man on the moon

Much like the moon, the internet is a vast wasteland. And the "wastiest" of wastelands on the internet is Facebook.

Beats me, Ethel.

If you are a friend or follower of Josh Pincus... well, I question your judgement. Aside from that, you know that every morning, I post a smattering of celebrity death anniversaries. You know this... unless you have me muted, which I certainly understand and I don't blame you. If I were a friend of Josh Pincus, I'd probably mute him.... er, me, too. Just after I eat breakfast and before I leave for work, I scan the good old internet and post a series of photos of famous — and not-so-famous — folks to commemorate the anniversary of their passing. I have been doing this for years. Years, I tell you! I usually get a handful of "likes" or "cares" from the regular group of loyal, death-obsessed Facebook friends that are also awake at the ungodly hour of 5 AM. But, every so often, one post — right out of nowhere, for no discernible reason — gets a ridiculous amount of "likes" from people with whom I am not connected. Now, I have no idea how Facebook's algorithms work. I'm not even sure if I spelled "algorithm" correctly. But, these extra, added "likes" just baffle me. A few weeks ago. a post honoring the "death-aversary" of Lucille Ball's dependable co-star Vivian Vance racked up 27 responses, most of which were from people I don't know.

One small step

On August 25, along with Senator Ted Kennedy, singer-actress Aaliyah, celebrated author Truman Capote and baseball footnote Archibald "Moonlight" Graham (yes, he was a real person and, yes,  he only had one Major League at-bat), I posted my early morning acknowledgment of the passing of astronaut Neil Armstrong on the thirteenth anniversary of the sad event. Then I went to work.

Through the course of the day, as I toiled over the inane changes several supermarket owners had to their store's advertisements (my day job), I marveled as the "likes" for the Neil Armstrong post increased at an astounding rate... astounding for me anyway. Between requests to make a picture of a pint of blueberries bigger and instruction to change the price of country-style spare ribs from $1.69 per pound to $1.67 per pound, I checked Facebook to see Spaceman Neil's "likes" approach the 100 "likes" mark. I checked the actual post to find that, in addition to all of these "likes," several people had made comments.

And, as they say, the comment did not disappoint. They puzzled me, but they didn't disappoint.

The first one kicked off my bewilderment. One guy named Ian questioned...

...and he was quickly joined by a few of his conspiracy-theory leaning cohorts. Traitor? Neil Armstrong? Really? Oh wait. Are we still subscribing to that "man never went to the moon" bullshit? Do we still entertain the belief that the whole moon landing was staged by NASA and a group of Hollywood filmmakers led by the notorious Stanley Kubrick. Are we still standing by the unproven postulate that Kubrick's The Shining was a veiled attempt at an apology for partaking in a hoax on the world, filling his film with hints and symbolism, revealing that, when the film is played backwards or in reverse or something, it clearly states that the moon landing was a fake. Y'know.... if you're a moron.

Moments later, this comment appeared, thanks to the insightful Randall... whoever that is.

Um.... what? What does this mean? What does this have to do with Neil Armstrong? Or the space program? Or... or... anything, for that matter?

Yes, my friends, the internet is the lawless Wild West, fraught with colorful characters, ornery outlaws, shifty townsfolk, angry gunslingers, town drunks, and a group of people who still believe the world is flat and the great sun god drags the morning sun up over a mountain and pulls it back down at the end of the day... possibly in a great golden chariot. Regardless, I will keep posting my silly, stupid. mindless, borderline funny (the jury is still out on that one) entries on Facebook for your amusement... but mostly for mine.

But one thing is for sure. Facebook, oh, Facebook, why can't I quit you?

***UPDATE*** As of today, 38 people, most of whom I do not know, nor have any connection to, reacted to my early September post commemorating Steve Irwin's death. Oh.... the internet.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

don't talk to strangers

I'll never learn.

I have been working at my current job for a little over four and a half years. The job is fine, something I have been doing in one form or another for over forty years. Everyday, I arrive at work two hours before my scheduled shift time. I sit in an empty, quiet office — all alone — and I knock out a lot of work. Quickly. Efficiently. And — most importantly — uninterrupted by the banal, droning, meaningless, inane conversation carried on by my co-workers. When my co-workers arrive at work, I do not participate in any of their conversation. I work. I am very focused, mostly because my job requires me to be focused. I cannot understand how my co-workers can carry on lengthy conversations about reality shows and films in the Marvel Cinematic Universe and problems with various family members. One day recently, I overheard a particularly loud co-worer make multiple phone calls to line up a cleaning service for her mother's house. I heard every painful detail of the process loud and clear... and this person's desk isn't even in the same office as mine. She's down the hall, and yet, it was as clear as if she was sitting next to me.

