i> of Philadelphia. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">My commute to work is about forty minutes and, understandably, I have to cross a toll bridge. Actually, I have my choice of <i>two</i> bridges that span the Delaware River. My <i>preference</i> is the Tacony-Palmyra Bridge, a nearly 100-year old drawbridge that, at any given moment, halts traffic to open up and allow passage of a ship. This operation can interrupt my morning and/or evening drive by up to a full hour. My alternative is the Betsy Ross Bridge, a more modern but less traveled truss structure built <i>high enough</i> that it doesn't <i>need</i> to open. Ships just scoot right under it and so far no ship has been too tall for passage. The Betsy Ross Bridge, however, is difficult to get to and out of my way. It also sports a toll of five dollars as opposed to the Tacony-Palmyra's EZ-Pass-discounted three bucks. Most mornings, I take the Tacony-Palmyra Bridge. I subscribe to a texting alert system that lets me know when the Tacony-Palmyra Bridge is scheduled to open. If I get that message before I leave for work, I change my route and head, reluctantly, towards the Betsy Ross Bridge. If I get that text <i>en route</i>, well.... then I'm fucked.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">Once I cross one of those bridges, I navigate towards Route 130 and soon I find myself at work. Route 130 is an 83-mile stretch of busy Interstate thruway of which I only employ a small portion. One day, while driving along the route I drive every morning, I saw the flashing light of a local police vehicle in my rearview mirror. I obligingly slowed down and pulled to the curb to allow the officer to pass. But he didn't pass. He pulled right up behind me. Panicked, I steered my car into the parking lot of one of the many businesses on Route 130 and shut off the engine. The police car came in right behind me and parked. The officer stayed in his car for a few minutes before approaching my car. In those minutes, I tried to think of what I could have <i>possibly</i> done to warrant a traffic stop. I wasn't speeding. It's kind of hard to speed on Route 130 that early in the morning. As far as I knew my brake lights were in working order. The officer appeared beside my car and I lowered my window.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">"Hello, officer.," I said</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">"Good morning," he replied and he asked for my driver's license and car registration. He walked around to the front of my car and leaned down a bit. Then he returned to my driver's side door. "You don't have a front license plate." he said.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">"Yes," I explained, "They are not required in Pennsylvania, where I live." He nodded. I went on to say that I worked in nearby Pennsauken, New Jersey and I was on my way to my job.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMnFtZKfywgVDYMZ2vdLpgzjlzLQFZFgZ0dcAhyphenhyphensebOYmuuaNQKBQqEzr952rMZ6f0kh4fZ-wW5KRKcAl5R_-mW0MFDIEdzjNWehezBuZKVb1j508ec4AQ33CQKUJ7QBJ6qpAhj8olkW6L0vfqP5yrzyP9sSKUXVYQTsW9-9E7haHezkJ_j3mL22i6rhg/s1028/PANJ.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1028" data-original-width="1015" height="187" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMnFtZKfywgVDYMZ2vdLpgzjlzLQFZFgZ0dcAhyphenhyphensebOYmuuaNQKBQqEzr952rMZ6f0kh4fZ-wW5KRKcAl5R_-mW0MFDIEdzjNWehezBuZKVb1j508ec4AQ33CQKUJ7QBJ6qpAhj8olkW6L0vfqP5yrzyP9sSKUXVYQTsW9-9E7haHezkJ_j3mL22i6rhg/w185-h187/PANJ.jpg" width="185"></a></div>The police officer squinted at me and said, in his best "Sergeant Joe Friday" voice, "I ran your license and there is a New Jersey plate with the same number that was reported stolen." I didn't know how to reply. Obviously <i>my</i> license plate — a blue, yellow and white plate with "PENNSYLVANIA" printed across the top — is not now, nor has it <i>ever</i> been a New Jersey license plate. It does not <i>look</i> like, nor could it be mistaken for a New Jersey license plate. I decided on the best response... and that response was "Oh." <br><br>The officer examined my driver's license and registration for a moment or two before handing them back to me. He said, "Okay. Have a good day, sir." He turned on his heels and walked back to his car. He got in, fired up the ignition and sped away, no doubt on his way to break up a murderous and desperate crime ring in the Greater Pennsauken area. I started my car once he was out of sight. As I continued on my drive to work, I played the whole incident over in my head. My explanation of the lack of a front license plate to an officer of the law in a neighboring state just stuck with me. That is until I <i>re-thought</i> about his nonsensical reason for stopping me in the first place. Look up there. There is a side-by-side comparison of the current Pennsylvania and New Jersey license plates. Can <i>you</i> tell the difference? If you <i>can,</i> perhaps a career in New Jersey law enforcement is not right for you.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">Ever wonder why New Jersey is the butt of so many jokes? Wonder no more.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><i><a href="http://www.joshpincusiscrying.com">www.joshpincusiscrying.com</a></i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br></div><p></p>josh pincus is cryinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09302062659860682118noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1547375569747010454.post-18677187353489947522023-12-17T05:00:00.006-05:002023-12-18T20:17:14.433-05:00jam up and jelly tight<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpXLCa89DMIUc5gzDv6a3VCqs7M7tTn8IfMmXWAALHTCb8VZ3eAEqy1qUVxrA0Q6jNJU1gtmv1DkOH-PJe5iybfpiOsk6MtOV1auSX824Ywhn9FZtNriyTv5zfFHivOY984o1zyDRTU5bKX8PaVgopkI1EoItVPO2IH6jJm_Y_ym4X0uWxdNHCbDfxrSc/s780/intro-1624385758.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="438" data-original-width="780" height="234" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpXLCa89DMIUc5gzDv6a3VCqs7M7tTn8IfMmXWAALHTCb8VZ3eAEqy1qUVxrA0Q6jNJU1gtmv1DkOH-PJe5iybfpiOsk6MtOV1auSX824Ywhn9FZtNriyTv5zfFHivOY984o1zyDRTU5bKX8PaVgopkI1EoItVPO2IH6jJm_Y_ym4X0uWxdNHCbDfxrSc/w416-h234/intro-1624385758.jpg" width="416"></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">By the time you read this, we will be in the throes of Chanukah... probably the seventeenth or eighteenth day by now — I kind of lost track. Chanukah, as you may or may not know, commemorates the... um... the... well, <i>something</i> ancient involving the Jews overcoming some massive obstacle only to come out of it with flying colors and go on to face <i>another</i> obstacle. Or something like that, I'm not a biblical scholar and I make most of this stuff up anyway. Besides, this story isn't a history lesson. it's the story of a particular business in my neighborhood.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjO4joWUPQzdRVSilSSYRE3kesyiQmldt2TPkFLvWPFjFfK-qa-zlg3EDZwbkAmKqKm9VyOac5RZ7ikpAdcIHoiKEfRpx1Cupr0tONckVSEel4HyfUul5TcPMMBAlWq54akkZu6rj0UmT1wkU5hvlxBKLiZY2zhuBQDeZ-zePbCrBLjRpVG7FUDAtis_2Q/s735/092922_Rolings_Bakery_Ellkins_Park.2e16d0ba.fill-735x490.png" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="490" data-original-width="735" height="96" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjO4joWUPQzdRVSilSSYRE3kesyiQmldt2TPkFLvWPFjFfK-qa-zlg3EDZwbkAmKqKm9VyOac5RZ7ikpAdcIHoiKEfRpx1Cupr0tONckVSEel4HyfUul5TcPMMBAlWq54akkZu6rj0UmT1wkU5hvlxBKLiZY2zhuBQDeZ-zePbCrBLjRpVG7FUDAtis_2Q/w144-h96/092922_Rolings_Bakery_Ellkins_Park.2e16d0ba.fill-735x490.png" width="144"></a></div>There's a little bakery around the corner from my house. It's tucked away in an awkward spot, occupying the bottom floor of a block of houses the <i>fronts</i> of which face the street on the opposite side. The bakery looks like the basement access to these houses and, at one time, that may have been the case. But, now, it operates in a tiny space jammed with glass display cases that only allow for one of two customers in the store at a time. There is barely enough room for customers <i>exiting</i> the bakery to pass customers <i>entering</i> the bakery without bumping elbows or — <i>worse!</i> — upsetting wrapped boxes of recently-purchased baked goods.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvB7r5encMOB4mDg-F5ew9XoodOXjHi9tjWt_u8aCT-gCI5Z5WO5ez52QoCLrOTukgxJC3VZ3z6zk_BIUXrsw3jkbCppiOctTYkEOny2hyrrbtO-tAzIPFyv7vjewpxliompIAj7d4dWJ7QZ6L-R6zmeuh-PwoNB9rArYZUF8Z3XHREtPq82xpLqBHYhI/s348/348s.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="348" data-original-width="348" height="233" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvB7r5encMOB4mDg-F5ew9XoodOXjHi9tjWt_u8aCT-gCI5Z5WO5ez52QoCLrOTukgxJC3VZ3z6zk_BIUXrsw3jkbCppiOctTYkEOny2hyrrbtO-tAzIPFyv7vjewpxliompIAj7d4dWJ7QZ6L-R6zmeuh-PwoNB9rArYZUF8Z3XHREtPq82xpLqBHYhI/w233-h233/348s.jpg" width="233"></a></div>Sure, there are other options for baked goods in the area. Several nearby supermarkets have full in-store bakeries whose selling floors are twice — or three times — the size of the little bakery. The main draw of the little bakery is its kosher certification. There is a fairly large Orthodox Jewish population in my neighborhood and a kosher-certified bakery is an integral part of their day-to-day life. The little bakery prepares traditional baked provisions to meet the needs of this specific faction of the community. They bake and sell cookies, and cakes and other assorted pastries. Every Friday morning, the cramped shelves are packed with golden <i>challah</i> breads to be used as the centerpiece for familys' Shabbat dinners. On special holidays, <i>hamantashen</i> and <i>taiglach</i> are prepared to aid in the celebration of Purim and Rosh Hashanah respectively. As tradition dictates, the bakery offers <i>sufganiyot </i>— jelly-filled doughnuts — for the marathon that is Chanukah. As a special treat for my in-laws, Mrs. Pincus stopped by the little bakery to pick up some <i>sufganiyot </i>for her parents' dessert. She even secured a couple for us, as well as a couple of themed and decorated cookies. (I think there were supposed to be menorahs, but I was not fully convinced.)</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">Now, one would think that a small, specialized, neighborhood bakery would be run by a friendly, avuncular, gregarious character greeting customers with a smile and a cheerful demeanor and well as a grateful sentiment for browsers and purchasers alike.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">One would think.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">The guy that owns and operates this little bakery is a belligerent, angry, nasty, condescending jerk who berates his customers and loudly complains about his employees — in front of his employees and his customers. He's the last person you'd imagine as someone would own a bakery. <i>A bakery!</i> A place where cookies and cakes and happiness are sold! </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">Mrs. P entered the bakery on Friday morning. She walked into a tirade from the owner. He stood behind the tiny service counter, blocking the doorway to the working bakery room behind him. He was barking ultimatums to the few customers. As his staff was busily stuffing jelly-filled <i>sufganiyot </i>into boxes, the owner defiantly announced that he would <i>not</i> make jelly doughnuts again until <i>next</i> Chanukah, adding that it's too difficult. My wife asked him, "If someone wished to order 500 jelly doughnuts in July, you wouldn't make them?" He frowned and scowled and growled, "<i>No!</i> No, I wouldn't! They are just for <i>Chanukah!</i>" Mrs. Pincus, who after years of hanging around Josh Pincus, has become something of an instigator, continued to needle the bakery owner. "You make <i>hamantashen </i>throughout the year, not just for Purim." The owner frowned again and grumbled, "That's different!" and he trailed off with no real answer to my wife's question.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">A young lady in an apron appeared with a large tray of cream-filled doughnuts. As she fitted the tray into the glass display case, the owner warned, "The cream-filled doughnuts are only for people who placed orders! If you didn't pre-order them, <i>you can't have them!</i>" He put heavy, threatening emphasis on the end of that statement. Mrs. P eyed the cream filled doughnuts and asked the young lady if all of them were already spoken for. The young lady shot the owner a dismissive "side eye" and asked my wife if she would like one or two. Mrs. P asked for one jelly-filled and one cream-filled. She also requested a half dozen of the questionably-shaped cookies. As Mrs. Pincus paid, the owner continued voicing his displeasure with his business, his employees and the hand that life had dealt him. He waited on a customer and licked his fingers to assist in the opening of a paper bag to fill with baked goods.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">After our dinner that evening, I made a couple of cups of tea for my wife and I. Mrs. P sliced the securing tape on the bakery box to reveal the goodies she had purchased that morning. The box contained two cream-filled doughnuts, not one jelly and one cream as was requested. Cream was smeared along one of the inside walls of the box, a result of a poorly-packed and unevenly-balanced packing job. The cookies were also defaced with excess doughnut cream.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">The doughnuts and the cookies weren't especially good.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">Neither is the bakery owner.