I hate everything about you

Spoiler Alert: Reality shows aren't real. They are scripted. The "real, average people" that appear in these shows are coached on how to behave. They are instructed on how to deliver their lines. The scenarios are set up. Sorry to be the one to break it to you.

On the bright side, the folk that appear on these shows are real people, not actors. It's only after a while they become "celebrities" because, as Andy Warhol once observed, "everyone will be famous for fifteen minutes." For some of these shows that have run for multiple seasons, that fifteen minutes has really lasted waaaay more than fifteen minutes.

I used to watch a show on The History Channel called Pawn Stars. The show, which began in 2009, presented the day-to-day activity in a 24-hour pawn shop just off the Las Vegas strip. All sorts of interesting characters would bring in all sorts of interesting items for the examination and possible sale to the three generations of the Harrison family who operated the store. Folks would present vintage items, stuff they pulled out of grandma's attic, things they've had lying around their home for years, in hopes of  cashing it in for some quick cash. The Harrisons — patriarch Richard, his son Rick and Rick's son Corey — would give a little history of each item then, if they were interested, make an offer to the owner. And that was it. That was the whole premise of the show. As long-time collectors of "things," my wife and I loved to watch and see the items that were brought in for inspection and potential payoff. For many years, Mrs. P ran her family's business in a local farmers market. As the years went on, the business morphed into a destination for collectors of the unusual. Mrs. P hunted and scoured the area (and beyond) to find items on which she could turn a quick profit.. As time went on, her ability to pick out such items became sharp and uncanny. As we watched episodes of Pawn Stars, we would often see items that Mrs. P — at one time or another — had sold herself.

When Pawn Stars' popularity grew, the tone of the show changed. The items for sale were no longer the focus. The show turned into a sitcom about the Harrison family, along with goofy employee Chumlee in the role of the "nosy neighbor." Episodes followed a conflict among the four principle "characters," with only one or two items presented for perusal. The Harrisons became celebrities and suddenly Pawn Stars was a different show. One day, Mrs. P received an email from a television production company inquiring about an item she had listed among her eBay auctions. The item in question was a child's rocking horse painted to look like "Pokey the Pony" from the 60s claymation series Gumby. This item was used as a display piece in a store called Heaven that featured pop culture items. When the store went bankrupt, Mrs. P acquired the Pokey rocking horse in a chainwide liquidation sale. The email explained that agents check all sorts of sources for interesting items to feature on Pawn Stars, as well as its new series American Pickers. This particular agent offered to fly Mrs. P and the Pokey rocking horse to Las Vegas for a possible appearance on Pawn Stars. There was no guarantee it would appear on the show, but a segment would be filmed and scripted and, if it made the final cut, well....great! While it was an interesting proposal, it was logistically prohibitive. Reluctantly, Mrs. P turned the offer down, although she was very flattered. From that point forward, we realized that Pawn Stars was not what it appeared to be. We also tapered off our viewing of the show, until we completely stopped.

Recently, Mrs. Pincus has been watching a show called Storage Wars. The premise is pretty simple. People rent storage lockers and stuff them with all sorts of things. Then, they default on rental payments until, eventually, the delinquent lockers are turned over to an auctioneer to sell off the contents. A group of regulars assemble and the locker goes to the highest bidder. We, as viewers, watch as the high bidder rifles through the purchased locker to reveal hidden treasures.

But then that premise changed.

After a time, the show (that we now know is preconceived and scripted, as well as having outside items planted in lockers) became a showcase for the regular bidders. Characters were created by way of creative editing and prewritten lines given to these folks to recite in the most amateurish of acting. The auction attendees are the proprietors of local businesses that hope to turn a quick profit, much in the style of Mrs. P in her family's business. However, the group of bidders presented in each episode are some of the dumbest, inarticulate, arrogant, scheming, scummy folks I've ever seen. Most of them have no head for business, although they perceive themselves as savvy, worldly entrepreneurs and experts on everything.  With few exceptions, they are not knowledgeable about.... well.... anything... let alone collectibles or objects of potential value. They cannot identify specific jewelry or furniture or if something is actually gold or silver. They think everything is going to net them a fortune. If they cannot identify a particularly obscure item, they consult an expert... then interrupt while the expert is offering the explanation they came for. On top of all that, they insult their fellow bidders and purposely drive up bids on things they themselves have no interest in.... just to be spiteful.

Scripting and editing of Storage Wars has created villains and buffoons and conspirators within the bidding regulars. The auctioneer and his wife have even become characters in this thoroughly annoying venture.

I have watched episodes of Storage Wars — now in its 16th season — because Mrs. P has it on. I try to pay attention when an interesting item is uncovered under a pile of blankets or misshapen cardboard boxes. But, unlike Pawn Stars, where the Harrison family was often good for a laugh or a little bit of relevant information, the crew on Storage Wars are an unlikeable, irritating bunch — and they're idiots. 

Every one of them.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

I don't remember, I can't recall

For around a thousand years, my wife's family owned and operated a stand in a once-thriving farmers market just outside of Philadelphia. Its humble beginnings were actually rooted in another man's business. My father-in-law was reeling from a devastating fire that wiped out his own hardware business that he ran in a building across the street. In an effort to generate some income while he rebuilt his business, my father-in-law bought out an older man who owned a little hardware store in Zern's Farmers Market. In addition to the man's unusual and mismatched inventory, my father-in-law brought in newer merchandise as well as a few items that were able to be salvaged from the fire.

Over the years, more merchandise was brought in and more space was secured to accommodate the expanding inventory. We busted through to the next stand and, with the addition of some second-hand shelving and creative merchandising, turned "Larry's Hardware" into everyone's first stop upon arrival at Zern's.

In reality, Mrs. Pincus was responsible for Larry's Hardware's popularity. Working at the store (sometimes unwillingly) from a very young age, Mrs. P began to bring in unusual items. Specifically, she sought out pop culture kitsch and collectibles that appealed to our fellow collectors — and other folks with disposable income. With our own Disney collection as a jumping off point, Mrs. P created eye-catching displays of Coca-Cola memorabilia (both new and antique), sought -after metal lunchboxes, superhero and rock & roll items, ephemera related to long-forgotten TV shows and movies and hundreds of corporate promo items. There was something for everyone, no matter what sort of collection you had... or wanted to start.