My co-workers know very little about me. Some, I'm sure, don't even know my last name. I have had many, many jobs over the past forty years where I was personable, friendly and talkative with my co-workers. But now... at this point in my life... I just don't feel like it anymore. I don't need to feign interest in the lives of a bunch of people I merely work with. The extent of my conversation with my co-workers is limited to work-related subjects. Period. I don't want it to go any further than that. I'm not rude. I just don't initiate conversation and I don't care to "jump in" to an existing one. I just want to do my work, get paid and go home.

Unfortunately, I broke my own rule this week. I'm not sure why or what compelled me, but I did. And I learned why I should keep to myself.

There's a guy who comes into work at 3 o'clock, a scant 90 minutes before I am scheduled to leave for the day. I acknowledge his arrival with a nod or a quiet "hey" uttered under my breath. But that's it. It was almost a month until I found out his name is Tom. Tom sits at a computer at a desk about ten feet behind me. He sits and I sit and we tackle our respective work until 4:30 rolls around. Then I grab my water bottle, my cellphone that has been charging on a pad by my computer monitor and I leave. Sometimes, I raise a hand in parting salutation as I head for the office door.

But this week, a conversation... sort of..... erupted. I still don't remember what prompted it, but I think he brought up the subject of — of all things — "collecting autographed photos." A nerve was struck! Until recently, I collected autographed photos starting way, way back at a time when my son was still in a stroller. (He's now 38 and — SURPRISE! — no longer requires a stroller for getting around.) I have over a hundred photos, all proudly displayed on the walls of my basement. Tom (my late-in-the-day co-worker... remember?) mentioned that he, too, collected autographed photos. We exchanged a few brief anecdotes about obtaining said photos, all the while I kept thinking to myself "Why am I having this conversation?" I glanced at the office clock and quickly ended the conversation and quicklier made my exit.

The next day, Tom lumbered in to work as usual at 3 o'clock. I was busy doing last-minute corrections to an ad that was due to print at day's end. Tom took his usual place behind his computer monitor. But, then, he loudly cleared his throat in a very obvious attempt to get my attention. I turned around to see Tom produce a large photo album from a cloth tote bag he had carried in with him. "I brought this in to show you," he proudly announced as he placed the album on a communal work table and spun it around to allow me easy access to open and peruse its contents.

I opened the book and turned each page. Tom had accumulated quite an impressive collection of autographed photos. The overarching theme was old Westerns. Shows like The Virginian and a number of John Wayne feature films were represented with color and monochrome glossies personally inscribed by the hands of James Drury, Clu Gualger, L.Q. Jones and other "stars' of the same "mid-fame" stature. There were a few I did not recognize and their illegible signatures didn't add any help. However, there they were, perched on a horse alongside the Duke himself, although Mr. Wayne's signature was conspicuously absent from any photo in which he appeared. There were photos of Ernest Borgnine, Ben Johnson and more recent names like Tom Selleck. There were non-Western stars like Mel Brooks and Don Rickles. Towards the back of the volume, cleaved as if in some sort of invisible separation, were a succession of female stars, including Raquel Welch, Debra Paget, Angie Dickinson, early television staple and future game show hostess Ruta Lee, horror icon Caroline Munro, Debbie Reynolds, Adrienne Barbeau and — my favorite — Doris Day. The book ended with a photo of President George W. Bush, who Tom sheepishly admitted was probably inscribed with an Autopen. I nodded approvingly as I closed the book. "This is great, Tom.," I said as I returned to my desk for the final hour of my workday.

There's another guy at work. He's a tall man with white hair and a perpetually confused expression on his face. I don't know exactly what his position is, but he does have his own private office and he often wanders the hallways loudly singing the wrong lyrics to classic rock songs. Just before I got ready to leave for the day, the tall white-haired man walked into the office which I sometimes share with Tom.