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><i><a href="http://www.joshpincusiscrying.com">www.joshpincusiscrying.com</a></i></div><p></p>josh pincus is cryinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09302062659860682118noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1547375569747010454.post-77247780304253202842023-12-10T05:00:00.002-05:002023-12-10T07:37:08.258-05:00hot diggity! dog ziggity! boom what you do to me<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKnzQ3SeyqeoXId5FOT_WGaJqhv-a6SAKAw9FIPAm-pfAadf5Gg3i-RAZ8-YiCEO9ANiRZRibdL7QcAKADUhtzrROTWC70QZWvNnoI3ocqwp-xh2aobgBJTHm17HKFNBqEGkOBm46oe5yXIxR0ZukaP1OyvSbQBloWixcv0esnxif6EzubEuZoMujokpA/s1200/1514099374.0.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="1200" height="284" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKnzQ3SeyqeoXId5FOT_WGaJqhv-a6SAKAw9FIPAm-pfAadf5Gg3i-RAZ8-YiCEO9ANiRZRibdL7QcAKADUhtzrROTWC70QZWvNnoI3ocqwp-xh2aobgBJTHm17HKFNBqEGkOBm46oe5yXIxR0ZukaP1OyvSbQBloWixcv0esnxif6EzubEuZoMujokpA/w427-h284/1514099374.0.jpg" width="427" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">Every July 4th, I park myself in front of my television and watch the Annual Nathan's Hot Dog Eating Contest. Why am I obsessed with this annual summer holiday event? Well....</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">I don't know.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">The contest began in the early 1970s, although a Nathan's marketing promoter named Morty Matz told of an impromptu contest held at the famed Coney Island hot dog stand in 1916. The alleged first contest was held between four men boasting over who was the most patriotic. They decided that eating hot dogs - America's beloved main dish - would prove their love of country. The story went on to claim that the contest was judged by then-popular entertainers Eddie Cantor and Sophie Tucker. However, in 2010, Matz revealed that he had made the whole thing up.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">So, the actual date of the first Nathan's Hot Dog Eating Contest was July 4, 1972. It received little to no fanfare. The following year, a fourteen-year old boy won the contest, but due to a nationwide meat shortage, the gluttonous contest was downplayed and eventually denied by Nathan's that it ever took place.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWAC58Uz4Ki7SqeHhWGwvRUhYsgVzRjX7ACEypDOD3QENZsOaiNzkIxHstIV7nynkqio1rFT9F1FedLw-j9CarHcOsx2bxulPk0jThJPUuaWnbSD32b5Db8JRyD151cbMmkPEZ-8JbURXa-9nHANW30P2OQkcltCX5pvZgT-FvDOa9jrgHywqTb0u04KI/s1296/i.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="729" data-original-width="1296" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWAC58Uz4Ki7SqeHhWGwvRUhYsgVzRjX7ACEypDOD3QENZsOaiNzkIxHstIV7nynkqio1rFT9F1FedLw-j9CarHcOsx2bxulPk0jThJPUuaWnbSD32b5Db8JRyD151cbMmkPEZ-8JbURXa-9nHANW30P2OQkcltCX5pvZgT-FvDOa9jrgHywqTb0u04KI/s320/i.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>But, Nathan's was determined to make this contest a media event, generating interest as well as business. They were successful, with the contest gaining national attention in the mid-1990s. Under the regulating eye (or mouth) of the IFOCE (The International Federation of Competitive Eating), the Nathan's Hot Dog Eating Contest has grown to become the "Super Bowl" of competitive eating events. In the early 2000s, the contest was dominated by Takeru Kobayashi, a cocky, young Japanese citizen who would swoop in on July 4th and down over four dozen hot dogs and buns in 12 minutes. Kobayashi did this for six consecutive years until 2007, when upstart Joey Chestnut consumed an unheard-of 66 frankfurters to unseat Kobayashi. Since then, Chestnut has won the contest handily, out-eating his competition by dozens. In 2021, Chestnut wolfed down a whopping 76 hot dogs and buns in ten minutes to set a still-standing world record. There's even a separate women's competition held just prior to the men's event. In past years, diminutive Sonya Thomas, a sweet young lady who looks like a stiff breeze could knock her over, has eaten 45 red hots to earn the coveted "pink belt" of glory. She has since relinquished her title to up-and-comer Miki Sudo, who holds first place status in other competitive eating events like tamales, buffalo wings and spare ribs.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivTt6GlTeT5MbeClwRkMggebb7_jh8dWpJHUn79zZm1swylNY2_dGUaEpmG4MGBuuNKlAkqrPREhsUO01QJ0wY23szkCoNQBoJVhe5PFlWoD5LPTSuRNzs7yoBvRtmI5FGQ5RODETgt3wDNKLYUSbve2BSJhtioZBvHwTGK8QteKhZ0v5oKmTPj5GT7U8/s275/george%20shea.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="183" data-original-width="275" height="183" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivTt6GlTeT5MbeClwRkMggebb7_jh8dWpJHUn79zZm1swylNY2_dGUaEpmG4MGBuuNKlAkqrPREhsUO01QJ0wY23szkCoNQBoJVhe5PFlWoD5LPTSuRNzs7yoBvRtmI5FGQ5RODETgt3wDNKLYUSbve2BSJhtioZBvHwTGK8QteKhZ0v5oKmTPj5GT7U8/s1600/george%20shea.jpg" width="275" /></a></div>But why.... <i>why?</i> .... am I fascinated by this event? I haven't eaten a meat hot dog in almost twenty years. When I <i>did</i> eat hot dogs, it wasn't more than two or three at one sitting... and certainly <i>not</i> under a time constraint. I think it's the way the contest is presented that I what I enjoy most. First of all, it is broadcast on sports network ESPN as though it is a real sporting event. It draws thousands of spectators who pack the corner of Surf and Stillwell Avenues in Brooklyn's Coney Island to cheer on their favorite eater. The faux pageantry is hosted by the charismatic George Shea, the co-founder of the IFOCE. George is a character, setting the stage for the tongue-in-cheek attitude that contest exhibits. Sporting a straw skimmer, George announces each contestant with a lengthy, often-exaggerated, mostly-nonsensical introduction worthy of a heavyweight boxer or a Greek god. Once the competition begins, he offers play-by-play that rivals Monday Night Football and sometimes sounds like the narrative of a Dr. Seuss book.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8Fu6xaqxe1nBg9bSmLODnlcyF531mBlUDip7HbsBDMLtOxhtzivR6sPOKMf-jTIcTCGC910YWQDEPxCMgADNVFPJKV-DuhhNgcTlYv6KWz5eU639I6ZJHxkZQcg3o3m7kIBdT9Oqtmwjyb4kKIfD8KVK1qwzIf4tiuqfqmNwXJsDSwSFBL-U6nXTmxzg/s290/images.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="174" data-original-width="290" height="97" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8Fu6xaqxe1nBg9bSmLODnlcyF531mBlUDip7HbsBDMLtOxhtzivR6sPOKMf-jTIcTCGC910YWQDEPxCMgADNVFPJKV-DuhhNgcTlYv6KWz5eU639I6ZJHxkZQcg3o3m7kIBdT9Oqtmwjyb4kKIfD8KVK1qwzIf4tiuqfqmNwXJsDSwSFBL-U6nXTmxzg/w161-h97/images.jpg" width="161" /></a></div>The competition itself is downright disgusting. Hand-held cameras provide close-up coverage of every bite, gulp, teeth gnash and swallow. Participants are permitted to dunk the hot dog buns into their choice of liquid (usually water of lemonade). This provides added splashes and sloshes that heightens the excitement. The visuals are so "in your face" that the camera lenses are often splattered with bits of hot dog buns, specks of meat and even a little sweat. Not only do you feel as though you have a front row seat, you actually get a "hot dog's-eye-view" of the action. It's frenzied and fun and — in a word — <i>barbaric</i>. The whole thing plays out like a modern take on the Christians being fed to the lions (with the Christians being hot dogs, in this case).</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">So every July 4th, while folks are enjoying a day off from work, a family get-together, a backyard barbeque, or perhaps a day at the beach, I can be found gazing at my television at high noon, watching a bunch of guys prove their self-worth by jamming dozens of hot dog into their gullets for a shot at a few minutes of fame and glory... all while trying not to choke to death.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">What better way is there to celebrate America?</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><a href="http://www.joshpincusiscrying.com"><i>www.joshpincusiscrying.com</i></a></div>josh pincus is cryinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09302062659860682118noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1547375569747010454.post-26285910513452843062023-12-03T05:00:00.003-05:002023-12-03T09:18:26.520-05:00get it right the first time<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisgpu_PmIIyxKcP02opnxfQfC0CWCirlTLDx7eRxe-T00pl_pJ6goLbwlo_rlyr31JHpKRpkOvU6zXQor4MrvZmlZ4ZuyY4eo-KPOK28hxzptsoWdI68_A_ZCvyGZInGtx7k9I0MH_i70D5E4j5aYavD7-aq9nZJJ9on3ACMVGMx7FEhw-orFCRe3BXCQ/s380/IMG_6724.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="183" data-original-width="380" height="195" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisgpu_PmIIyxKcP02opnxfQfC0CWCirlTLDx7eRxe-T00pl_pJ6goLbwlo_rlyr31JHpKRpkOvU6zXQor4MrvZmlZ4ZuyY4eo-KPOK28hxzptsoWdI68_A_ZCvyGZInGtx7k9I0MH_i70D5E4j5aYavD7-aq9nZJJ9on3ACMVGMx7FEhw-orFCRe3BXCQ/w405-h195/IMG_6724.jpg" width="405"></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;">I recently wrote a story about an age-old incident that has been lingering over my family for years… <i>actually decades.</i> The details of the story – as I recall – have been hotly debated by my brother and me. Since we are the two survivors of the story in question, that debate shows no signs of being resolved. The other two main characters in the story – my mother and my father – have since passed away, so, in the waning years, this tale has been reduced to a “he said-he said” among siblings. Not wanting to stir up an argument with my brother, I have been very careful not to bring up this incident in his presence, as my version of the story differs greatly from his. So, I have told my take to my family over the years and – with no other account for reference – that’s the version they have come to know and believe. I published this story on <i>It’s Been a Slice</i>, with the comforting understanding that my brother <i>never</i> reads my blog. He has better, more productive, things to do than read about my antics in cemeteries and my overblown analysis of <i>The Partridge Family.</i> Knowing that my brother wouldn’t see my “official” published narrative of the notorious Pincus Family “cake-dropping” incident, I was free to make my version <b><i>the</i></b> version among the handful of followers who read (and inexplicably look forward to) my posts every Sunday morning. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;"><br></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;">I was wrong. And it turns out, I was wrong about a lot of things. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;"><br></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVk-yCC805ErrBr51FdkVl06Xxv06XefcNyeOKVtyJ19G_MsORFl5vZFF0luyrbG0G2OutCWsfMWB3_Ake6LteqTKrB4OU8AhRgWjD2_mxuO5mmm3-OVIo6IhMY4th5M21jBSYtUDdXPwY8feE87rt1brSZ5QGg9s810432NTdhfTf5W52Ab7aMSoqK08/s576/121613899_10158871674237803_3481834228740215769_n.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="576" data-original-width="432" height="274" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVk-yCC805ErrBr51FdkVl06Xxv06XefcNyeOKVtyJ19G_MsORFl5vZFF0luyrbG0G2OutCWsfMWB3_Ake6LteqTKrB4OU8AhRgWjD2_mxuO5mmm3-OVIo6IhMY4th5M21jBSYtUDdXPwY8feE87rt1brSZ5QGg9s810432NTdhfTf5W52Ab7aMSoqK08/w205-h274/121613899_10158871674237803_3481834228740215769_n.jpg" width="205"></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>The pre-disagreement <br>Pincus Boys</i></td></tr></tbody></table>My brother Max, four years my senior, has been enjoying the life of a retiree. He goes to the gym. He reads. He plays card with other retirees. And every once in a while, he casually peruses Facebook. Last Sunday, while wading through the political posts, speculation on the Eagles’ chances of taking the Super Bowl and notifications of the birthday of a long-forgotten co-worker, my brother came upon a photograph that piqued his interest. It was the stock image of a smashed cake that I used to accompany my story of the afore-mentioned incident. Seeing my name associated with the picture, he figured I must have written about "the incident." <br></span><span style="text-align: left;"><br>So, with plenty of time on his hands, my brother clicked on the link, arrived at my blog and read my most recent entry. <br></span><span style="text-align: left;"><br>I don’t think he was </span><i style="text-align: left;">angry</i><span style="text-align: left;">. I think he was more </span><i style="text-align: left;">confused, </i><span style="text-align: left;">if anything</span><i style="text-align: left;">.</i><span style="text-align: left;"> You see, </span><i style="text-align: left;">he</i><span style="text-align: left;"> never thought there was any sort of disagreement over how the events played out. As far as </span><i style="text-align: left;">he</i><span style="text-align: left;"> knew, the story happened one way – the way </span><i style="text-align: left;">he</i><span style="text-align: left;"> remembered it. He never knew that </span><i style="text-align: left;">I</i><span style="text-align: left;"> had a </span><i style="text-align: left;">completely different</i><span style="text-align: left;"> memory of the incident and that I had been telling </span><i style="text-align: left;">my version</i><span style="text-align: left;"> for years. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;"><br></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;">Well, Max was about to take matters into his own hands and set the record – <i>and his brother </i>– straight. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;"><br></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;">As the time stamp confirms, I published the post on my blog bright and early on Sunday morning. 5:00 o’clock AM, to be exact. Somewhere around lunchtime, I received an alert that a comment had been left on my blog by one “Max Pincus.” I held my breath and thought: “I can’t believe he read my blog. He never reads my blog!” Admittedly, there were a few stray butterflies doing loop-de-loops in my stomach as I began to read my brother’s rebuttal. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;"><br></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;">Here is Max’s statement. Read along with me… </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;"></span></div><blockquote><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;">Your blog certainly is amusing. Unfortunately, it also happens to be inaccurate. Here is what actually happened... </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;"><br></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;">I was asked to pick up a birthday cake, although I do not recall whose birthday was being celebrated. Once I got the cake, I returned home in my white 1963 Buick LeSabre, which cost me $325 and got about eight miles per gallon. As always, I parked on the street directly in front of the house. I got out of the car with the cake, took a few steps and somehow dropped the damn cake in the street. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;"><br></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;">My mother -- NOT my father -- saw me park the car in from the of house and was on her way outside to greet me. When she saw what I had done, she pretty much lost her mind. She bounded across the lawn to confront me and began screaming -- in a loud enough voice to attract the attention of several neighbors (who gladly will confirm my version of the story) -- "How do you drop a cake? How is that possible that you dropped the cake?" She bent down and picked up the smushed cake out of the street, then began pushing it into my arms, all the while yelling, "Show me how you drop a cake. I wanna see how you dropped the cake." As I made my way into the house, Mom was following close behind, loudly requesting a demonstration of how I managed to drop the cake. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;"><br></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;">Fortunately, for the sake of everyone's sanity, my mother was laughing about the incident before she went to sleep that night.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;"><br></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;">One final note: The notion that my father, who I do not recall being present when I lost my grip on the cake, "knelt down and awkwardly gathered up the cake box in his hands" is absurd. I never saw him clean up a mess of any kind, regardless of the circumstances. Ever. </span></div></blockquote><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;"></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;">I’ll tell you this. He makes a darn good argument. </span><i style="text-align: left;">Darn good!</i><span style="text-align: left;"> With the finesse of a seasoned attorney (he is not), Max presents a detailed description, complete with specific bits of information and precise chronology. He even cites possible witnesses who could corroborate his story if, say, this thing went to trial. Honestly, if it </span><i style="text-align: left;">did </i><span style="text-align: left;">go to trial, I might be brought up on charges of perjury. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;"><br></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;">We agree that a birthday cake was purchased, although neither of us recall who was the honoree. We also agree that said cake was indeed dropped and that Max was indeed the party responsible for the cake’s unfortunate date with gravity. After that, our stories split and split wildly. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;"><br></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;">I will say, however, that Max’s story does make a lot of sense. I can absolutely envision my mother’s behavior as my brother describes – at first furious and then jovial as time pacified her anger. I also wholeheartedly agree that my father would never <i>ever</i> make any sort of attempt at cleaning <i>anything</i> up. <i>Ever. </i>That was <i>women’s</i>’ work and it would cut into his cigarette smoking time. Max also elaborated on the subsequent reaction of a neighbor. I could picture that happening, too. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;"><br></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;">One of my mother’s favorite adages was: “The six most important words you could ever say were – I admit I made a mistake.” My mother was a very smart person. I will happily – <i>and humbly</i> – repeat those words with respect to my brother. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;"><br></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;">Hey, I'm sure I’ve been right about <i>other</i> things. I guess.
</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;"><a href="goog_305540638"><i><br></i></a></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;"><a href="http://www.joshpincusiscrying.com"><i>www.joshpincusiscrying.com</i></a></span></div><p></p>josh pincus is cryinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09302062659860682118noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1547375569747010454.post-66415653469665999222023-11-26T05:00:00.001-05:002023-11-26T08:30:06.047-05:00yes, I remember it well<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkfZzG24kfEF948LLvVG2GFM-LXWi_sT8f7Zl8d40EiFT-1fLc5jfDtg9lSQKLOVw5qtV6sibsw359O7-xN2dt6T6BwW4yrfWpf7oMn5pYtSICEwjaPTX_3F6zKZ0H3iLJWKxupAl521luXdSfSI5vAVikEA8kjwlqCswKKZjTRKP9mdAHcR4CfvVRQgs/s958/IMG_2210-t2hve7rnll_v_1512714993.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="678" data-original-width="958" height="309" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkfZzG24kfEF948LLvVG2GFM-LXWi_sT8f7Zl8d40EiFT-1fLc5jfDtg9lSQKLOVw5qtV6sibsw359O7-xN2dt6T6BwW4yrfWpf7oMn5pYtSICEwjaPTX_3F6zKZ0H3iLJWKxupAl521luXdSfSI5vAVikEA8kjwlqCswKKZjTRKP9mdAHcR4CfvVRQgs/w437-h309/IMG_2210-t2hve7rnll_v_1512714993.jpg" width="437" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">When my mom died in 1991, she took the entire family history with her.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">Every family has an unofficial family historian. You know, that <i>one</i> person you can go to and ask <i>any</i> question about <i>any</i> family member for whom you need a little bit of information or possible clarification. <i>How are you related to this person? Who's child is this and when did they get married? Is that guy we call "uncle" really my uncle? </i>For as long as I can remember, my mom was that person. She was the keeper of the Small family (her maiden name) history and she eventually served in the same capacity for the Pincus family when she married my father. (Curiously, there was <i>no one</i> in my father's family that could be relied upon to give an accurate account of family relations. My father's family all shared one common trait. They were habitual liars.)</div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTzPIvMNef3hFxe9y9IXBAf830sDeKlz3J0iKTzELVNyvL72FNOGG4ceD_mTw9PyqF1BjNGKzBKUslndBa_oUSts9whH53hR-qFb3CGlPnKNVydYPG-eSUFVLpYrGlHPTSTIvMoq71PWLbc8441B5aVQS_34BLSeW2pTfBvCyRHnF6iwJzu3WZGijv0tI/s531/105899084_10158560632012803_4149048953750405917_n.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="531" data-original-width="531" height="161" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTzPIvMNef3hFxe9y9IXBAf830sDeKlz3J0iKTzELVNyvL72FNOGG4ceD_mTw9PyqF1BjNGKzBKUslndBa_oUSts9whH53hR-qFb3CGlPnKNVydYPG-eSUFVLpYrGlHPTSTIvMoq71PWLbc8441B5aVQS_34BLSeW2pTfBvCyRHnF6iwJzu3WZGijv0tI/w161-h161/105899084_10158560632012803_4149048953750405917_n.jpg" width="161" /></a></div>My mom knew facts about generations that pre-dated her own 1923 birth. She could rattle off names, dates, locations, offspring, offspring's <i>spouses</i> and countless children — some of whom she never even met. Right off the top of her head, she could tell of long-forgotten incidents, including explicit detail, as though they had just taken place the day before. She could sift through a box of mismatched photographs — ones spanning numerous time frames as exhibited by an assortment of black & white and color examples — and identify the subjects, the location and the approximate date on which the photo was taken.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">My mom was the youngest of five siblings — her oldest brother being eighteen years her senior. I recall my mom settling many an argument among her siblings. The phone in our house would ring regularly as a brother or a sister would call to confirm with my mom which one of their uncles owned a produce pushcart or which aunt was especially promiscuous. My mom always had the answer. "Call Doris! She'll know!" was a phase that was spoken frequently among the Small clan and eventually the lying Pincuses came to rely on my mother's encyclopedic knowledge.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">In October 1991, after a long, up-and-down battle with cancer, my mom died and left her family in a state of confusion. Not only was she beloved among her immediate and extended family, but she one of the few family members (on <i>both</i> sides) that nobody had an issue with. She was always helpful and pleasant and funny. And when she died, family history began to rewrite itself. Surviving family members were left to piece together their vague, mostly inaccurate memories. This left the Smalls and Pincuses with a legacy that resembled a poorly-sewn patchwork quilt.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">There is one story that I really wish my mom were here to set the record straight. It's a story that has become a "bone of contention" between by brother Max and I. Max, as is the way of <i>most</i> big brothers, is always right. This story has been discussed many times since my mother's passing and the way <i>I</i> remember it and the way <i>Max</i> remembers it couldn't be more different. It's as though it isn't even an account of the <i>same</i> incident. Personally, I am fuzzy on the exact time frame. I don't remember <i>exactly</i> how old I was when it happened. But I <i>do</i> know that the way <i>Max</i> tells it is <i>not</i> the way it happened. The way I remember it was....</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">My mother had purchased a cake for an upcoming birthday — maybe mine, maybe my brother's. I don't remember who would be the eventual recipient. The cake was in a bakery box on the second shelf down in our over-stuffed refrigerator. (I always remember our family's refrigerator being packed so tightly that items needed to be constantly rearranged in order to accommodate new purchases from the supermarket or even a plastic container of leftovers. How my mom managed to find space to fit a <i>bakery box</i> in that frigid Tetris game remains a mystery..... but, I digress....)</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">The box containing the cake had the string that secured the lid removed and it sat on the shelf with the lid just loosely protecting the pasty within. As was typical for the Pincus family, I sat with my mom and dad in our den, watching television — most likely a program of my father's choosing. My brother was not with us. He was upstairs in his room doing whatever it was that he did up there. At some point, he came downstairs and visited the kitchen, perhaps for a snack or a beverage or both. From the den — adjacent to the kitchen in our small Northeast Philadelphia house — we could hear the refrigerator door open followed by my brother clinking bottles and moving covered dishes in an effort to see what sort of after-dinner nibbles were available. Suddenly, we heard a noise — a sort of a <i>bang! </i>— followed by my brother angrily muttering <i>"OH!"</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: justify;">My mom, my dad and I scrambled into the kitchen to find my brother standing in front of the refrigerator. The door was open. At his feet was the cake box. It was upside-down and its visible contents were smashed on the kitchen floor — a scattering of crumbs and icing in a small, misshapen arrangement on the linoleum. We all stood silently for a few moments staring at the unexpected scene that surrounded my brother's feet. Finally, my father spoke. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">"What the hell happened?" he bellowed, gesturing with his omnipresent cigarette towards the destroyed baked good strewn across the Pincus kitchen floor.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">My brother, with not a lick of fear in his voice, plainly stated, "I dropped the cake."</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">My father was positively dumbfounded. <i>Dumfounded!</i> He jammed his cigarette into his mouth, knelt down and awkwardly gathered up the cake box in his hands. He frowned and spat, <i>"How do you drop a cake?"</i> He repeated this like a mantra several more times, until he forcefully shoved the unwieldy mess into my brother's hands and screamed — <i>demanded!</i> — "Show me how you drop a cake!"</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">The words sounded downright stupid coming out of my father's mouth. It was one of those things where your anger is so out of control and over-the top, that your mind can't form coherent sentences to express the serious tone of the situation. My mom and I stifled our laughter knowing it would have made my mad father even madder. My always-defiant brother, however, just rolled his eyes as he accepted the dented cardboard box from my father. He placed it on the kitchen table. Of <i>course,</i> he wasn't about to demonstrate the procedure of dropping a cake for my father. This was a one-time performance. Max just stood by quietly and waited for my father's tirade to wind down. Finally, my father let out an annoyed exhale, lit another cigarette and retired to the den, shaking his head muttering about dropping a cake.