Word began to spread and each weekend (the market was only open on Fridays and Saturdays), the aisles were jammed with curious shoppers out to marvel at the childhood memories that dotted our shelves, as well as hardcore collectors seeking out that one elusive piece that'll complete their collection. Mrs. P, our son and I would offer assistance to several customers simultaneously — giving advice, explanations, prices — hoping that each bit of information we gave would result in a sale. We had regular customers and we would regularly supply their collections. After a while, Mrs. P would look for items for specific collectors. She knew what they liked and she knew what they would pay for things. Her uncanny sense of shrewd business acumen was unmatched. The best salespeople make it appear as though they aren't selling. And Mrs. P was one of the best. She could sell a drippy popsicle to a man in a white suit.

Of course, the typical Zern's customer wasn't typical. They were extremely discerning, very suspicious and not always willing to part with their hard-earned money. Mrs. P became their friend... and your friend wouldn't steer you wrong. She developed a trusting bond with a lot of her regular customers and they kept coming back for more. Some of them, however, weren't even sure what exactly it was that they collected.

Dough Kid

One older woman would come in almost every weekend and ask if we had anything with the Dough Kid. It took us a little while to understand that this woman collected items related to The Pillsbury Doughboy. She never referred to the character by his correct name. She'd point to things in our glass-front showcase and say "There's the Dough Kid!" When corrected, she wave us off dismissively and say "Well, I call him the Dough Kid." We, of course, got used to her pet name for a nationally-known and recognizable advertising mascot. I wonder if other dealers were as accommodating Eh... what am I thinking...? This woman didn't shop anywhere else.

Is that Elvis?

Another man would come in a lot, though not as often as the "Dough Kid" lady. This man was usually dressed in nothing more formal that a threadbare athletic shirt and torn, paint-splattered work pants. His hair was combed into a slicked-back close approximation of a pompadour and ducktail. Fittingly, this guy collected Elvis memorabilia. Y'know... Elvis. Presley. Elvis Presley. The King of Rock & Roll. Just making sure we know who we are talking about, because I'm not too sure this guy did. When he would make an appearance in the store, he'd start things off by asking, "Got anything Elvis?" One of us would lead him to a showcase and begin point out and extracting items emblazoned with Mr. Presley's familiar visage. Paperweights, serving trays, wristwatches, salt & pepper shakers  — all indelibly branded with some sort of Elvis logo, guitar, profile or silhouette. The man would squint at the particular item, lean back, stare down his nose and mumble, "Is that Elvis?" That was his lead-off question. Even after a brief explanation  — "This metal ashtray features graphics from the movie poster for Harum Scarum" — he'd stare in bewilderment and ask, "Is that Elvis?" Sometimes, it took all the willpower I could muster to keep myself from shouting "Do you even know who the fuck Elvis is???"

Ooger Booger

When Disney released Tim Burton's holiday-clashing animated film The Nightmare Before Christmas, Mrs. Pincus brought in loads and loads of related merchandise to cash in on the sudden interest and budding collections of a certain faction of our customer base. In its initial run, Disney didn't do much merchandising for the film, but as the cult audience grew, more and more items were produced, even though it was years after it had vacated theaters. The most popular character from the film was tall, lanky Jack Skellington. His love interest, the demure rag doll Sally, was very popular among the female goth teens. The villainous Oogie Boogie, not surprisingly, had his share of fans, too. One such customer had a certain affinity for the bug-stuffed burlap sack bad guy — we think. The fellow who come in and ask if we had anything depicting "Ooger Booger." At first, we all just stared blankly at the customer while our brains made internal "clickity-clack" sounds as our collective memory databanks scanned for a close match. "Y'know... from the Nightmare movie." "Ooooooohhhhhh! Ooogie Boogie!," none of us said, so as not to embarrass this idiot. He came in fairly often and still never got the name right.

My father-in-law closed up his store in Zern's in 2007, but Mrs. Pincus kept the collectibles business going online — to this day. An online business presents a whole new set of frustrations, but, at least mispronunciations aren't among them.

However, some people still don't know what they want.

www.jopshpincusiscrying.com

goin' southbound

Looks like we won't be making it to our destination.

Every year, for the past several, Mrs. Pincus and I attend The Mid-Atlantic Nostalgia Convention or MANC for those in the know. MANC is a three-day gathering of folks around my age (or older) who need to be reminded of the glory days of their youth. Days filled with simple toys like puzzles and board games and simple entertainment like heroic TV Westerns and gentle family comedies. MANC fills that need in spades. Taking over event facilities at the Delta Hotel in Hunt Valley, Maryland, MANC is jam-packed with vendors offering all sorts of pop culture treasures from the past fifty, sixty... even seventy years. Along with the vendors, MANC plays host to a bevy of celebrities —beloved to me and my peers, but nearly unknown to the members of the generations after mine. Sometimes explaining to younger people who some of these personalities are is not worth the trouble, but their names and shows are instantly recognizable to us "baby boomers." At past conventions, we met Oscar winners Patty Duke and Shirley Jones, TV heartthrobs Ron Ely and Tina Cole, movie stars Robert Loggia and Britt Ekland and many, many more. (I've written about MANC several times... here, here and here, too.)

When my wife and I first attended this convention, it was one of several that I frequented to feed a little hobby that I started nearly twenty-five years ago — collecting autographed pictures. The set up at these conventions and collector shows is a little unnerving and it's one of the negative aspects for Mrs. Pincus. (She finds it a bit on the creepy side.) Celebrities are seated at tables covered with 8 x 10 glossies depicting highlights of their careers. For a nominal fee, fans can spend a few fleeting moments with their "idols" and take home a personally-inscribed souvenir of the encounter. The unwritten rules have changed considerably since I purchased my first autographed photo (for five dollars) of Butch Patrick, little "Eddie" on the 1960s horror send-up The Munsters. Over the years, the prices have escalated at an unreasonable and baseless rate. The celebrities now come complete with a menu of ala carte services on every table, delineating the cost of an autographed photo, an autograph on an item that you brought to the show, a photo of the celebrity, a photo of you with the celebrity or any combination of the above. (Some have even broken it down further, with different prices for black & white glossies or color.) I have amassed quite an array of photos and the fame of these celebrities ranges from Tom Hanks and Gene Kelly to my wife's cousin who is a field reporter for the NBC affiliate in Virginia Beach. (Hey, he's got more Emmy Awards than you do!) I also accumulated quite a few amusing anecdotes (good and not-so-good) about my "brushes with greatness" that I have related for years. I look forward to MANC every year to add to both collections.