"I hear you brought in pictures of naked broads!," he bellowed through the smirk on his face. Tom explained that he brought in his collection of autographed photos as a follow-up to a conversation we had the previous day. The tall white-haired man hefted the book into his large hands and began to page through it. "Where are the chicks?," he demanded, as he turned each page after disappointing page. He commented on a few of the photos of men until — midway through the tome — he arrived at the first female image. "Woah! Ho! Ho!," he exclaimed as he closely examined a photo of Doris Day, bringing the book right up to his face. "She's got a fuckin' great body!," he stated as he gave the black & white image the ol' "once over." From then, he gave his un-asked for impression and assessment of every single photo of a woman included in Tom's collection, punctuating each lascivious comment with words like "boobs," "hooters," "knockers" and "chest." He even threw in a stray "sweater meat." He went off on a detailed commentary of Adrienne Barbeau when he reached her photo, injecting his already creepy remarks with uncomfortable analysis of her ample endowments. "Wow!," the tall white-haired man continued, as he poked an exploratory finger at the decidedly not provocative photo of Debbie Reynolds, "Talk about a fuckin' hot body!" Tom and I said nothing. We were both taken by such surprise by these uncalled for assertions that we were rendered speechless — simultaneously! The tall white-haired man finally put the book down, leered for a moment at the closed volume and left the office. I gathered up my stuff and said goodbye to Tom.

And THIS, my friends, is why I don't talk to my co-workers.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

get out of here with that (boom * boom * boom)

As a twenty-plus year seller on eBay (Oh for crissakes! NO! She will not sell your stuff!), Mrs. Pincus joined a Facebook group called "eBay For Beginners." She joined to offer her years of experience on the commerce website to those who are just starting out as sellers and are overwhelmed by the whole thing. The membership is mostly comprised of novice sellers, hoping to cash in on the untold riches they've been told are available on eBay. On a daily — sometimes hourly — basis, folks posts questions and scenarios that are filled with a combination of wonder and wrong information. After reading responses to these questions, Mrs. P chimes in with a clear-headed solution, based on a previous experience with the issue at hand. After twenty-seven years, she has seen it all and has become somewhat of an expert on the ins and outs of the mighty online auction and "buy-it-now" website. She has fielded questions about shipping and the head-scratching policies of the United States Postal Service. She has deciphered eBay policies that can sometimes be very confusing to new sellers. She has offered tips and tricks to make for more visible and enticing listings. She has even identified mysterious items that someone discovered while digging through Grandma's attic in hopes of finding some priceless antique that will result in a huge monetary return.

Like this one...

An anonymous member in the group (as anonymously identified by the user name "Anonymous Member) posted multiple images of a particular item. The user asked for assistance in identifying this piece. The item in question — a double ceramic cup decorated with dainty flowers and a large handle joining the two vessels — was like nothing this particular user had ever seen. They came to the good, sometimes helpful, folks in the "eBay For Beginners" group for some help.

In addition to her years of eBay experience, Mrs. Pincus has many more years of experience attending assorted Jewish religious services and practices. Immediately, upon seeing the photos, Mrs. P knew exactly what she was looking at. She explained that this was a ritual handwashing cup that is used before a meal. A blessing is recited and a bit of water is poured from the cup onto each hand to cleanse before eating. The wording on the overarching handle reads "Al Nitilat Yadayim" in Hebrew. It translates to "taking up of the hands." She went on to explain that these cups are made from a variety of materials, including copper, silver, glass even carved wood and some come with a bowl to catch the excess water. Most often they are a single cup with two handles. Mrs. Pincus commented on the uniqueness of this one, adding that, although she had never seen on quite like it, it was most definitely a ritual hand-washing cup. (Curiously, it does not have a specific name, like "sure, that's a piece of clothing, but it's called a scarf" or  "yes, that's a part of a cow's muscular system, but it's called a hamburger.")

The anonymous user thanked Mrs. Pincus for the information. But, because it's the "never satisfied" internet, a few comments under Mrs. P's clear and concise explanation, was a comment from another member of the group who offered a contradictory take on the object, as though this was a game of  The Liar's Club. This person — one Janet Roberta Mahoney — asserted that, and I quote...

"I disagree that it's for handwashing as pouring from one side spills the other. Can't tell from the photo how big it is. Is the open part connected between the 2? If so, I'd say it was a vase."