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">My brother returned to his room with a couple of slices of cheese from the refrigerator.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">And that's the story. For years — <i>years!</i> — the phrase "Show me how you drop a cake!" — was repeated in the Pincus household for comedic effect. My son, whose birth came <i>decades</i> after the notorious "cake-dropping" incident, has made use of the phrase from time to time. It's a funny story with all the elements you'd expect in a funny story — a silly accident, an over-reaction from my father, my brother standing his ground and my mom and I hiding our amusement.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">My brother, however, remembers the event completely different — right down to the action taking place on the sidewalk in <i>front </i>of our house instead of in the <i>kitchen</i>. Because of this, the story is never <i>ever</i> told in my brother's company.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">He may have to start a blog of his own.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><a href="http://www.joshpincusiscrying.com"><i>www.joshpincusiscrying.com</i></a></div><p></p>josh pincus is cryinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09302062659860682118noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1547375569747010454.post-20371595377820126832023-11-19T05:00:00.005-05:002023-11-19T10:18:54.785-05:00gimme a head with hair<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrYKJ-Ad3_yqtc7TNJRpmmhFT-hPDvzNVW6u_emm2HFmWtKTvUgDLyUgFKCampMuzjufYapWCN3az8EJ3RmdOlWjKhaHZYAj8vf0mQXdCeo52Rau3X14TAPOU1KsVR5fRz2oHeVxpEMNPL92r7ZKMGeo_hT0vO_uNNxb-ZBV9MvHohqE0_tUHOmBcmIr8/s1358/20231112_091146.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1358" height="220" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrYKJ-Ad3_yqtc7TNJRpmmhFT-hPDvzNVW6u_emm2HFmWtKTvUgDLyUgFKCampMuzjufYapWCN3az8EJ3RmdOlWjKhaHZYAj8vf0mQXdCeo52Rau3X14TAPOU1KsVR5fRz2oHeVxpEMNPL92r7ZKMGeo_hT0vO_uNNxb-ZBV9MvHohqE0_tUHOmBcmIr8/w389-h220/20231112_091146.jpg" width="389"></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">On Sunday afternoon, I was at the supermarket to pick up a few things. I needed a head of lettuce, a bag of radishes, a cucumber. (Not for me, for Mrs. Pincus. I don't eat cucumbers in their <i>natural</i> form, Once they are turned into pickles, though... I'm right there!) I added a few more items to my cart before heading to the check-out line.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">I queued up behind a couple who had loaded up the conveyor belt with their afternoon's grocery order. I grabbed a plastic divider, placed it behind the last item in their order and began to transfer my selections from my cart to the conveyer belt. In my peripheral vision, I saw a man take his place behind my cart. I continued my task and — in typical Josh Pincus fashion — ignored everything that was going on around me.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">Then I heard the man behind me say.... <i>something.</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br></div><div style="text-align: justify;">In these days of cellphones and Bluetooth and wireless earbuds, one can never tell <i>who</i> someone is speaking to. I have seen folks have lengthy conversations <span style="text-align: justify;">— </span>complete with flailing arms and expressive hand gestures <span style="text-align: justify;">— with unseen recipients of these animated diatribes. From a distance of even a few feet, they appear to be performing some sort of pantomime skit or perhaps an interpretive dance. With this in mind, I usually assume that a stranger speaking in my general direction is having a phone conversation and <i>not</i> addressing me. That's what I assumed regarding the man behind me in the supermarket check-out line. However, I unconsciously glanced up while leaning over the top of my cart and looked directly at him.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: justify;"><br></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: justify;">He smiled at me and said, "I like your hair."</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: justify;"><br></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Admittedly, I was taken off-guard and I felt myself involuntarily smiling. Then, I emitted a little laugh. He smiled even more broadly and added, "You certainly have more that I do!" He pointed to the top of his own head — shiny and bald. I nodded and laughed again.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br></div><div style="text-align: justify;">It had been a very, very long time since any stranger had paid me a compliment about my physical appearance. For many years, I colored my hair a striking, yet decidedly unnatural, red. This chosen shade became something of a "trademark" among those who knew me personally. It also served as a point of focus for strangers. I regularly received comments about my hair and its unusual hue — in restaurants, in stores, on vacation, even while just walking down the street. However, after a dozen or so years and the onslaught of inevitable hair loss, I stopped coloring my hair and let it grow into its natural gray. With each subsequent haircut, more and more of my forehead became less and less hirsute. The nice woman who cuts my hair would hand me a mirror with which to view the back of my head and assess the results of her adept scissor work. With every new haircut, the bare spot on the back of my head grew bigger and bigger and barer and barer. She always comments that my hair grows so fast, but I know she's just being nice or, perhaps, looking for a bigger tip.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br></div><div style="text-align: justify;">So, no matter <i>what</i> the guy behind me in the check-out line said, there is <i>no way</i> that he — or <i>anyone</i> — genuinely <i>"likes my hair"</i>... at least not at <i>this</i> juncture of my life.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Or.... maybe....<i> maybe...</i> he <i>really</i> liked my hair.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br></div><div style="text-align: justify;">After I paid for my groceries, but before I made my way towards the exit, I turned to the man behind me in the check-out line and said, "<i>You</i>... have a good day!," with emphasis on<i> "you."</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i><br></i></div><div style="text-align: justify;">When I got home, I related this story to Mrs. Pincus and that four-word phrase — "I like your hair" — officially entered our daily conversations, joining such stalwarts as "How was your day?" and "What should we have for dinner?"</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><a href="http://www.joshpincusiscrying.com"><i>www.joshpincusiscrying.com</i></a></div><p></p>josh pincus is cryinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09302062659860682118noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1547375569747010454.post-40539446717437643222023-11-12T05:00:00.013-05:002023-11-12T21:06:07.916-05:00wind of change<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJSB9QPqPj1dmIwnmOn8wD5ZFElrMGcjTYSpGzKEQ7XuaG4pD4suEsuGDT5B23a2X8NIyHLIEPcz05IQUdujANtF7pX1Gm3ag4akd0MVCIdy_oaM8m-LaTnC-DYAjniWJKh6pi3fydmV-MS4do-qmerVET1bF-0IO3dV2bI0rDq_wizjS1XBAsLIcc0GY/s746/5ecea1b83f5cbb81a027bc65_no%20change.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="556" data-original-width="746" height="263" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJSB9QPqPj1dmIwnmOn8wD5ZFElrMGcjTYSpGzKEQ7XuaG4pD4suEsuGDT5B23a2X8NIyHLIEPcz05IQUdujANtF7pX1Gm3ag4akd0MVCIdy_oaM8m-LaTnC-DYAjniWJKh6pi3fydmV-MS4do-qmerVET1bF-0IO3dV2bI0rDq_wizjS1XBAsLIcc0GY/w354-h263/5ecea1b83f5cbb81a027bc65_no%20change.jpg" width="354"></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">After mulling over my future options, I entered art school in the Fall of 1980. I had graduated from high school over a year earlier. Although I had expressed interest in drawing at a very young age, I couldn't imagine making it a career. (Forty years later, I <i>still</i> can't believe I made it a career.) I worked in retail for a year while I decided what to do with the rest of my life. I was terrible at math, so that eliminated a lot of possibilities. I wasn't mechanically-inclined, so that eliminated even more. With my choices narrowing, I resigned myself to the pursuit of a rewarding career (?) in the field of commercial art.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">Following Labor day 1980, I joined a small group of other budding artists as part of the freshman class at the renowned Hussian School of Art (Well.... "renowned" in Philadelphia, anyway. Well.... <i>sort</i> of renowned.) I met and eventually formed friendships with a majority of my classmates. Just like any school or other inter-personal situation, I didn't get along with everyone. There was one guy in particular who was.... what's the word?.... oh yeah.... an<i> asshole</i>. He was a sullen, angry, insulting, belligerent jerk. He openly criticized his colleagues' work, whether or not his opinion was requested. (It was not.) He sat in class with arms folded tightly against his chest, head down, surveying his surroundings through strands of greasy hair that hung limply over his forehead, dipping into his line of vision. Mostly he would mutter to himself, huffing a "this sucks" or "you blow" under his breath. Every so often, he would raise his voice to make sure <i>everyone</i> was apprised of his negative opinion. "Sucks!," he'd spew and punctuate his statement by tossing a crumpled piece of paper at the artist whose work was being <i>actually</i> critiqued by the class instructor. Between classes, this guy would walk the halls and deliberately bump into people with the grace and finesse of a hockey defenseman. He'd offer his favorite, all-purpose, all-encompassing "pet name" to any and all that crossed his path. "Shit stain" he'd call them.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">This behavior continued for the entire four years that I was a student. It never let up for one minute. After graduation, I figured I never see this guy again.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">Nearly a decade into the 21st Century, an effort was made by some of my art-school classmates for an extremely informal twenty-fifth anniversary class reunion. Plans were made to meet at one of our old haunts — a small Irish pub in one of Philadelphia's narrow alleys. In our younger, more rambunctious days, many a Hussian student downed many an alcoholic beverage at this establishment, so it was the <i>perfect </i>venue. (Although I no longer drink alcohol, I myself ended up on the floor of this pub more times that I'd care to admit.) When the designated date rolled around, I hopped a train from my suburban home. I headed for the tiny bar with the hopes of reconvening and reminiscing with classmates and friends I had not seen in a quarter of a century. Many things had changed in that time. I was married for twenty-five years, having tied the knot just two months after my graduation from art school. I had a son that was about to turn 22. I was working in the marketing department of a large law firm in Philadelphia. I was genuinely anxious to see the paths my various classmates' lives had taken.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">I arrived and entered the bar through the familiar heavy wooden doors. In the dim light, I immediately recognized some faces that had strangely <i>not changed</i> in twenty-five years. Sure, there were plenty of folks who I did <i>not</i> recognize, but after some awkward guessing I was able to make identification. As for <i>my</i> appearance, at the time, I had been coloring my hair a vibrant and decidedly unnatural red-orange, so I was subjected to a certain amount of scrutiny by those who knew me with mousy brown locks. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">The conversation was lively. I honestly dread events like this (I haven't attended a high school reunion since my <i>first</i> one — a five year milestone), but I was really glad I came. I talked with people who had not entered my thoughts for years... and it was very nice. During the course of the afternoon, a fellow approached me whom I did not recognize. He knew me, though. The first thing he did was offer an apology. As he spoke, hanging his head and expressing regret over his past actions, I realized who he was. It was my belligerent asshole classmate. He looked totally different, but once he began talking, it all came back to me. He acknowledged his poor behavior and asked for forgiveness for his less-than-amiable personality. He explained that he had grown as a person and turned himself around as his life progressed. He never pursued a career in art, but found a satisfying and rewarding vocation elsewhere. I shook hands with this former asshole. I had never shaken hands with him before.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">As I became more active on social media, I have reconnected with a number of people with whom I attended art school. I see their vacation activities and their acquisitions of new pets and sad passings beloved ones. I see what they've eaten for breakfast. I've seen the marriages of their children and births of their grandchildren. I have received comments on my various silly posts and welcomed well-wishes on my birthday. Somewhere along the way, I reconnected with my asshole classmate. He has made comments here and there, although Facebook activity does not appear to be a priority in his life. Recently, however, he has made a few comments that harken back to his art school days, each one dripping with the same venomous loathing once so prevalent in those early 80s classrooms. Several consecutive comments — on <i>different</i> posts relating to <i>different </i>topics — <i>smacked</i> of that dismissive "you blow" and "this sucks" that I remember hearing an apology for.