However, this past February, I lost my job. Although I was eligible to collect unemployment insurance, Mrs. Pincus and I were justifiably panicked. We immediately cut back on expenses where we could. Luckily, Mrs. Pincus's eBay business was thriving. We were prompted to assess our possessions and begin selling non-essential items. Items that were tucked away in closets or gathering dust in a corner were the first sacrifices. Next was our collection of advertising figurines and plush characters, followed by our Flintstones and Superman collectibles. Then, we made the difficult decision to purge our extensive Disney collection. As discussed earlier on this blog, liquidating a thirty-plus year assemblage of thousands of pieces of Disney memorabilia was a mixed-bag of emotions. At first, I was very discerning about which items I selected to be offered for sale. But as more items sold and more inquiries about the items were received, I gained a new (and surprising) outlook. Now, I was on a mission! Every weekend, Mrs. P and I sat side-by-side at our computers and listed item after item on eBay at a breakneck rate. Seven months later, the shelves are shockingly bare and the "famous" Pincus Disney collection is unrecognizable. Even though I secured new employment in April, we have not ceased our goal of seeing that room empty for the first time in thirty years. Plus, we are having a great time spending time together and seeing what sells.

So, based on our efforts to sell off our Disney collection, I couldn't justify spending money on autographed photos. For whatever reason, the once-prominent collector in me has vanished. Gone. All done. I still want to meet the celebrities. I just don't feel the need to spend upwards of thirty dollars to have them drag a Sharpie across a photograph of a role that made them semi-famous a lifetime ago. Instead, I drew a bunch of portraits of this year's guests and made a plan to distribute them to their subjects, offering a few words of praise and appreciation. I have done this in the past, and sometimes — sometimes — I appealed to the particular celebrity enough that I got an autographed picture in exchange for my portrait. (Cindy Williams, Jay North and Stanley Livingston each complimented my talent.) So, I made my decision to end my collecting of autographed pictures.... unless I can get them free of charge... which I have. And, again, instead of being upset, I found the decision very freeing. The pressure was off. The sort-of guilt I felt in the past over spending hard-earned cash for something that brought brief pleasure and really no actual value was gone. Now I would really enjoy this year's convention in a different way.

Just after I purchased tickets online for MANC, Mrs. Pincus and I decided to stretch out the weekend of the convention into a little vacation. We planned to head further south at the show's conclusion, driving as far as we liked, getting a hotel room for the night and then continuing on the next morning. Our ultimate destination was South of the Border, the kitschy tourist oasis that lights up I-95 in Dillon, South Carolina. While some travelers zoom right past the place, we love it. Sure it's hokey and silly and filled with cheap, useless souvenirs that we never buy. Sure, it proliferates racist stereotypes with its numerous billboards featuring mascot Pedro, a cartoon Mexican of the highest insult. But, we love the nostalgic aspect of a place that really shouldn't exist in this day and age. A place that just seems out of place.

But, alas, our plans for a Southern road trip were dashed by the onslaught of Hurricane Florence, a fluctuating Category 3 storm that couldn't decide on which path to take. National and local weather services painted a bleak scenario, making predictions just short of a tidal wave washing away the entire Eastern United States. It appeared that Wilmington, North Carolina and surrounding areas would be bearing the brunt of Florence's anger. Dillon lies 90 miles west of Wilmington — and seems to be the shortest distance between two points. We didn't wish to be anywhere near the chaos of both the storm and the residents vacating their homes. MANC is held just north of Baltimore, Maryland — well out of the predicted storm zone and would only experience just a little rain. And as they say, "into one's life, a little rain must fall." 

I'm okay with a little rain.

(Next week: Close encounters of the celebrity kind)

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

now it's time to say goodbye to all our company

In the summer of 1980, I made my first trip to Walt Disney World.... and I didn't even want to go. 

I had graduated from high school just a year earlier and hadn't yet decided what I wanted to do with my life. My friends had all taken the expected educational path and were enrolled in college. But not me. I was working as a cashier at a clothing store as I pondered a suitable (and lucrative) direction for my career. I considered going headfirst into retail — except I hated it. I had been drawing since I was a child, but the thought of making a living at it was inconceivable. I had always heard of the proverbial "starving artist" and I didn't want that to be me.

My friends and I began kicking around ideas for a trip — our first collective vacation sans parents. As summer was approaching and the school year (at least for some) was drawing to a close, a vacation sounded like just the thing we all needed. We quickly dismissed a week in Atlantic City, as that was the "go-to" option we were compelled to take for most of our lives. We wanted to really go somewhere. Somewhere to which we'd never been. We all agreed on Florida, but where exactly in Florida was a point of contention among us. I voted for Fort Lauderdale, lured by my older brother's tales of flowing beer and bikini-ed girls. My friends Alan and Scott suggested landlocked Orlando, home of Walt Disney's variation on his "Disneyland" theme. I frowned at the idea. "An amusement park?," I whined, "I don't want to spend a week at an amusement park!" I was debated and cajoled until I finally relented. Little did my 19-year old self know that by agreeing to go to Disney World, my feelings for all things Disney were about to do a complete one-eighty.

I scraped together every spare cent I could and even had to borrow the last few dollars to purchase my very first airplane ticket. Soon, my friends and I found ourselves face-to-face with actual palm trees of which we had only seen pictured in geography books. Our rental car took us to the ritzy (in our perception) International Inn, dead center on the main drag of bustling International Drive in Orlando, a thoroughfare so exotic in our sheltered eyes that it boasted an International House of Pancakes at either end of the street. We were definitely not in Philadelphia anymore. We checked into our room, tossed our luggage where ever it landed and headed out to the first liquor store we could find. Unlike Pennsylvania, where the state-run Liquor Control Board holds a tight grip on the distribution and sale of distilled spirits, alcohol flowed freely and was as readily available as Coca-Cola (or in Florida's case — Mr. Pibb). And four rambunctious, uninhibited Yankee 19-year-olds took full advantage.

Twenty bucks including tax.