I'm going out on a limb here, but I'd say that Mrs. Pincus has been to many more Passover seders than Ms. Mahoney. I would venture to guess that Mrs. Pincus has held as many ritual hand-washing cups as Ms. Mahoney has held shillelaghs. While I wouldn't question Ms. Mahoney's knowledge of leprechauns, the Blarney Stone or St. Patrick's secrets of ridding a country of snakes, I would like to know how many times she has sat through the full reading of the Magillah, how many times she kisses the mezzuzah affixed to her door jamb before she leaves the house or  how much cholent she has eaten in her lifetime. If the original post featured a photo of a thurible, I would trust Ms. Mahoney in her assessment and explanation of that piece and its function in the rituals of the Catholic Church. But, alas, it was a photo of a hand-washing cup adorned with Hebrew writing — something with which Mrs. Pincus is intimately familiar. This is a case of staying in your lane, Ms. Mahoney, even if that lane is on the left side of the road.

I have often said that Mrs. Pincus is the nicest person I know. I don't say that just because she is my wife. I genuinely believe she is the nicest person. However, after hanging around with ol' Josh Pincus for over forty years, some of that "Josh Pincus"-ness has unfortunately rubbed off on her. Every once in a while, a "Josh Pincus"-style remark slips through when a more "Mrs. Pincus" reply would be expected. Mrs. P read Ms. Mahoney's comment and replied: "You're wrong."

Kinehora.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

i think i'm in trouble

Last week, I wrote about baseball. The week before, I wrote about being an instigator on the internet. This week, I combine the two.

I spend a lot of time on the internet, specifically Facebook. On any given day, I get a lot of suggestions to join various Facebook groups based on my interests or something I may have clicked on or something I searched for on Google or something I discussed with my wife or even something I may have just thought about. You know how the technology has advanced in those algorithm things.

Because I have shown an interest in baseball, primarily my hometown's team, I get a lot of suggestions to join Facebook groups that are devoted to all things Philadelphia Phillies. In an effort to entice me to join, I get to see a post here and a post there from the particular group — sort of a "free preview" as though it was a weekend of free HBO MAX. In typical "Josh Pincus" fashion, I feel compelled to leave smart-ass comments mostly for my own amusement, but also hoping they will cause the algorithm to immediately reject such unwarranted — and unwanted — behavior. So far, it hasn't worked, but I am still mildly amused.

The once-dominant Phillies have hit a late-season snag. After a rocky start, the Phillies turned things around, riding high and defeating opponents left and right... until they didn't. While they still hold a substantial lead over the other teams in the league, the gap has begun to narrow as the season winds down to its final weeks — weeks that will determine who moves on to the coveted post-season. With a glimmer of hope for ending this nasty slump, the Phillies scored a whopping 11 runs on the Kansas City Royals on August 24. The Phils' offense was on fire with bats a-swinging, including catcher J.T. Realmuto knocking two over the outfield wall and racking up 7 RBIs. Every starter in the Philles line-up recorded a hit. Well... almost everyone. Poor Alec Bohm, the Philles usually-stellar third baseman, couldn't hit nuthin' despite five times to the plate. At the end of the evening's contest, the Royals retreating to their clubhouse with their collective tails between their legs, the fraternal assembly that is the current Phillies roster, hung around to congratulate their efforts. Photographers captured a tender and intimate moment as first baseman Bryce Harper, who went 1-5 with an RBI in the game, threw a brotherly arm across the sagging shoulders of Alec Bohm in a gesture of camaraderie, consolation and compassion for his beleaguered teammate. A Facebook group called A2D Radio posted the image with the single word caption "THIS!". Hell, it didn't even need a caption. Everything you needed to know about the team bond these players have for each other was apparent in this photo. Harper's Jesus-like expression of benevolence. Bohm's sadness and frustration with just a touch of hope at the words of his colleague. The dimly-lit, slightly out-of-focus, slightly off-center composition. It was all there. I didn't even need the thirteen hashtags A2D thought were necessary. The initial post generated 41 thousand positive reactions as well as 276 comments, most offering some sort of variation on the "I love this team!" sentiment.

I say most offered a positive comment. Most, not all. Let us not forget about one Josh Pincus, the internet's favorite redheaded stepchild who was only put here to be the cynical smart-aleck that you have come to know and love... or loathe... whichever the case may be. 