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">What's that they say about old dogs, new tricks and a leopard's spots never changing?</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><a href="http://www.joshpincusiscrying.com"><i>www.joshpincusiscrying.com</i></a></div><p></p>josh pincus is cryinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09302062659860682118noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1547375569747010454.post-11184636185723904092023-11-05T05:00:00.005-05:002023-11-06T13:15:04.333-05:00come to me for service<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0FIIMsEnw0Va7nr69qsAu1-YhnxypRbqWvCvila2XTgPfJzkT6E99MVhNF2w11pkVxTkoKrnt1Kuwhv2KwVZK9r1RTvySdgTCt77DzARRe_TBQywK-tJ6hKSk0v56HQ6oREQrcuL2jycrehkBDAUlx5I4q5U8krcr9j3rxBa1TC_7U0imvva3aH53dZ8/s576/20231029_072153.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="408" data-original-width="576" height="261" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0FIIMsEnw0Va7nr69qsAu1-YhnxypRbqWvCvila2XTgPfJzkT6E99MVhNF2w11pkVxTkoKrnt1Kuwhv2KwVZK9r1RTvySdgTCt77DzARRe_TBQywK-tJ6hKSk0v56HQ6oREQrcuL2jycrehkBDAUlx5I4q5U8krcr9j3rxBa1TC_7U0imvva3aH53dZ8/w368-h261/20231029_072153.jpg" width="368"></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">I bought a <a href="https://beenaslice.blogspot.com/2023/06/whats-new.html" target="_blank">new car </a>this past May. I am enjoying driving around in a car that isn't 20 years old, not worrying about that new strange noise that I didn't hear <i>yesterday</i> and how much it's going to cost to make that new strange noise stop. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOiGNN9yoQzLS0ykHBE1NlSiRgv7vwH55pR5svjdlWq0Kjsp9VuCCAY4kWNw9ozjOgHr9qs_4gc7F-xZ8r01DRgYUM-B-FfkLcyNnuWtT7EtD3p4uU4qrtnSLGLnbTauYq8PHcse-BwdBiyM2yI9nTZGHtD22o5pFa3Y98r2BSv4Hx0zUgTzwmNmp7mXA/s2100/d7761735-b1a4-468b-b178-023322034e3e.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1140" data-original-width="2100" height="144" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOiGNN9yoQzLS0ykHBE1NlSiRgv7vwH55pR5svjdlWq0Kjsp9VuCCAY4kWNw9ozjOgHr9qs_4gc7F-xZ8r01DRgYUM-B-FfkLcyNnuWtT7EtD3p4uU4qrtnSLGLnbTauYq8PHcse-BwdBiyM2yI9nTZGHtD22o5pFa3Y98r2BSv4Hx0zUgTzwmNmp7mXA/w266-h144/d7761735-b1a4-468b-b178-023322034e3e.jpg" width="266"></a></div>A week or so ago, I came home from work to find that I had received a Safety Recall Notice from Subaru Corporate Headquarters. This recall includes my five-month old Subaru Crosstrek. Receiving a recall notice is the equivalent of your car being selected for jury duty. First off, it's an inconvenience. A day off from work has to be scheduled. A day sitting in the waiting room at the service area of a car dealership isn't most folks idea of a productive day. Personally, I dread the thought as <i>well</i> as the actual experience. (Same goes for jury duty.)</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">Following the instructions in the recall notice, I called the dealership at which I purchased my car. Once connected with the service department, I explained about the notice and the fellow on the other end of the phone asked "The wire harness recall, <i>right?</i>"</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><i>"Is there </i>another<i> recall?" I thought. What the fuck? What kind of bomb-lemon-reject did Subaru sell me?</i> Instead, I just replied in the affirmative. "Yes," I said, "the wire harness recall." I briefly scanned the recall notice before making the call to schedule a service appointment. It seemed that a manufacturing flaw was detected and a plastic wire harness that sits atop the steering column could melt, thus short-circuiting the car's electrical system. The text explained that an inspection of my car would alleviate the problem, if caught in time. If left unattended, it <i>could</i> involve an all-day repair. None of this, however would incur any cost to me.... except for my time. I scheduled an appointment for a Saturday morning and told the service tech that I would prefer to wait during the inspection. He assured me it would take approximately forty-five minutes. The anxiety that accompanies waiting at a car dealership began.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWH62EINhcU7fhr1iHMV47Dtv1zky_skaECJveI5zoUPPZKNS_r7KN0iZtCU_J2l8tpIlTtFucmmiJOxyS0UMCvRmo4OpSOCr1fxxOxPDWNzeARsJ2iUx0BauQ2oSXNdUA3NTW9_bopa5T4beIK9cHrqHkW3lnK6LvHDzLXMMy2ci6So9en4zzu2rhorE/s679/consuelo.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="279" data-original-width="679" height="131" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWH62EINhcU7fhr1iHMV47Dtv1zky_skaECJveI5zoUPPZKNS_r7KN0iZtCU_J2l8tpIlTtFucmmiJOxyS0UMCvRmo4OpSOCr1fxxOxPDWNzeARsJ2iUx0BauQ2oSXNdUA3NTW9_bopa5T4beIK9cHrqHkW3lnK6LvHDzLXMMy2ci6So9en4zzu2rhorE/s320/consuelo.jpg" width="320"></a></div>A few days before my service, my friend Consuelo posted an account of a very positive experience with a Subaru dealer. Consuelo has a Crosstrek a few years older than mine. There was an issue with one of the car's tires. She took it to a Subaru dealer, not the one from which she purchased the car. The mechanic sent a video record, showing the repair. She was treated with respect. The service was efficient. The whole experience reinforced the "family" reputation that made me want to purchase a Subaru in the first place. My nerves were put at ease and I no longer had that sense of trepidation about my upcoming appointment.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">Saturday rolled around. I had an earlier appointment for a haircut, but would have plenty of time to make it to the Subaru dealership in time for my recall inspection. I had only been to this dealership three times - once to buy my car. Once to pick up my new car and take possession of it and once more to have a little orientation about the sophisticated on-onboard computer system that controlled everything in the car. I was not familiar with the process of showing up for car service. I pulled into the dealership parking lot and parked in the customer parking lot. I walked in to the building and was greeted by a smiling young lady at the reception desk. "Hi," she beamed, "Welcome to Subaru! How can I help you?" Her smile took up most of her face. This was encouraging. I explained about the recall notice and that I had never been here for service. She stood up from behind the desk and escorted me across the lobby to the service department. This was <i>also</i> encouraging. She pointed to a space near the service counter and told me someone would be with me shortly.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">So, I waited. And waited. And waited. And waited. While I waited, I was ignored by every blue-topped, beige-pantsed employee that walked by. And there were a lot of them.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">As I waited, I watched one young man behind the service counter tapping away at a keyboard as he conversed with a worried-looking woman. There were two other customers ahead of me, anxious to step up once the worried woman's issue was satisfied. The keyboard-tapping man left his post and returned several times, leaving the worried-looking woman to grow even more concerned. Once, he passed me and mumbled: "M'll bewithyoo mint." with I deciphered to mean "I'll be with you in a minute." He wasn't. My initial feeling of encouragement was waning.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">I watched as more and more people entered the service area through a set of automatic doors that separated the service desk from the <i>actual</i> area where cars were queued up for there various services. Each of the folks who came to the service area were greeted by an employee and asked to take a place at the counter. I stood and watched like an outsider. An invisible outsider. More men and women in Subaru-logoed clothing passed me, hurrying off to tend to a customer that wasn't me.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">Finally, I left my assigned post and went to my car. I pulled it around to the service entrance, following posted instruction to "PULL FORWARD SLOWLY. DOOR WILL OPEN AUTOMATICALLY." Sure enough, the door rose and I navigated my car into the building, stopping behind a green Forrester with a decal from a Golden Retriever Club adhered to the rear window. The car's owner exited the driver's door. She opened the backdoor to release a large, rambunctious Golden Retriever from the confines of the backseat. The woman — of slight build and stature — looked as though she could be overpowered by this hulking canine at any moment. She lazily attached a flimsy leash to its collar and the dog paced quickly in circles around her. She followed a serviceman into the showroom.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">And I waited. And waited. And waited.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXMyjeGNMTl7tsPOeS2MHMBpL6UbL0MqwuEAi0UKwK3UdY4_k4ZSThSRheZ3kZSwFOIxp5n16upnjoBWNaq02rHrtz0vcnF00L8Y8KiJ-PKjPMgjLQYC7hrcLU2dHq-bICOYIPg36covv2Qe31wSLgANvBfTcNTqWFXR31ohrKslxK9XlcRzJH1AvTWZ4/s550/national-lampoons-animal-house-02-undesirables.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="303" data-original-width="550" height="142" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXMyjeGNMTl7tsPOeS2MHMBpL6UbL0MqwuEAi0UKwK3UdY4_k4ZSThSRheZ3kZSwFOIxp5n16upnjoBWNaq02rHrtz0vcnF00L8Y8KiJ-PKjPMgjLQYC7hrcLU2dHq-bICOYIPg36covv2Qe31wSLgANvBfTcNTqWFXR31ohrKslxK9XlcRzJH1AvTWZ4/w259-h142/national-lampoons-animal-house-02-undesirables.jpg" width="259"></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Mohommed, Jugdish, Sidney and Clayton</i></td></tr></tbody></table>Eventually, a young man (a different young man) with an iPad approached my car. "Are you here for an oil change?" he asked. I explained the reason for my visit. He directed me to leave my key fob in the car and take my place by the service desk where someone would be with me shortly. I walked back inside and stood where I had stood before - in my spot of being ignored. I was instantly reminded of a scene from <i>National Lampoon's Animal House</i> when smarmy Doug Neidermeyer is trying to ditch prospective pledges Larry Kroger and Kent Dorfman at a Fraternity Rush Party. I felt like Larry and Kent. I was slowly losing my patience and all signs of the "family feeling" reputation at Subaru was slipping away.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">After a few <i>more</i> minutes, a man in a button-down Subaru dress shirt stopped and asked if I was being helped. He had passed me several times earlier and I supposed he grew concerned when he saw I had not changed position in nearly twenty minutes. Again, I explained about the recall and he led me to a spot at the service desk at the very end of the counter. He introduced himself as "John" and in an effort to redeem the good name of Subaru, speedily checked me in. He led me to the waiting area, pointing out an array of complimentary refreshments on the way. He aske me to have a seat, assuring me that the inspection should have me out of here by noon. A few minutes after I found a seat by the front window, my phone vibrated with a text message from John. He told me to contact him if he could be of further assistance while I waited.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhy6sRxSeSuYJhEloLh2JW28k2tVgktI8XzTP6kqQvpF8ROdjZ-jub3KtM3Pf0DTKx6cKGwesz0ENuYzjEdI7MzDtswHy6c7o8V1e6gOIeR6w-zI48R9KLPs8FCJ8OXE2Nc2WsHjZMDUZjKaLqi3EbW4oefkm6CkW3I_tc74mb8hVgSTlMVVldwdb9YqP0/s576/20231029_072210.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="287" data-original-width="576" height="79" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhy6sRxSeSuYJhEloLh2JW28k2tVgktI8XzTP6kqQvpF8ROdjZ-jub3KtM3Pf0DTKx6cKGwesz0ENuYzjEdI7MzDtswHy6c7o8V1e6gOIeR6w-zI48R9KLPs8FCJ8OXE2Nc2WsHjZMDUZjKaLqi3EbW4oefkm6CkW3I_tc74mb8hVgSTlMVVldwdb9YqP0/w159-h79/20231029_072210.jpg" width="159"></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>No charge</i></td></tr></tbody></table>True to his word, John returned to the waiting area and announced my name. He led me back to his computer terminal, saying that the inspection was complete, the repair was made and there, of course, would be no charge. He reminded me that a six-month oil change was approaching in November. No appointment was necessary and it was complementary, He led me out to my car, thanked me again for my patience and for choosing Subaru. He waved as I pulled out of the service area.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">Although, they <i>did</i> wash my car, I'm not looking forward to that oil change.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><a href="http://www.joshpincusiscrying.com"><i>www.joshpincusiscrying.com</i></a></div><p></p>josh pincus is cryinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09302062659860682118noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1547375569747010454.post-45271806985185826702023-10-29T05:00:00.007-04:002023-10-29T20:49:30.195-04:00so ya thought ya might like to go to the show<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZmWECdX4lPfOWGiicn-wpIj8Pv0eSNCQ8x8644dqKvRVgtgb5huoO_1LMEHoVOIpcxdcMgFsFFq8mEX-H_OGuBwzOUXqcu0RN-Ztev9YGO_iyx9WsXEaGW2dkqrgZtpOYdXmoN_9iKE7eEUF0-nnUhbDO5DGofLwxFpcHvQU27SBDs04XmEpJOPBQUfw/s225/images.