On our first full day in Florida, my friends and I stuffed ourselves with the fine offerings from Davis Brothers breakfast buffet (where a mere five bucks allowed me to eat more waffles in one morning that I had eaten in my entire life up to that point). We piled into our rental car and tooled on over to the Magic Kingdom, the only Disney theme park in Central Florida at the time. We made sure we each had our coveted two-day, all-inclusive Magic Kingdom "Passport" that we had purchased under the guidance of  the travel agent with whom we had arranged our trip. Yessiree! Our "passport" would allow full access to every attraction the Magic Kingdom had to offer without having to fuss with those pedestrian "letter" tickets. As we passed through the turnstile, our admission ticket was hand-stamped by a smiling young lady in a Disney-branded plaid vest and skirt. I began to feel a twinge of actual excitement breaking through my previous "vacation cynicism." This was pretty cool. And perhaps, I thought to myself, this place is something more than an amusement park. The combination of a loud, steamy tooooooot from an old-fashioned train just above our heads, the low tones of a unseen calliope, the distinctive rhythmic tinkle of ragtime piano chords, the scent of fresh popcorn and the sweet aroma of flowers was putting my senses into euphoric overload. A grin stretched across my lips as I scanned the free park guide map, trying to decide which attraction would be my inaugural foray into an eventual lifetime of Disney.... hell, I'll say it.... obsession. I raced with my friends up Main Street, weaving around the crowds, making a slight left toward the path marked "ADVENTURELAND" in decidedly primitive-looking letters arranged across a wicker arch that spanned the walkway. Jungle drums beat out an ominous cadence. Giant palm trees bent down, creating a cool, secluding canopy that effectively blocked out the gaiety on Main Street, a mere fifty or so feet away. We tackled The Swiss Family Treehouse first, making our way up and down the narrow rope-and-plank staircases that threaded through the enormous trunk. On first glance, the whole thing is quite impressive, but, when you realize that not a goddamn thing in the entire place is real — that's when it hits you just how impressive Disney World is. It was the kick-off of a surreal day filled with rollicking pirates and singing bears and spinning teacups and gas-chugging race cars and 999 happy haunts and eighty dolls singing small world after all.

Gotta have 'em.

At the end of my first taste of the immersive world of a Disney theme park, my friends and I made our way towards the exit, but not before an obligatory stop at The Emporium — the largest gift shop in the Magic Kingdom. Excitedly, I sorted through the bins and displays and racks of Mickey Mouse-emblazoned tchotchkes. I began grabbing everything! And I do mean everything! Buttons! T-shirts! Pens! Posters! Magnets! I started filling a shopping basket as my bewildered friends marveled at my behavior. They had never seen me so... so.. possessed, at it were. They also seemed curious as to why I was wasting precious beer money on black felt Mouse ears with "Josh" stitched across the back. When the dust finally cleared, I lumbered out of the store with several bags brimming  with all sorts of Disney treasures.

And that's where it all began. My hobby. My pastime. My collection.

I visited Walt Disney World many more times after my initial trip, including my honeymoon and a wintertime vacation when Mrs. Pincus was about six weeks pregnant. Actually, when I met the future Mrs. Pincus, we each had a small collection of Disney items from previous theme park visits. Her family had been to Disneyland in '68 and to Disney World just after its 1971 opening. When we married, our collections were merged in much the same way as her Grateful Dead albums were placed alongside my Queen albums, but without as much cacophony.

Each visit yielded more and  more Disney items added to "the collection." What had once been a little assembly of cute figurines, novelty buttons and a smattering of ephemera on a single shelf in a spare room now swelled to three full bookshelves and soon an entire room and it showed no signs of receding. Books and toys (still pristine in their packaging) stood meticulously positioned alongside vintage glassware and novelty lunchboxes, all distinct in their inclusion in the Disney canon.

Our Disney collection was expanding almost at the same rate as Disney expanded their theme park roster worldwide. Of course, we obtained items from Tokyo Disneyland, Disneyland Paris, Hong Kong and the Shanghai locations, as well. My wife and I were always on the hunt for that elusive object that we didn't even know we were missing until we saw it. We had housewares and mugs and records and the much-sought-after "cast member" items... oh, all kinds of stuff. Guests at our house would smile, and yet, scratch their heads, pondering why two adults would have a roomful of kids' stuff. In their defense, it was a pretty good question.

Just before our son was born, the entire collection was moved (by me — in a single night) to a heretofore empty room on the third floor of the home we had purchased a few months earlier. Of course, we purchased a lot of Disney toys and related items for our new baby, as did family and friends who figured that he had no choice but to become a "Disney Kid." Our son E's room was subtly appointed with Mickey Mouse and Winnie the Pooh, in both plush and plastic formats. We watched Disney video tapes as a family and E was a fan of cable TV's fledgling Disney Channel. As E grew up, he would often ask people whose houses we visited if he could see their "Disney Room." He just assumed that every house had one. His house did, as well as the standard living room, kitchen and bathroom, so why wouldn't they have a "Disney Room?" When his requests for a tour were met with confusion, I suppose that's when he figured out his parents were not like other parents.

Over the course of thirty or so years, between numerous vacations to Disney World, Disneyland, Disney merchandise outlets, Disney Stores, eBay auctions, flea markets and collector shows, our "Disney Room" grew and grew and grew. It became legendary among friends, relatives, friends of friends, coworkers and other acquaintances. At our yearly "Night Before Thanksgiving" dessert soiree, invited guests would climb the two flights of stairs to the third floor of our house and cram themselves into the ever-shrinking space in the center of the "Disney Room." With each passing year, the walls seemed to close in a little more and fewer people could fit in the room at the same time.

(click to enlarge... if you dare)

When my parents passed away in the early 1990s, I became concerned about what sort of mess my son would be left with when my wife's and my time on earth has run its course. I certainly didn't want to leave a house full of shit like my parents left me. While our house is way more orderly than the chaotic shambles my parents called "home" (and stocked with way cooler stuff), Mrs. P and I toyed with the notion of thinning out our household accumulations — including our beloved "Disney Room." With our 60th birthdays looming in the not-too-distant future, we really gave "liquidation" some serious thought.

Then, this past February, came the unthinkable. I lost my job. At 56, it was quite scary. Not knowing when my next employment would begin, my wife and I tightened our belts, swallowed our pride and started in on the bittersweet task of dismantling and selling off a lifetime — our lifetime — of Disney memorabilia. At first, it was hard. Very hard, as a matter of fact. I scanned the room and reluctantly cherry-picked a few nondescript items. A book. A die-cast car. A yo-yo. A doll. My wife, who has maintained an eBay store over twenty years, patiently schooled me on the ins-and-outs of listing items on the world's largest internet auction website. The first weekend of our "little project" was admittedly tough, but as the days went on, it was actually a freeing and fun experience. I began to gather up items with zeal. I was not nearly as discerning as I was when the project began. Certainly not as discerning as when I was originally buying the stuff. I was on a mission and that mission was clearing those shelves to both generate income and not leave an abysmal burden for our son. Every weekend afternoon, my wife and I sit side-by-side and list our prized possessions. And little by little, the room is noticeably emptying. For the first time in thirty years, I am able to see the backs of the shelves. Some surprising items are generating interest, while others — ones I thought would be most sought after — are ignored by what is obviously a new crop of collectors who don't share the same sense of nostalgia as Mrs Pincus and me. There is activity among DuckTales and TaleSpin items, a Disney cartoon that was popular when I was 26, so there's this "window of opportunity" for the older, more collectible pieces that may have closed when were were still happily admiring our accumulation. Nevertheless, the majority of our collection is selling at a fairly brisk clip.