Among the outpouring of love, I commented: 

Yeah. I did that. Yeah.... I know. But it made me laugh and that is what is most important. Jeez, it even garnered 32 reactions — granted three of them were angry. But, as they say, there's no such thing as bad publicity. Honestly, I was just making a joke. I'm always making a joke. Some are funny. Some are not. I know that. Depending who you are, none of them are funny, but I can't help that. We each have our own taste in humor. Personally, I don't find Sebastian Maniscalco to be funny, but I think Andy Kaufman was hysterical. I love the Marx Brothers but Laurel and Hardy do nothing for me. I understand that my sense of humor isn't for everyone and I will happily admit when one of my jokes bombs. Just like I'm sure you'll happily admit when one of my jokes bombs.

And then along came a wave of folks who were only too happy to tell me exactly how funny they thought my comment was. On a scale of 1 to 10, they found it to be not funny at all.

I was told, in no uncertain terms, to:

• get my head out of the gutter
• grow up
• grow the fuck up
• come out of the closet (After all, where would the internet be without a homophobic slur. One thing you can say about Facebook, it is consistent.)

In addition, I was informed that "one day I would make a friend," that I'd "probably start gooning all over [my] living room" (I didn't understand that one.) and that I had made a "douche bag remark." (That one I understood.) I was questioned with "Dude? Really?" and "Are you 10?" All in all, it was a funny diversion until I got bored and looked for the next post just begging for a "Josh Pincus" comment.

Will this make me stop making comments on the internet? Are you kidding? Does the Pope shit in the woods? (Oh, you know what I mean.) No sir. This is only the beginning. I am on a mission.

And that mission is to make me laugh. Me. Not you.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

misty watercolor memories

One of the first things I did when I finally broke down and joined the wonderful world of Facebook, was join some groups. I joined a few that appeared to show appreciation for several TV shows from my youth, specifically The Munsters and the original Batman series from 1966. The Batman group went south real fast, as it was hacked and overtaken by a fierce political faction that bombarded the defenseless group with vicious, unrelated-to-Batman posts. The Munsters group just got boring after I saw the fifth consecutive photo of Al Lewis sneering at the camera in full "Grandpa" makeup. I have since left both groups.

I also joined an "Adrienne Barbeau Appreciation" group, if only to post my tale of my meeting with the actress to see what sorts of feedback it elicited. The response was mostly positive, until it turned into a free-for-all with unwelcome, sexist comments that crossed the line of decorum several times. After repetitive doctored photos of  Ms. Barbeau were posted in this group, I left.

I also joined a group devoted to my elementary school. This one was initially joyful. I was reminded of incidents and people I hadn't thought about in decades. I saw class pictures that instantly brought back vivid memories — some good, some not so good. The more I read, the wider my smile grew. I saw references to long-forgotten teachers made by equally unrecalled classmates. The conversations were cheerful, misty-eyed chronicles of times gone by. It was very sweet and sentimental and — as much as you might not believe it — I can be a pretty sentimental guy. Yes, I can!

One particular comment thread that I followed exuded endless and unwavering praise for a particular sixth grade teacher named Mr. Waggoner. "He was my favorite!," was the general consensus, with others offering more personal details. 

"He was an inspiration!"

"He was so cool!"

"He taught me so much!"

...and on and on and on. Mr. Waggoner was a big, barrel-chested he-man with coiffed hair, thick sideburns and a flashy wardrobe right out of Hollywood. He sported huge-knotted neckties to complement his fashionable wide-lapeled sport jackets. His pearly-white smile melted the hearts of his female students and their moms alike. The boys appreciated (and were maybe a bit envious of) his rough-and-tumble persona and rugged appearance. Needless to say, the guy was well-loved and made quite a long-lasting impression.

I, however, did not have Mr. Waggoner for a teacher. My teacher, that year, was a first-year, unsure, awkward young lady who looked as though she had stepped off the set of To Sir with Love. But, I often saw Mr. Waggoner walking the halls, his chest puffed out and a pair of mirrored aviator sunglasses perched on his head for easy accessibly in case his services were required for schoolyard duty in the bright sunshine.

As I read the comments and endless accolades for Mr. Waggoner, I scowled to myself. I had a different impression of the beloved teacher. My memory was formed years after I had left elementary school. My memory was just as vivid as those cherished by a bunch of nearly sixty year-olds, now frequenting Facebook for a chance to relive their youth.

I graduated from high school in 1979. During my high school years, I made friends with some people who attended my elementary school, but I did not know them then. Sure, I maintained relationships with those that I had known since first grade, but the more "open" atmosphere allowed for more outreaching friendships. My best friend in high school was Alan. Alan and I were nearly inseparable for four years. Alan was a student at my elementary school, but our friendship didn't meld until high school. 