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="224" data-original-width="225" height="295" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZmWECdX4lPfOWGiicn-wpIj8Pv0eSNCQ8x8644dqKvRVgtgb5huoO_1LMEHoVOIpcxdcMgFsFFq8mEX-H_OGuBwzOUXqcu0RN-Ztev9YGO_iyx9WsXEaGW2dkqrgZtpOYdXmoN_9iKE7eEUF0-nnUhbDO5DGofLwxFpcHvQU27SBDs04XmEpJOPBQUfw/w296-h295/images.jpg" width="296"></a></div><p style="text-align: justify;">Now that the world seems to be slowly creeping back to some form of "normal" in these so-called "post pandemic" days, I've begun to venture out and experience live music again. I started off slow, first going exclusively to outdoor shows. Luckily, in my part of the Greater Philadelphia area, there are a <i>lot</i> of outdoor shows throughout the summer. The best thing about these outdoor shows — besides being outside — is they are <i>free</i>. I like <i>free</i>. My wife and I saw quite a few free show this past summer. The performances touched on all sorts of diverse genres — R & B, hip-hop, Tex-Mex, folk, jazzy cabaret and even a little bit of surf guitar. Oh, and they were <i>free</i>.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">In June, I attended my first indoor show since 2020. I had some initial hesitation about going, but it was a show in a 1300-seat venue with reserved seating. I figured if I kept my mask on and people stayed in their seats, I could enjoy myself and not worry that some drunk hippie would twirl in front of me and cough his COVID-infused droplets all over my face. (No, it was <i>not</i> a Grateful Dead-related band and there was little-to-no twirling.) I left that show unscathed and — better yet — uninfected.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">In September, I went to my first general admission, stake-out-your-spot-on-the-floor show since the week before COVID-19 shut down every public performance venue across the globe. I wore a mask and did my best to steer away from close contact with my fellow concert-goers... even <a href="https://beenaslice.blogspot.com/2023/09/oh-say-can-you-see.html" target="_blank"><i>this guy</i></a>. </p><p style="text-align: justify;">Last Sunday, I went out to another show at a very small venue to see a band I had seen before. The headliner was supported by two opening acts, with neither of which I was familiar. After a quick dinner, my son and I went over to the venue and took our place at his favorite spot — a seat by the rail on the balcony, offering an unobstructed panoramic view of the stage, albeit an aerial view. Around 8 PM, the lights dimmed and the first band took to the tiny stage.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">Now, I have been to a lot of concerts in my life and I have seen a lot of bands. Some good, some <i>very</i> good and some bad. Some <i>very</i> bad. I've seen some opening acts that I really enjoyed. I've also seen some that had me checking the time throughout their entire performance and trying to figure out how many more songs they would play in their allotted time. When the venue darkened last Sunday, from the opening guitar chords, I knew I'd be checking the time very soon.</p><p style="text-align: justify;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEyZcE3t3BzMHCm3LgU0fSL3ElaljKoT9xMjVGf1gNwm3UCTJGs3TSItYG8P3k8ii8U7cNwxt2cwzYZbC8IqMcDCdeG0iVfgYTH157SbFNlrEMAShREF_yI4m-fpB642LFSKu1VVrj-pElvqo8QQJkbIyqPfwNDHYPcOujy31PzdfUqBWYxYBX9hkl8N4/s4032/20231015_203618.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="174" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEyZcE3t3BzMHCm3LgU0fSL3ElaljKoT9xMjVGf1gNwm3UCTJGs3TSItYG8P3k8ii8U7cNwxt2cwzYZbC8IqMcDCdeG0iVfgYTH157SbFNlrEMAShREF_yI4m-fpB642LFSKu1VVrj-pElvqo8QQJkbIyqPfwNDHYPcOujy31PzdfUqBWYxYBX9hkl8N4/w232-h174/20231015_203618.jpg" width="232"></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;">The first band was boring... and bored. They appeared disenchanted with performing. Their opening number was dirge-y and tedious and cacophonous. At the song's conclusion, the lead singer, a young lady whose long and unruly hair covered her face, pushed her mouth against the microphone and introduced their next selection.</div><p></p><p style="text-align: justify;">"Yeah... um.... so, this.... uh... next... um, like song.... is a new song and... like.... um.... its not on like an album or anything... and um... so... yeah... "</p><p style="text-align: justify;">Every other song from the 30-minute repertoire was introduced in this fashion. One time, the stage banter was altered slightly to include a plug for the band's merchandise that was available for sale near the venue entrance.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">"Um... yeah... so, like we have, like merch for sale. Like over there. We don't have no stickers though. We have t-shirts and... um, yeah... so we have merch and stuff. So, um... yeah... here's like... um... a... um.... song."</p><p style="text-align: justify;">The sparse crowd — considerably younger that yours truly — seemed to be okay with this band. This led me to believe that the musical opinion of a 62-year old man is pretty much irrelevant. So, I sat quietly, fiddled with my phone, looked around and waited for the first band to leave the stage. They eventually did, departing with a message as eloquent as anything they previously said.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">"So... um... that's our, like.... last song. Thanks for having... um.... us. We have merch. and... um.... so, yeah..."</p><p style="text-align: justify;">After a brief rearranging of the stage, the next band came on. They were fronted by a particularly-flexible young lady with dyed periwinkle hair and a short, leopard skin skirt. They delivered a good old-fashioned punk rock show, possibly showing their predecessors "just how its done."</p><p style="text-align: justify;"><a href="http://www.joshpincusiscrying.com"><i>www.joshpincusiscrying.com</i></a></p>josh pincus is cryinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09302062659860682118noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1547375569747010454.post-3046509109101603412023-10-22T05:00:00.010-04:002023-12-17T14:58:09.278-05:00happy loving couples<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZAT5yU4g9pnQ_pLmPCcpQxRVZ61jo4DeO9PEC7tlnnQfKeLaiXXdD7qr-qcDl60i7vppVLBt1IalEJoQeGSfF_juufuLvrgBSsM9Hi0ZH5PrN2KquOSD5anYh1a6fNAmlHv-UtOr4V0ta1dJbelYp6k1hvwuruRZFWhLu5E2FnmgWChx2paFLzSN4pXs/s600/couple.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="523" data-original-width="600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZAT5yU4g9pnQ_pLmPCcpQxRVZ61jo4DeO9PEC7tlnnQfKeLaiXXdD7qr-qcDl60i7vppVLBt1IalEJoQeGSfF_juufuLvrgBSsM9Hi0ZH5PrN2KquOSD5anYh1a6fNAmlHv-UtOr4V0ta1dJbelYp6k1hvwuruRZFWhLu5E2FnmgWChx2paFLzSN4pXs/w344-h300/couple.jpg" width="344"></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">My parents had a group of friends with which they socialized on a fairly regular basis. By "regular basis," I mean whenever my mother made plans with the wife of the couple. Then, those plans were gently divulged to my father upon his return from a "hard day at work." (<i>Every</i> day at work was a <i>hard</i> day at work for my father.) My father would, of course, frown and grumble and express his displeasure at the thought of getting together with "those couples." Then he would relent when my mother would glare and threaten to withhold dinner beyond the unspoken but pre-determined 6:15 start time. You see, the majority of my parents' "couple friends" were my <i>mother's</i> friends from her days as a carefree, slightly uninhibited "party girl" and their husbands. I honestly don't remember any of the<a href="https://beenaslice.blogspot.com/2022/02/you-wanna-be-starting-something.html" target="_blank"> storied men from my father's youth</a> making it to the "married adult friends list." </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">My mom kept in close touch with her teenage (and beyond) girlfriends. She attended each of their weddings as a still-swinging single. When <i>she</i> became a bride at the unheard-of age of 33, her now-married friends joined her and rallied around to watch the once spontaneous and unpredictably wild Doris become Mrs. Pincus the First. Keeping in step with 1950s society expectations, my mom made regular plans with her friends and their husbands — regardless of how my father felt.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">My mom had three very close friends in their early twenties — Annette, Roberta and Bernadette. These three women, led by my mom, would descend upon various Catskill, New York resorts (like the one you saw in <i>Dirty Dancing</i>) and — as they say — "paint the town red." They would swim and dance and drink and flirt and flirt and flirt. My mom was the ringleader of the "Four Musketeers" and her friends were only too happy to follow along. Marriage, however, calmed these ladies down — reducing their frenzied nights of debauchery to quiet games of Mah Jongg. But, my mom <i>liked</i> having friends and, even though my father <i>didn't</i> like having friends, she got together with her friends and forced my father to be as cordial as he possibly could.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjn0bs29Z_zXXCUpuMyHXRsRyLchZmdX6DGy0xHSg4CHin7dePCi7Ox3HR1E5iAMhCNGIxjKeIjJtKLpTg7kuMQ1tO77dfzjdx1srLnqkW2_RBSgc6hZy7XzGRm-rDgukWwlShIPeJbnl4WYKafO6HE-Nec7MRZ1AV9bBgsFqQlMpOE9nxKSqBJV9aXVwg/s186/check.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="186" data-original-width="157" height="186" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjn0bs29Z_zXXCUpuMyHXRsRyLchZmdX6DGy0xHSg4CHin7dePCi7Ox3HR1E5iAMhCNGIxjKeIjJtKLpTg7kuMQ1tO77dfzjdx1srLnqkW2_RBSgc6hZy7XzGRm-rDgukWwlShIPeJbnl4WYKafO6HE-Nec7MRZ1AV9bBgsFqQlMpOE9nxKSqBJV9aXVwg/s1600/check.jpg" width="157"></a></div>Plans were made most often with my mom's friend Annette and her husband Rusty. Annette was a typical quiet, polite, reserved 60s housewife, behaving as though she stepped right out of a TV family sitcom. Rusty was loud and boisterous and wore bold plaid sport jackets and told corny jokes. And, according to my father and repeated regularly, Rusty was cheap. Maybe that's the reason my father never wanted to get together with Annette and Rusty. My father, one of the world's worst handlers of money, had a terrible habit of reaching for the check at the end of a restaurant meal with friends. Always wanting to appear "the big shot," my father would grab the check as soon as the waiter would drop it on the table. Other husbands would protest and argue with my dad that the check should be split — the reaction my father was always hoping for. But not Rusty. Rusty would shrug and loudly exclaim to his wife: "Look Annette! He's doing it again!" Rusty would never argue or reach for his wallet, but he always had the same reaction. And my father still continued to grab the check first. He never learned.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">One time, my mom made plans to go to a baseball game at brand new Veterans Stadium, the giant concrete monstrosity in South Philadelphia that was the new home to the Philadelphia Phillies after the closing of the venerable Connie Mack Stadium in North Philly. My father often took my older brother to Phillies games at Connie Mack, leaving my mother and I to stay home and listen to the game on the radio. My mom's plans for a family outing at the ballpark would include Annette and Rusty and their daughter, Cindy Wanda, who was my age. I didn't especially like Cindy Wanda (and I think the feeling was mutual), but a friendship was forced upon us by our parents. And I always thought it was weird that she was always referred to by her <i>first</i> and <i>middle</i> names. As per usual, my father grumbled about plans with Annette and Rusty, but, as per usual, buckled under pressure from my mother. Tickets were bought and we were going.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4Emkr6kTzY6R_jB4qPdrjLcwimd4uxo_FotiZFdLfi3yhpjq6-0lV5umDiIPMN30gLM6-FA6ixF_zQuz9dCo7vaDd-m-EF-EJroiPAtAeUkGYtOpH-cwAlI106mMTRdU2XNbqlLPv5VyU5mAWY6694W1sw21T3oQj-jJOhSVd699tm0xzGZWDNYeJTS4/s1996/hot%20dogs.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1143" data-original-width="1996" height="110" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4Emkr6kTzY6R_jB4qPdrjLcwimd4uxo_FotiZFdLfi3yhpjq6-0lV5umDiIPMN30gLM6-FA6ixF_zQuz9dCo7vaDd-m-EF-EJroiPAtAeUkGYtOpH-cwAlI106mMTRdU2XNbqlLPv5VyU5mAWY6694W1sw21T3oQj-jJOhSVd699tm0xzGZWDNYeJTS4/w192-h110/hot%20dogs.jpg" width="192"></a></div>The day of the game — a Sunday afternoon — we found our seats and settled in. Somewhere around the third inning, my father silently rose and left his seat, never informing anyone of his destination. A few minutes after my father left, Rusty also left and scurried up the aisle of our section. Rusty returned quickly, carrying three hot dogs in his hands. He made his way to our seats and handed a dog to his wife and his daughter and they ate in silence. My father soon appeared toting <i>six</i> hot dogs — one each for <i>his</i> family and for his<i> "friends' family."</i> He was visibly angered by the fact that Rusty and his family where already munching on their <i>own</i> ballpark staples. He grew more vexed when Rusty happily accepted three <i>more</i> hot dogs and opined a familiar sentiment: "Look Annette! He's doing it again!" </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVpz4CzmsvkXoDYMVHkc0ceFYOu9MF3hHYxtLgpBp1N_oNdjqnM_-MiIPiRJzVNoxHfTQfwx3q77kFEtlayv2gh8d4rOlYhjIzoffoq78IVsWPzNXilbnuWdWES8zWY41eco8ByZoZlJQK_eeQIp5cBKbVONU6HgOsG-WcK7Ws2OEXNh9_Z0DhBuQiN18/s251/images.