Am I sorry to see the stuff go? Not nearly as much as I thought I'd be. As a matter of fact, as the weeks go on and more of our collection is sold, I am less and less concerned. Recently, my son had the opportunity to give the Disney Room a "once-over," grabbing stuff that he had singled out and desired over the course of his lifetime — stuff that, at one time, was off-limits to the touch of a child's hand. He took a mini Pirates of the Caribbean music box from Tokyo Disneyland that he had been eyeing for years. (Actually, my wife had to yank it from her eBay store, as it was already available for sale.)

If you have ever been to my house — I'm sorry — but the "Disney Room" is no longer accepting visitors. If there was something you saw on a shelf that you secretly wished you could own, now is your chance. Take a look at the Disney items available in Mrs. P's eBay store and auctions.

There's enough stuff to fill a room. But it's going fast.

Click here for a panoramic view....that no longer exists.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

seasons come, seasons go

In 1988, Jim Morrison (no, not that Jim Morrison), a life-long Christmas enthusiast, purchased a multi-piece display called "Tudor Towne" from the Christiana Mall in Delaware. Filled with lifelike, anthropomorphic animals, all decked out in Victorian era winter garb, the animated tableau takes viewers into a whimsical storybook world where chapters of the story unfold along a winding, faux cobblestone pathway. Christiana Mall was updating its holiday decor and Morrison was pleased to acquire the exhibit. He added it to his already massive Christmas collection.

Well, of course, this is the owner.

Morrison purchased a 20,000 square foot facility in the fittingly-named Paradise, in the heart of Pennsylvania's rural Lancaster County. Wedged between Bird-In-Hand and Intercourse, Paradise is a sparsely populated town of just over eleven hundred residents. Morrison filled the maze-like structure with the multitude of nostalgic, Christmas-themed items in his collection and began offering tours to the public in 1998. 

While scanning the news feed on her Facebook page, Mrs. Pincus came across a post highlighting the National Christmas Center. The brief description was intriguing and, seeing how, once again, I found myself with a surplus of unused vacation days at the end of the calendar year, my wife and I planned a road trip to Amish country on the Tuesday afternoon before Christmas. Paradise is just a bit over an hour from Philadelphia. With Mrs. P in her natural surroundings — behind the wheel of her car — we headed out, not quite knowing what to expect.

We passed a number of large farms as we snaked up Route 30. There were small pockets of commerce — strip centers with a large supermarket anchoring smaller businesses like auto parts dealers and feed stores. But mostly there was farmland. Some were made up of bare fields while others were dotted with small herds of cows, grazing in bare fields. Our GPS announced that our destination was ahead on the right and, sure enough, the friendly facade of the National Christmas center loomed large just over the crest of a hilly section of blacktop highway. We parked and noticed that for a weekday, the lot was fairly crowded. We joined several folks in a queue to purchase admission ($12.50 for adults and five dollars for kids) and soon we entered for our self-guided tour.

The National Christmas Center is a heartwarming trip through the history of Christmas, beautifully displayed, beautifully assembled, although not chronologically presented. The fifteen individual galleries are loosely themed to various aspects of Christmas. The first display is a full-scale, minutely-detailed living room, straight out of the 1950s, replete with period board games and toys, furnishings and a large tree, dripping with tinsel and appointed with fragile (fragilly?) glass ornaments and authentic bubblelights. A night-shirted adult figure stands by the fireplace while a sad-faced boy in a pink bunny costume (reminiscent of "Ralphie" from the film A Christmas Story) stares longingly at a shiny red two-wheeler. Just past this scene is a long hallway outfitted with glass-front display cases that house hundreds and hundreds of figurines - Santa Clauses, elves, angels, nymphs, snowmen — crafted from a wide variety of materials from wood and plastic to papier-mâché. A doorway opens to a splendorous depiction of Christmas around the world, including vignettes of traditions from several European and Scandinavian countries. Figures are clad in clothing and accessories  alongside unusual trees and decorations. Another room is a full-size reproduction of a Woolworth's circa 1940. Shelves are tightly stocked with wares and signage from days long in the past. Tables overflow with trinkets and displays of sewing notions, greeting cards, kitchen gadgets, glassware, toys — all frozen in time and as pristine as the day they arrived at the store. The National Christmas Center continues on with room after glorious room. There's Santa's workshop, a full-scale street of vintage shops, a three-dimensional representation of Haddon Sundblom's famous Coca-Cola Christmas advertisement. A multi-level model train set-up — positioned beneath a giant Christmas tree — delights and mesmerizes guests with its tunnels and bridges and multiple locomotives. The collection culminates in a retelling of the birth of Jesus (after all, I've been told that "he's the reason for the season") and a stroll through a realistic Bethlehem of a thousand years ago.

We were surprised by the sheer amount of stuff assembled inside this nondescript building. We were also surprised by the meticulous attention to detail each and every display boasted. This was not some thrown-together roadside tourist trap. This was a lovingly conceived and presented collection, professionally executed and very well maintained. We were among the youngest visitors that day, with the average tourist having nearly twenty years on us. We were also unique for most likely being the only ones taking the tour who never celebrated Christmas and have no fond childhood memories of anything among the Center's contents.

 

But, alas, this may well be the final Christmas for the National Christmas Center. The owners, Mr. Morrison and his business partner Dave Murtagh, are in their 70s and 80s respectively. They recently announced that, unless they find a buyer, the facility will close its doors forever in January 2018. Murtagh and Morrison want to sell the entire contents of the National Christmas Center to someone who will continue their passion for all things Christmas. They cringe at the prospect of closing, but shudder even more at the thought of the collection being dismantled and auctioned off piece by piece. The National Christmas Center has never made a profit, despite its steep entrance fee and droves of visitors. Murtagh suggested that the next owner could apply for non-profit status. Quite an enticement to a prospective buyer.

I'm glad I got to tour the National Christmas Center. I would recommended it to all nostalgia lovers for a fun, interesting and educational day — even if you don't celebrate Christmas. But, hurry, because time is running out.

Unless, of course, you'd like to buy it.

* * * *  UPDATE * * * *  

The National Christmas Center has closed its doors forever on January 7, 2018.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

baby elephant walk

Mrs. Pincus, who is way more active on Facebook than I am, got a message from someone with whom she is not connected. "Brian Roadblock," my wife announced as she gazed at her phone with a puzzled expression.