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="201" data-original-width="251" height="126" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVpz4CzmsvkXoDYMVHkc0ceFYOu9MF3hHYxtLgpBp1N_oNdjqnM_-MiIPiRJzVNoxHfTQfwx3q77kFEtlayv2gh8d4rOlYhjIzoffoq78IVsWPzNXilbnuWdWES8zWY41eco8ByZoZlJQK_eeQIp5cBKbVONU6HgOsG-WcK7Ws2OEXNh9_Z0DhBuQiN18/w157-h126/images.jpg" width="157"></a></div>Every so often, my mom would invite her friends and their husbands to our house for an evening of talk, camaraderie and some games — poker for the men in one room and Mah Jongg for the ladies in another room. With the notion of company, my mom would stock up on snacks and such, putting out a spread on our kitchen table of cold cuts, bagels, sandwich accoutrements and condiments, as well as big bowls of potato chips, pretzels and something called "bridge mix," little dark chocolate coated morsels that resembled rabbit droppings. Often these little get-togethers would rotate from house to house and a similar array of food and refreshments would be offered by the evening's host couple. My father dreaded when Annette and Rusty where the "hosts of the week." (Honestly, my father dreaded these evenings PERIOD.) The food at Annette and Rusty's was minimal, consisting of cheese slices and other foodstuffs corresponding to the exact number of people attending the night's gathering. Four couples? Eight slices of cheese. No more. No less. Eight bagels. Eight slices of tomato. Eight napkins. You get the picture. Oh, and eight cans of soda were set out. And no ice bucket.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">After a while, my parents didn't get together with my mom's friends and their husbands. My mom began working full time and taking on lots of overtime hours. Her time at home was spent catching up on sleep. My dad was just as happy. he went to work. He came home. He smoked a ton of cigarettes, ate a lot of red meat and watched a lot of television. Friends he didn't need or want.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">Especially cheap ones.<br><br></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><a href="http://www.joshpincusiscrying.com"><i>www.joshpincusiscrying.com</i></a></div><p></p>josh pincus is cryinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09302062659860682118noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1547375569747010454.post-33853291450887792562023-10-15T05:00:00.006-04:002023-10-15T10:02:32.323-04:00i want candy<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjklinQAB1yJsQ7p657THA1BWQmuX_3cYiDxhpx-0QKzERza5OeniHf1w6vuG4_G1PUVamN333tbBqIYq7biaojEH2MmzD-xhCcbF44jm0IrNLZzT58-65FE_mi08skK-7i1l1nkGO5rXQqMYs68IRtsj5sYX8mA7jO2_UMwCgVpO9kUd_P85Bn0URUCCU/s615/vintage-halloween-1924-1561755047.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="615" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjklinQAB1yJsQ7p657THA1BWQmuX_3cYiDxhpx-0QKzERza5OeniHf1w6vuG4_G1PUVamN333tbBqIYq7biaojEH2MmzD-xhCcbF44jm0IrNLZzT58-65FE_mi08skK-7i1l1nkGO5rXQqMYs68IRtsj5sYX8mA7jO2_UMwCgVpO9kUd_P85Bn0URUCCU/s320/vintage-halloween-1924-1561755047.jpg" width="250"></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">Halloween is coming. I like Halloween. Yeah, there are not many holidays that I like, but I do like Halloween. When my son was little (he's 36), I loved thinking up costume ideas and then creating and assembling said costumes on Halloween night. I liked taking him around the neighborhood and then returning to our house to greet trick or treaters, see their far-less-imaginative costumes and reward them with candy for their efforts. My wife and I would decorate our house with elaborate accoutrements we had accumulated over the years, a collection that rivaled some family's Christmas decorations. As the years went on, though, and my son grew up and moved to his own house, Halloween has become less exciting. We don't decorate as much. (Some years, not at all.) We get fewer and fewer takers for free candy. Those that do venture out are finished knocking on doors and ringing door bells by the time the sun has set. The fun of Halloween has waned.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">Mrs. Pincus and I got married in the summer of 1984. We moved into a two-story townhouse in Northeast Philadelphia just after our honeymoon. This is where we celebrated our first Halloween as a married couple. We had noticed a lot of young kids at the apartment complex where were lived and figured that — come Halloween — we had better stock up with plenty of giveaways.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxO8jbC-mzHDb8iO3fPHWiq1Hns4qhG7h4uTzWrJn4ZJNuxLGF3MgBZQx3VF-f7MBr-Nd2ui0SIcnn2-w6KyEc4OwZMG9U2dxACcjAQFG3F1VtzUNx_ha1PW1e8scoyiNvNS07UkUQ9XbE7bywGzL3Z_PoSf_nBlmTiUc0FVBdtvMFLh6XbjmbJNDLDx0/s1594/02e3983553643ed9a4a183bed7498e02.webp" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="760" data-original-width="1594" height="114" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxO8jbC-mzHDb8iO3fPHWiq1Hns4qhG7h4uTzWrJn4ZJNuxLGF3MgBZQx3VF-f7MBr-Nd2ui0SIcnn2-w6KyEc4OwZMG9U2dxACcjAQFG3F1VtzUNx_ha1PW1e8scoyiNvNS07UkUQ9XbE7bywGzL3Z_PoSf_nBlmTiUc0FVBdtvMFLh6XbjmbJNDLDx0/w238-h114/02e3983553643ed9a4a183bed7498e02.webp" width="238"></a></div>Northeast Philadelphia is fertile ground for strip shopping centers. There were several right near our house. During the summer, we saw a new concept store open up in one of the nearby strip centers. It was a store called Barrel Grocer and they sold their various wares in bulk. The store was outfitted with aisles and aisles of barrels from which shoppers could fill a bag with bulk flour or nuts or Hershey Kisses, weigh the selected amount and (theoretically) save big. It was a novel idea, but I don't think the savings were nearly worth the effort. Supermarket prices were still cheaper and their established system was really more convenient. But, Barrel Grocer was a fun place to shop. While strolling among the barrels one day, I thought of a funny idea and I laughed to myself. I presented it to Mrs. P and she was totally on board. I decided that, instead of giving out <i>candy</i> for Halloween, we should give out packets of ketchup and mustard and jelly, like you would get at a fast food restaurant. These were all readily available in bulk at Barrel Grocer. I thought: "Would kids complain?" Probably not, and especially not if they can't see what we're putting in their trick-or-treat bags. Then we thought of these kids coming home at the end of the night, dumping their bags on the kitchen table and spotting ketchup and jelly packet among their Snickers bars and Reese's cups. Mom and Dad would scratch their heads, look at each other, then silently mouth: "Who<i> the fuck </i>gave out ketchup and mustard packs?" The answer, of course, would be <i>"WE"</i> the fuck did and we laughed again at the mental picture.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcE8F-rMGACnbngbhZ1B5kQCEVYCdGDxiAIg59VYDHYPXGxKHzku7Q4Qm7O7Wdu_gt1penOOlTHxQ_mU9MEp1uXbwlYxWx6dMUVdRm2Qqdtu_YdWPvUrgXbw0nyXXWlMPfV8ZFJPWlOH8cCGu8tWsrusthuNP7G6SHrhfE6rGMbD3b81jPr5lGO4V8lPI/s1200/188159_1200x1200.webp" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="624" data-original-width="1200" height="96" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcE8F-rMGACnbngbhZ1B5kQCEVYCdGDxiAIg59VYDHYPXGxKHzku7Q4Qm7O7Wdu_gt1penOOlTHxQ_mU9MEp1uXbwlYxWx6dMUVdRm2Qqdtu_YdWPvUrgXbw0nyXXWlMPfV8ZFJPWlOH8cCGu8tWsrusthuNP7G6SHrhfE6rGMbD3b81jPr5lGO4V8lPI/w186-h96/188159_1200x1200.webp" width="186"></a></div>But instead of dismissing a funny idea, we went ahead with our plan. We filled a bunch of bags with ketchup packets and mustard packets and jelly packets (two different flavors) and even honey packets. We brought our twisty-secured plastic bags up the the cashier, laughing all the way. We laughed on our drive home. We laughed as we lined the bags up on our small kitchen counter and waited for Halloween.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjb7c-E_xearH8hdVfCliQUj0fzg8xbWLdk007ZWgO9-EWctEHCYMdD33rlum0l-5YU0JdDXeTJTByQZGeGx4uEGvPRfXQybAoDu_hhn54nTJkOP93_v4j0AJ6M34bM0OlqBlzEaf101Kmt4iKF0lL1D-394-wFUSYk30iFO7yBTBaTZTzMHiPnDWAg1Uw/s1253/61x177uPkhL.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="633" data-original-width="1253" height="110" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjb7c-E_xearH8hdVfCliQUj0fzg8xbWLdk007ZWgO9-EWctEHCYMdD33rlum0l-5YU0JdDXeTJTByQZGeGx4uEGvPRfXQybAoDu_hhn54nTJkOP93_v4j0AJ6M34bM0OlqBlzEaf101Kmt4iKF0lL1D-394-wFUSYk30iFO7yBTBaTZTzMHiPnDWAg1Uw/w217-h110/61x177uPkhL.jpg" width="217"></a></div>Halloween 1984 arrived with pleasant weather. It was nice enough that we were able to leave our front door open as we watched the parade of kids make their way up and down the little walkways that led to each individual apartment. When the various faux witches and ghosts and clowns and superhero du jour approached with various configurations of bags extended at arms length, we were ready. As each costumed child exclaimed "Trick or treat" in their excited and shrill little voices, I reached deep into an opaque brown paper grocery bag that handily concealed what The Pincuses were giving away. I extracted a fistful of condiment packets and, under the cloak of the descending darkness, reached deep into the depth of the trick-or-treat bags to deposit our "treat." The children narrowed their little eyes and craned their little necks to catch a telling glimpse of what sort of unknown treat this guy <i>(me)</i> was giving out. A few kids poked around in their bags as they shuffled off. Others flat out <i>asked</i> us what we were giving, to which we evasively replied: "It's a surprise."</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVamXXrHnwltD369G6-brqkG9jepQzHezODFhnyDXJD3RtqPLhX-e9hZ0ct9UViGhEsDPq-aRHUHelo7PHbpMtGJyWrMX8d1PgL5QVZb8xxVTD4IV5sSveh3buD0oJYYlbjsKZ8pmx4-F_21ykBvJ5xuQRRekKFJnUTLhpTAbeNZ-1Dv2-2MoXeNbevgg/s530/DOF-281570_1.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="263" data-original-width="530" height="99" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVamXXrHnwltD369G6-brqkG9jepQzHezODFhnyDXJD3RtqPLhX-e9hZ0ct9UViGhEsDPq-aRHUHelo7PHbpMtGJyWrMX8d1PgL5QVZb8xxVTD4IV5sSveh3buD0oJYYlbjsKZ8pmx4-F_21ykBvJ5xuQRRekKFJnUTLhpTAbeNZ-1Dv2-2MoXeNbevgg/w200-h99/DOF-281570_1.jpg" width="200"></a></div>Mrs. Pincus and I (mostly me) had a hard time containing our laughter with each innocent trick-or-treater. As the night went on, however, I remember a pair of costumed kiddies pointedly ask "What was that?" as they got a fleeting peep at one of the packets being dropped in their bag. Mrs. Pincus, who as we have already established is <i>waaaay</i> nicer that I am, just answered. "It's jelly" and stepped back slightly, awaiting a reaction. The two kids looked at each other, looked down at their bags and looked at my wife. Then they turned on their heels and enthusiastically shrieked <i>"WE GOT JELLY!!!!,"</i> as they skipped off towards their parents who were waiting at the end of the walkway. It was priceless.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">I'm sure we ruined Halloween for a lot of children that night. But two — in particular — had jelly with their breakfast on the morning of November 1st and were excited about it.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><a href="http://www.joshpincusiscrying.com"><i>www.joshpincusiscrying.com</i></a></div><p></p>josh pincus is cryinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09302062659860682118noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1547375569747010454.post-65491045260345097872023-10-08T05:00:00.008-04:002023-10-08T10:33:03.534-04:00police on my back<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKWvsGZNgzVei4_2Os4Vjp0m9OrEFjG-s8FqDKKOLMHXYt2gGak-kbD-YVyZBR5WAW-qrHsQxHen51MnawA4LFjC11wyy6t4cUA8AOwFlO86zjxUERVdw8ashI-n04sB7FiUrv6o-SCMaCzR9twC6_VX8-tiaxv1DhMD_xkl3-6FJ9Z87lUX5Za2JyTnI/s300/Officer%20approaching%20vehicle-traffic%20stop-2.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="264" data-original-width="300" height="264" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKWvsGZNgzVei4_2Os4Vjp0m9OrEFjG-s8FqDKKOLMHXYt2gGak-kbD-YVyZBR5WAW-qrHsQxHen51MnawA4LFjC11wyy6t4cUA8AOwFlO86zjxUERVdw8ashI-n04sB7FiUrv6o-SCMaCzR9twC6_VX8-tiaxv1DhMD_xkl3-6FJ9Z87lUX5Za2JyTnI/s1600/Officer%20approaching%20vehicle-traffic%20stop-2.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">In the summer of 2020, <a href="http://beenaslice.blogspot.com/2020/06/every-cop-is-criminal-and-all-sinners.html" target="_blank">I wrote about the police</a> for what I thought would be the last time. I don't like to get political on this blog, but sometimes a situation becomes so <i>astounding</i> and so <i>outrageous</i>, I feel I have to address it. (I promise to get back to in-depth analysis of old TV shows and things I ate for dinner as soon as I can.) Not that my opinion makes any difference, but it's more like opening a valve on a pipe to let the build up of steam escape. In 2020, a police officer murdered George Floyd in plain sight of a number of people, including other police officers who did nothing. As a result, the nation erupted in outrage and protest in many cities across the country, including my own city of Philadelphia, the alleged "City of Brotherly Love." Watching the protest on television from my safe suburban home was horrify and, at the same time, enlightening. In the following days, I was educated by a few African-American friends, giving me a perspective on the events to which I had previously been blind. I learned — in the most basic of terms — that white people are awful. Just awful. They are unjustifiably scared and have pretty much caused all of the issues they have with people who are not white. White people have always been in charge and have feared losing that status the entire time. It's just terrible and, sometimes, I am embarrassed and ashamed to be white. I thought — and really <i>believed</i> — that after George Floyd's death and the eventual sentencing of his police officer/murderer, things would improve. I believed that white people would collectively realize their past treatment of non-white people and begin to take the road to understanding, equality and better relationships. I thought that police officers would relax their targeting and profiling and stop being bullies. I would have been better off and achieved more favorable results had I focused my optimistic beliefs on the Tooth Fairy.