The name was not recognized, at first, but within a few short seconds there was something familiar about it. And it jarred me.

My paternal grandfather died in 1970 when I was nine years-old. After his funeral, mourners returned to my house for a shiva, a traditional gathering of family and friends after a Jewish funeral. My house was packed with people representing my father's side of the family, most of whom I barely knew. My father was an only child. His father (my recently-deceased grandfather) was also an only child and my paternal grandmother was despised by most of her relatives (and rightly so). Later in the day, a young man entered my house. Everyone welcomed him as "Stan." He looked vaguely familiar although he was a total stranger. However, I noticed that everyone in my father's extended family knew him. Even my mother knew him. My brother — a recent Bar Mitzvah — and I scratched our heads and briefly discussed who this guy could be. As the day became evening and wound down to a close, guests said their goodbyes and offered their condolence to my father. When the house was empty of guests, my mother began to gather empty cups and paper plates that seemed to have lost their way to the trash. My father, never one to help with "womens' work," had settled himself in "his chair" in the den and lit up a cigarette. My brother and I confronted our parents.

"Who was that guy 'Stan' that everybody knew?," we asked.

My parents froze and exchanged "the jig is up" glances. They hemmed and hawed and cleared their throats. After stalling for way too long, my mom and dad sat us down and came clean.

My father was married before he married my mother in November 1955. His brief first marriage produced a son, Stan. My father had just divorced Stan's mother when he was fixed up on a blind date with my mother in February 1955. At the start of the date, my father made his intentions very clear. "I am just coming off of a divorce," he told his date (my mother) "and I am not looking for a serious relationship." My mother, a 30 year-old bleached blond doppelgänger for actress Barbara Stanwyck, was a free spirit and not looking for a serious relationship either. But something must have triggered ol' Cupid to pierce their collective hearts with his arrow of love, because they were married a mere nine months after that first date. In the early days of their marriage, my mom and dad took five year-old Stan on weekends, treating the youngster to a day at the zoo or the movies or out for an ice cream soda.  These outings were regular occurrences until 1957 when my mother gave birth to my brother Max. My parents no longer needed Stan to play the part of surrogate son. They had Max, who was their own. Meanwhile, my dad's first wife had remarried. Her new husband adopted Stan and his Pincus name was abandoned is favor of his "new dad's" sobriquet: "Roadblock."

In 1961, little Josh completed the new Pincus family. A larger distance grew between my father and Stan and the two rarely saw each other again. My grandmother, however, maintained a close and loving relationship with Stan, while constantly hounding and belittling my father and treating my mother like shit. She antagonized my mother on a regular basis, criticizing her cooking, her housekeeping, her child-rearing - her every move. My relationship with my grandmother could only be described as "cordial." Not particularly "grandmotherly." She was never warm or welcoming. I remember her playful insults, often referring to me as "bucktoothed."

But Stan! Stan was the "golden child." He was rewarded for being the first grandchild, often lavished with gifts and money and love. My brother and I, the products of the distasteful union between my father and that woman, as my mother was no doubt referred to in private, were treated cordially, never with warmth. My grandmother fancied herself "benevolent" when she offered my brother and me rusty cans of Borden's Frosted Shakes when we accompanied my father on a visit. She exhibited an affectionate and comforting rapport with Stan, while her demeanor towards the second round of Pincus progeny was as cold as the chest freezer from which she extracted those chalky commercial milkshakes.

It was quite a blow to learn that a) my father was married prior to marrying my mother, b) I had a half-brother and c) that semi-sibling's existence was kept a guarded secret for a decade. After my parents concluded their lengthy tale of familial deception, we all sat silent for a long time. My brother and I thought about the novelty of having a new found brother. It was pretty cool. All was forgiven for this little indiscretion (after all, there would be more indiscretions) and life went on.

My grandmother passed away in 1995. She outlived my mother and my father. As a matter of fact, just after my father died, my brother and I drove to her apartment to inform her that her only son had died. When we told her the news, she scowled and angrily questioned, "Well, who is going to take care of me?" 'Cause that's the kind of person my grandmother was. Selfish, self-centered and self-serving. Except, evidently, to Stan and his family.

My grandmother's question was answered when my wife generously volunteered to tend to the old shrew's needs. Mrs. P did her grocery shopping (and was routinely castigated for her selections). She contacted a cleaning service to tidy up my grandmother's tiny apartment (there were repeated complaints about that, as well). She managed my grandmother's finances, writing checks for bills and making sure a positive balance was preserved in the account. That is until my grandmother accused Mrs. Pincus of stealing from her and had her unceremoniously removed from the account. 'Cause that's the kind of person my grandmother was. However, when my grandmother finally kicked, the eternally-nice Mrs. P single-handedly cleaned out and emptied her apartment of clothing, furniture and knick-knacks. She donated what she could. The rest she sold on eBay, splitting the consequential income evenly between our son and my nephew (Max's son), Curiously, Stan and his beneficiary family were noticeably absent from the "tying up loose ends" process. They showed up late for the graveside funeral that Mrs. Pincus had arranged, but displayed requisite somber facades nevertheless. At the sparsely attended ceremony's conclusion, Stan approached my wife with his young son attentively by his side. With a forlorn expression on his face, he asked Mrs. P if any of my grandmother's extensive collection of elephant figurines were in our possession. My grandmother was a lifelong, backwards thinking, narrow-minded, bigoted Nixon-loving Republican. She accumulated a vast assemblage of figures, in a variety of materials, all in some form of an elephant — the symbol of her beloved Grand Old Party. With nary an emotion, my wife reported that the entire contents of my grandmother's apartment was liquidated. Nothing remained. We all started towards our respective automobiles and we never saw Stan and his family again. That chapter of of our lives had ended.

Until a new, revised edition was released just this week — in Facebook form.

Stan's son Brian — now grown — took a shot in the dark and contacted Mrs. Pincus, tracing her though her married name and Philadelphia location. In his unsolicited salvo, he asked if she was the granddaughter-in-law of Molly Pincus and the half-sister-in-law of Stan Roadblock. Mrs. Pincus looked at the message for a long time before issuing a response. Finally, confirming her identity, she asked was there a reason for his puzzling inquiry. His near-immediate reply first expounded on his love for "his favorite great-grandmother" and their special, loving relationship. Then, he asked a twenty-one year old question: "I was wondering if you had any of her elephant figurines?" He explained that he began collecting elephant-related memorabilia in an effort to keep her memory alive. He would love to have one that actually belonged to her as part of his collection.

My grandmother's possessions — all of them — were sold two decades ago. I haven't given them or her a thought in twenty years. I haven't given thought to Stan and his family in as many years, as well. I get a bit steamed when I hear someone tell me what a lovely, caring woman my grandmother was. She was not. She was a vicious, vindictive, hate-filled, scheming troublemaker. I don't care what Brian Roadblock says. I voiced my opinion to my wife and asked her to take that into consideration when she decided to answer Brian's question.

Mrs. P responded. "The contents of Molly's apartment was sold over twenty years ago. I do not have anything that belonged to her. Although I appreciate your fond memories of your great-grandmother, please understand that it was a much different story with her other family. Molly treated my husband Josh, his brother Max and their families poorly. She was mean and nasty to both Josh and Max's mother and father, leaving us with less-than-fond memories."

We thought that would be it. The final final end of the story. But, alas, it was not. Brian sent Mrs. Pincus a Facebook friend request.

She deleted it.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

ten, twenty, thirty million dollars ready to be spent

In 1987, The Walt Disney Company began to, literally, print its own currency. For nearly twenty years, various designs and denominations of Disney Dollars have been available for patrons on an "even exchange" basis. In May 2016, Disney announced that they would cease production on Disney Dollars, although they would continue to accept them at their theme parks, hotels and select Disney Stores (meaning not the one you go to). With the convenience of gift cards, the idea of Disney Dollars had run its course. 

However, I maintain, that Disney has been printing their own money for years. Maybe not physically, but figuratively. Their combination of shrewd marketing, exploitation and branding coupled with the captive audience and tourist mentality, has made Disney a veritable money-generating machine.

They are the kings of selling you things you do not need. They excel in convincing you that the prices they place on merchandise and food is reasonable. Granted, most people on vacation (especially the people that Walt Disney World draws) pay very little attention to how much they are spending on a meal, so they will happily for fork over $12 for a hot dog topped with chili. (A chili dog at Sonic costs $1.99, just for comparison). One of my favorite restaurants in a Disney theme park is Redd Rocket's Pizza Port, tucked in a back corner of Tomorrowland in Disneyland. A slice of typical, no-frills, fast-food, no-toppings pizza costs $6.99. I can get an entire pie at a Little Caesar's five minutes from my house for five bucks. A whole pizza at Redd Rocket's is — brace yourself — thirty-three dollars. Go to any of these Disney eateries at dinner time, though. You'll see the lines are long and the place is packed.

Souvenirs is another area where Disney knows just how wide they can open a customer's guest's wallet. My first visit to Walt Disney World was in 1980. I was 19. I purchased a few mementos of my trip — a Mickey Mouse t-shirt, a few pinback buttons. Knowing my limited funds back then, I'm sure I was very careful not to overspend on souvenirs. Of course, in later years, when I was supporting the Disneyana monkey on my back (this one, I mean), I spent money in the gift shops like a drunken pirate on Caribbean shore leave. However, my selections were measured and I was very particular about what was added to my collection. But, Disney was counting on other tourists to spend blindly and without restraint. The fact that no one bats an eye at a $24.99 price tag on a giant faux-velvet Sorcerer Mickey hat shows the effectiveness of Disney's marketing power. After all, there's only one place and one place only you can wear a tall, blue, pointed hat adorned with two enormous mouse ears and not get strange looks. And you're never gonna wear it anywhere else. Ever. When you get home to your normal life and one day it's raining, you're not saying to yourself: "I better grab a hat." and then reach for the two-foot tall, fuzzy, star-spangled head covering to shield you from the downpour. And Disney knows it.

On a summer trip my wife made with her family to Walt Disney World, she bought two water-filled spray bottles, each topped with a small battery-powered fan and embellished with Disney characters, for her nieces, to keep them hydrated during the blistering Florida heat. Those things, available in a non-Disney version for a few dollars, cost $18.00 each. My brother-in-law, fully aware of their price tag (because he wouldn't spring for them for his kids), would not allow his daughters to bring the bottles into the park, for fear they would get lost or damaged. The bottles remained safely in a bag in their hotel room and never saw the light of day since the time of their purchase. As a matter of fact, they haven't been seen since 2012. But, Disney! Disney had a gain of thirty-six dollars for an item that, based on volume, probably cost mere pennies to manufacture.

Look, this is certainly not a knock against Disney. I am a huge fan of the media giant. I admire their creativity, their cleverness and especially their marketing prowess. I marvel at the people who whine and complain about how expensive it is to swing a vacation to Walt Disney World, and then, once they get there, hand over their hard-earned cash with nary a thought. Disney is doing their job and that's answering to their stockholders. It is possible to have fun on a Disney vacation and not come home ready for the poor house. You just have to put a little thought into your planning, stick to a budget, consider purchases with: "Do I really need this?" If you're still moaning about the high prices of admission, food, lodging, and souvenirs... nobody is forcing you to go. Not even Disney. You may think they are, but that's called "marketing."

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

you can call me anything you like but my name is Veronica

This story started out as a different story on a different blog. Last week marked the one year anniversary of the death of actress Patricia Blair. In keeping with the ongoing theme of my illustration blog (joshpincusiscrying.com — you should visit sometime), I drew a picture of Miss Blair and began preliminary research on her life. I got sidetracked, as I often do, and the drawing sat, unposted, on my computer's desktop.

Regular readers of my blogs know about my affinity for nostalgia — all things related to TV shows from my youth and black and white movies from before I was born. On an irregular basis, I attend collector shows to peruse the wares of like-minded vendors who offer memorabilia from days gone by. These shows also feature a smattering of celebrities, most of whose careers are on the wane. For a nominal fee, a nostalgia enthusiast, like myself, is afforded a few intimate moments with a hero from the small or silver screen, culminating in an autographed photo as a memento of the encounter. A few years ago, I printed out a couple of drawings from my website and presented them to Jay North (of Dennis the Menace fame). Jay was delighted and offered me an autographed photo as an exchange. Jeannie Russell, his co-star on the 60s sitcom, did not share his appreciation of my talent. Since that time, I began bringing prints of some of my drawings to celebrities at collector shows in hopes I could score an other free pic. So far, it just worked the one time. But I'll keep trying.

This past weekend, Mrs. Pincus and I attended the annual Mid-Atlantic Nostalgia Convention in Hunt Valley, Maryland. Before we left I printed out a few drawings on glossy paper to present to Veronica Cartwright, who I knew would be one of this year's guests. Ms. Cartwright, who began her career as a nine-year-old extra in a World War II drama, has worked steadily for seven decades. She is best known as the female crew member of the Nostromo who wasn't Sigourney Weaver in the 1979 sci-fi thriller Alien. As a child, she was tormented by flocks of murderous birds (and possibly Alfred Hitchcock) in The Birds. She also played Beaver Cleaver's neighbor Violet Rutherford, (She even gave the Beave his first kiss.) She has appeared in scores of supporting roles in TV and movies, too numerous to detail. (Her IMDB page puts the number at 134.) In addition, she is the older sister of Angela Cartwright ("Penny" on Lost in Space and "Brigitta" in The Sound of Music).