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNA3CsZ0ojxRW3JWEmpLdC-Px6RLkIzKGj1ZzwrHbMs7Ez-tWnx3wgu-_lx8LocCXAQK9mCw1ayKd_Mp1WtFxOhZFvnIr835_zsqii8AdKplmqx2i3ynNmuVdu0lRONs4in67DwWWeU0SQ7lUxOzIO25IkWJxXTCJpRsKIAw87lzeiFbizthpJ-wFL50g/s2769/michael-tashawn-bernard-police-michigan-abc-moe-006-230814_1692017916876_hpEmbed_3x4%20copy.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><i><img border="0" data-original-height="2769" data-original-width="1608" height="291" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNA3CsZ0ojxRW3JWEmpLdC-Px6RLkIzKGj1ZzwrHbMs7Ez-tWnx3wgu-_lx8LocCXAQK9mCw1ayKd_Mp1WtFxOhZFvnIr835_zsqii8AdKplmqx2i3ynNmuVdu0lRONs4in67DwWWeU0SQ7lUxOzIO25IkWJxXTCJpRsKIAw87lzeiFbizthpJ-wFL50g/w169-h291/michael-tashawn-bernard-police-michigan-abc-moe-006-230814_1692017916876_hpEmbed_3x4%20copy.jpg" width="169" /></i></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Tashawn and Michael Bernard</i></td></tr></tbody></table>In August 2023, 12 year-old Tashawn Bernard was helping his father wash the dinner dishes in his Lansing, Michigan apartment. Tashawn's father, Michael, asked his son to take a bag of trash out to the dumpster that sat just across the parking lot from their unit in the apartment complex. It was something that Tashawn had done a million times before. After an inordinate amount of time, Tashawn had not returned and Michael became concerned. He left the apartment and came down to the parking lot — only to discover several police cars surrounding the dumpster and his son - in handcuffs - flanked by two police officers and being guided into the back seat of one of the police cars. Both frightened and angry, Michael called out the the officers: "Why is my son in handcuffs?" One of the officers answered back that he would be told "in a little while" and should keep his distance on the sidewalk. With Tashawn in the back of the police vehicle, Michael pressed for an explanation. Another officer explained that they were searching for a suspect in a series of car thefts in the area and Tashawn fit the basic description. As the story unfolded, some disturbing details were revealed. It seems that Tashawn had just tossed the bag of trash into the dumpster when a police car pulled up to him. An officer emerged from the car and unholstered his gun as he began to question the young man. It turns out that the only characteristic that Tashawn shared with the suspected car thief was he was black. Tashawn was a different height, a different build, different age range and was dressed differently. Eventually, Tashawn was released to his father and the two returned to their apartment. (Michael was subjected to disrespectful comments and threats prior to his son's release from custody.) Michael contacted the Lansing Police Department, as well as several media outlets. He demanded an apology, which he <i>did</i> receive a few days after the unfortunate incident. Both Lansing's Chief of Police and Lansing's Mayor offered very standard, very corporate and very cold apologies, with phrasing that would have been more appropriate for a mistakenly-issued parking ticket. Michael has since contacted an attorney for possible further legal action.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">When I read this story (that got relatively <i>no</i> national attention), I was saddened, frustrated and angry. I could not<i> imagine</i> what was going through Michael Bernard's head when he saw his son in handcuffs. I thought about how <i>I</i> would have felt if I had seen <i>my</i> son in that situation. But, what would be the chances of <i>that</i> happening? My son is white and police officers would run past a white young man for the opportunity to unjustly harass a black young man. This story made me ask the rhetorical question: "When will this end?"</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">I got my answer last week. And the answer I got is "never."</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizpXibeHVqCastnHUPqEJIvEIGpKe3y3UOTsOU7jBmM4WSaqP0xQWsd1gSpIM3Y6UEUnEsaW3SipykB8CahjbsTnUCekKD4d335L1kwLhqb5gJb7AyANP5sREPcAZe0cKs4up6w66X7qDyjsyA9VVJcefEInLcRT8VkYWy8TeCxWVnvSjBEDqmDGSMDfs/s1124/70292636_10156211083945286_2861157992546435072_n.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1113" data-original-width="1124" height="249" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizpXibeHVqCastnHUPqEJIvEIGpKe3y3UOTsOU7jBmM4WSaqP0xQWsd1gSpIM3Y6UEUnEsaW3SipykB8CahjbsTnUCekKD4d335L1kwLhqb5gJb7AyANP5sREPcAZe0cKs4up6w66X7qDyjsyA9VVJcefEInLcRT8VkYWy8TeCxWVnvSjBEDqmDGSMDfs/w252-h249/70292636_10156211083945286_2861157992546435072_n.jpg" width="252" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: justify;"><i>David Ryan Harris and his children</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table>On September 15, 2023, David Ryan Harris, a singer/songwriter, got his children up for an early flight from Atlanta International Airport to LAX. It was a six-hour flight and his two boys were understandably cranky from being awakened at 4:15 am, hours before sunrise. As they boarded the flight, a flight attendant became concerned that a light-skinned 7 year-old with curly blond-brown hair was travelling with a black man. The shy young man didn't answer the flight attendant's questions and turned away when asked his name. The flight attendant contacted authorities in Los Angeles. When the flight touched down at LAX, Harris and his two boys were met at the jetway by four Los Angeles police officers and an employee from American Airlines. After some brief <i>public</i> questioning, right at the gate, the police determined that the now-agitated Harris was, indeed, the father of the two boys. A furious Harris noted that his boys are shy and are not obligated to engage in any conversation. Harris unsuccessfully contacted American Airlines customer service before taking his anger to social media. In a post to Instagram, Harris stated: "If this had been a white dad/mom with 2 little black kids, they would probably been offered an upgrade, not an interrogation." American Airlines later issued an apology to the singer. A company representative contacted Harris, explaining that they were concerned over the possibility of child trafficking. In an effort to "make things right," American Airlines promised an investigation and would credit Harris's account with 10,000 frequent flyer points. Harris pointed out that the airline awards <i>50,000</i> points when you open an account, so this is kind of insulting.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">I wonder how soon until I read another one of these stories. I wonder when it will end. I wonder when I will stop hearing people say "Blue Lives Matter" as a response to "Black Lives Matter." </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">White people, I mean.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><a href="http://www.joshpincusiscrying.com"><i>www.joshpincusiscrying.com</i></a></div><p></p>josh pincus is cryinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09302062659860682118noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1547375569747010454.post-39567623358555801562023-10-01T05:00:00.002-04:002023-10-01T07:45:01.083-04:00like a prayer<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.2px;"><i><blockquote>I wrote this a few years ago and never got around to publishing it. My feelings about religion have not changed. If anything, they have become even more critical and dismissive, if that's possible. But, it's a nice story at its heart.</blockquote></i></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.2px;">Religion isn't one of my favorite things. It doesn't even rank in the top thousand. If I </span><i style="letter-spacing: 0.2px;">were</i><span style="letter-spacing: 0.2px;"> to give it a position among the things for which I have a fondness, I would place religion just below repeated punches to the forehead. I find religion silly, outdated and totally useless... for <i>me,</i> anyway. I equate the mumbo-jumbo recitations with the mystical incantations spoken by "Samantha Stephens" in countless episodes of </span><i style="letter-spacing: 0.2px;">Bewitched</i><span style="letter-spacing: 0.2px;">... and just as effective. I will not, however, impede on </span><i style="letter-spacing: 0.2px;">anyone</i><span style="letter-spacing: 0.2px;"> who finds peace and solace from religion. But, don't try to convince me to see things </span><i style="letter-spacing: 0.2px;">your</i><span style="letter-spacing: 0.2px;"> way. I won't. My limited participation in any sort of religion-related activity is purely out of respect for my dear wife and, in turn, </span><i style="letter-spacing: 0.2px;">her</i><span style="letter-spacing: 0.2px;"> respect for her parents — who take their religion pretty seriously.</span></div>
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Recently, I accompanied my wife to a <i>shiva</i> for a family member. A <i>shiva</i>, for those of you not familiar with Jewish practices and customs, is a gathering for a period of mourning after the death of a "first-degree" family member (<i>i.e.</i> mother, father, sister, brother, son or daughter). Family and friends assemble at the decedent's home (usually) for evening prayer services for a (traditional) period of seven days, but most American secular Jews whittle that down to three (sometimes less).</div>
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The <i>shiva</i> that I attended was to remember Lila, my wife's once or twice removed cousin. We arrived at a house filled with people I did not know. Most, I assumed, were friends of Lila's and her husband. Further inside the house, I spotted my in-laws, my nieces, my wife's brother and sister-in-law and Lila's two children, who are around my own age. I also recognized the rabbi from the synagogue to which Lila and her husband frequented as long-time members. Coincidentally, my son went to elementary school with this rabbi's children, although they were not in the same grade. As far a <i>rabbis</i> go, he's a nice guy. As far as <i>non-</i>rabbis go, he is <i>also</i> a nice guy.</div>
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Growing up, I rarely went to <i>any</i> sort of religious services. The ones that I did go to, I always remained in the back of the chapel, as far back and as close to the exit doors I could get and still be considered "inside." From my distant vantage point, I watched the rabbi go through his motions. He was usually an older man, with graying temples and a Mona Lisa smile — not <i>unpleasant</i>, but not quite friendly. After services concluded, he greeted congregants with a wise and knowing nod, patting young ones on the head and warmly shaking the hand of older folks. In my mind, I have always had a certain mold in which rabbis should fit. This is how I want my rabbis to appear and behave. </div>
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When I met my wife, she and her family belonged to a synagogue whose rabbi fit my "rabbi criteria." He was a tall, genial, white haired gentleman with a pleasant voice and reserved demeanor. He had a strange habit of repeating the last few words of his sentences, I suppose, to emphasize the points of his sermons. I also learned that he was a career Navy man. But, he was, unmistakably, a rabbi. Mrs. Pincus and I were married at a different synagogue whose rabbi, while much more approachable and friendlier than the Navy man, was still, unmistakably, a rabbi. He was a warm presence and his congregation adored him.</div>
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When the Navy rabbi retired, he was replaced by a steady stream of candidates who were, decidedly, <i>un-rabbi-l</i>ike. Some were crass, unpolished and very uninspiring. The synagogue finally settled for a young rabbi who treats the honored position with the same dedication as a fifth-grade kid at 2 p.m. on the last day of school before summer vacation — staring at the clock, watching the hands tick off the minutes until he can blow this proverbial taco stand. To <i>this</i> guy, being a rabbi is no different than <i>any</i> profession that works "on the clock." Once the time card is punched "out," that's where his "rabbi"-ing is — <i>out! </i>His service is supplemented by an assistant rabbi who, I believe, assists him in watching the clock. Both of them are out-of-sight more than they are visible and "rabbi"-ing.</div>
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Back at the <i>shiva,</i> the evening prayer service was beginning. I politely grabbed a <i>siddur</i> (prayer book) to follow along. I refuse to participate in responsive reading, reading in unison or pretending to read "silent devotion," but I will not be disruptive to those who wish to carry out the ritual. This rabbi took his place in the center of the living room, a small, semi-circle of people loosely formed around him, and he began.</div>
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He spoke so eloquently, guiding everyone through the words and offering gentle reminders of the current page from which we were reading for those (like me) who don't read Hebrew or just lost their place. He interjected with brief, but concise, explanations of the prayers and their intended meaning. His voice was sweet, filled with compassion and comfort, while maintaining an air of authority and command. The crowd was obviously entranced by his presence.</div>
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When the service concluded, I thought "If I was gonna start believing in this hooey, <i>this </i>guy would certainly be a good reason." His voice and manner were comforting and compassionate, giving off a palpable feeling of warmth and grace and kindness. It made me think that maybe the <i>content</i> of religion isn't important. All those so-called words of scripture <i>aren't</i> the important part. Maybe it's just the <i>vessel</i> through which they are delivered.</div>
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