When we arrived at the Hunt Valley hotel that was hosting the event, we made our way to the conference room, already bustling with conventioneers. Anxious vendors hawked their bits of pop culture and eager patrons queued up for a "brush with greatness." As I approached the table where Ms. Cartwright sat, I fished around in the manila envelope I was carrying. I withdrew my drawing and, with a flourish, presented it to Veronica, explaining how we loved watching her adventures on reruns of Daniel Boone. Veronica, who starred as Daniel's pre-teen daughter "Jemima" on nearly two seasons of the 1960s Western, looked down at the shiny colored print and sneered. 

"That looks like Pat Blair," she frowned, "Why would I want that?"

I was confused and I stated the obvious. "She played your mom on Daniel Boone."

Veronica laughed. "Oh, I know that! It was because of her that I was kicked off the show!" She jabbed a finger in the direction of Patricia's drawn nose. 

I gulped. Ooops! I hit a nerve! My wife and I exchanged awkward glances as Veronica elaborated.

"I was fifteen," the actress continued, "and they were developing story lines with love interests for my character. Pat had it written into her contract that I couldn't have romantic episodes. She felt it made her seem old. She gave an ultimatum - and my character disappeared without an explanation near the end of the second season." Veronica went on to tell about the time teen idol Fabian was a guest on the show and, during an on-screen kiss, he jammed his tongue down her throat. At the time, Fabian was 21 and Veronica was jail-bait. 

I sheepishly took the drawing back, tucking it into the envelope. As a peace offering, I offered a drawing of the cast of Alien. She liked that one better.

I'm thinking of sharing my anecdote with TMZ. Y'know, the old-timer's edition.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

take a letter, Maria

My wife has been selling on eBay, the top online auction website, for years. Many years, as a matter of fact. In addition to regular auctions, she maintains an eBay "store" with an inventory of several thousand items. She makes trips to our local post office several times a week. Basically, she sells a lot of stuff.

For the most part, Mrs. P specializes in pop culture collectibles. That's a fairly broad term for a category that encompasses advertising memorabilia, sports team logo items, rock and roll merchandise and TV and movie related items. Various items emblazoned with logos representing Coca-Cola, McDonald's, M&Ms and other internationally-recognized companies are especially popular and particularly consistent sellers. A lot of these items in her eBay store and those offered for auction, had limited availability in their original distribution. Most were only available to company employees for a short time, either through brief distribution or from an employee-only store or catalog. Small promotional items — such as pens, t-shirts, mugs or figural likenesses of a company mascot — are highly sought-after by collectors of a particular company's memorabilia.

Last week, she sold and closed a sale for a promotional notepad from the headquarters of Pep Boys, the national chain of auto parts stores. Pep Boys, with their familiar mascots of Manny, Moe and Jack, produces a lot of promotional tchotchkes for their employees. Their aim is to boost employee morale and to maintain the company's branding. They have created and circulated key rings in the shape of cars and various automotive tools. Employees were treated to coffee mugs promoting a variety of company goodwill policies. Logoed pens and notepads were a staple throughout the company's Philadelphia-based main operations facility. (I should note that I worked in the Marketing Department of Pep Boys for four years and I managed to acquire more than my fair share of promo items.) The notepad that Mrs. P sold for $4.99 plus shipping was used to promote a specific employee initiative in the late 1990s. The top of each page displayed the smiling visages of Manny and his pals along with some sort of cheerful motivational slogan. The rest of each page was left blank to allow for the quick jot of a phone number as it sat by your desk phone at the ready. The very fact that most of these note pads were completely used or most likely trashed over the course of nearly twenty years, makes the one my wife sold a pretty rare commodity and a great find for a collector.

A few days after Mrs. P sent the Pep Boys notepad to the buyer (in a batch of a hundred or so other packaged shipments that went out that day), she received an email of a decidedly disappointed nature. The notepad had arrived and the buyer was not at all pleased. My wife prides herself on customer satisfaction and does her very best to ensure that her customers are content and that all wrongs are righted quickly. The email, angry and accusing in tone, proclaimed this as "the worst transaction in her history with eBay." The buyer dismissed her purchase as "not worth 49 cents let alone four-ninety-nine!" She demanded a refund. Calmly, my wife composed her standard "I'm sorry you are not happy with your purchase" email and inquired about her dismay. Mrs. P explained that this notepad was a limited-run, company-only item, out-of-print for nearly twenty years and then available only to employees in the main office.

A day or so later came the reply. The buyer said that she didn't really care what was printed on the individual pages, she merely needed a notepad.

My wife and I scratched our heads and tried to fully understand the "fucked-up-ness" of the situation.

This particular buyer lives in Sweetwater, Texas, the county seat of Nolan County. It boasts a population of a little over 11,000 people and sits approximately 35 miles west of Abilene, the 25th most populous city in the United States. Sweetwater is home to many independent drug stores, as well as outlets of national chains like CVS. I've been to a fair amount of drug stores in my life and I believe that most have a small section devoted to household items like light bulbs, adhesive tape and, um, notepads. In addition, right there on Interstate 20 (locally known as Georgia Avenue), there is a K-Mart (with convenient hours of operation; most evenings until 9 PM) and, less than a mile away, is a WalMart SuperCenter that is open TWENTY-FOUR-FUCKING-HOURS-A-FUCKING-DAY! You're telling me that this numbskull, in search of any ol' notepad to write a goddamn message to whatever other inbred moron to whom she needs to impart precious documented information, can't get up off her lazy, cheap beer-swillin', barbecue-munchin' ass and get on down t' th' WalMart to purchase a notepad for half-a-buck? No! Her first thought to obtain a notepad was to turn to eBay, search "notepads," and click "Buy It Now" on a listing for a notepad for four dollars and ninety-nine cents plus the cost of shipping it to her double-wide trailer. (By the way, in case she is doing some travelling, there are two more WalMart SuperCenters just up the road a piece in Abilene, as well as a Staples and an Office Depot. I'm fairly certain that they sell a variety of notepads. Many priced well below $4.99 with no collectible value whatsoever.)

Texas leads the nation in state-sanctioned executions, but obviously they are not working fast enough.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com