The day after graduation, Alan and I thought it would be fun to visit our elementary school. Despite nursing mild hangovers, Alan and I gathered up our newly-acquired yearbooks and headed to a school whose hallways we had not darkened in years. We effortlessly entered the school, as it was 1979 — years before rampant school shootings and terrorist attacks required prison-like security measures. Nobody gave us a second look as we roamed the hallways — hallways that appeared much smaller and compact than they did in our collective memories. We looked through the narrow glass window of each classroom door until we spotted a teacher we recognized. Finally, at the end of a top-floor hallway, we saw Mr. Waggoner at the front of his classroom. We brazenly knocked on the door. He opened the door with a grin and invited us into his classroom. Mr. Waggoner looked nearly the same as we had remembered, except for a few gray hairs now mingling with the jet black ones at his temples. He was still wearing up-to-the-minute fashions and he still had a brilliant smile. Mr. Waggoner introduced us to his classroom as two former students, although neither Alan nor I had him for a teacher. I remember being taken aback by how little sixth-graders were. We thought we were "hot shit" in sixth grade and now we stood before a roomful of veritable babies!

Mr. Waggoner offered "congratulations" as he took a yearbook from one of us and began thumbing through the hefty volume. He was perusing the glossy pages when he suddenly stopped on a large, candid photograph of a particularly attractive female classmate. Mr. Waggoner pointed to her ample breasts and made an extremely — and I mean EXTREMELY — inappropriate remark in a low voice that only Alan and I could hear. Here he was, in front of a classroom filled with 11 year-olds, speaking to two 18 year-old former students and yet, still felt compelled to make a macho locker-room comment of an overtly sexual nature. 

This incident happened 41 years ago and I still think about it as though it happened yesterday. 

So, I as a new member of my elementary school's group, I related my story in direct contrast to popular opinion. Yeah, I knew it was probably a mistake as soon as I clicked the "post" button, but I never claimed to be a genius. Within a minute, I got a reply telling me that my post was inappropriate. I understand that the group was made up of an overwhelming majority of folks who have only the fondest memories of Mr. Waggoner and can't possibly face the fact that he is not the sainted figure they remember... that someone else may have a different opinion. Soon, the chastising replies directed at me came thick and fast. I deleted my original post and possibly learned my lesson. Although I still comment here and there in this group, I have not participated in any further conversation regarding Mr. Waggoner.

Just this week, a member of my elementary school's Facebook group announced that Mr. Waggoner had passed away at the age of 88. The outpouring of grief and love was astounding, with dozens of people offering memories of a beloved figure, so influential in their lives.

No. I did not comment.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

you better shop around

Since the beginning of the global pandemic, our shopping habits and procedures have changed considerably. Going to buy groceries used to be a regular occurrence for the Pincuses (Pinci?) and sometimes, Mrs. P and I would find ourselves at the supermarket a few times during any given week. Now, we (and by "we," I of course mean my wife) go to pick up our groceries from a list compiled online. Our pre-picked, pre-bagged, pre-paid grocery order is delivered by a masked employee right to the cargo area of our SUV. Simple. Convenient. Annoyance free.

Yeah. Right.

There ain't nothing that is annoyance free, especially in a world occupied by humans. Humans always seem to ruin a perfectly good plan, either by saying something inappropriate or stupid or both. Or by doing something that blatantly goes against the policy of the company for whom they enjoy employment. Or they don't do something they should be doing. Or any combination of the above.

Our first choice for groceries is Walmart, the mighty global retail giant that stocks nearly everything. Their prices on most items are so ridiculously low, it makes one wonder how they can sell things so cheaply and why other stores sell the identical item for much more money. Oh... I know the reason! It's because, in order to take advantage of the great prices, you are forced to go to Walmart. Our weekly trips to Walmart started off great. After the first couple of weeks, their ranking dropped from "great" to "pretty good," as the accuracy decreased and product substitution increased. Soon, Walmart's status was at a solid "okay," with the foreseeable potential of dropping further. Right now, thirty-plus weeks into this shitshow, Walmart is holding steady at "adequate." Lately, our orders have been missing items, requiring a return trip. Once, they forgot an entire bag of groceries. We had to go back to the store, well after their curbside pick-up hours had ended for the day. We had difficulty finding someone — anyone — who would venture into the now-closed grocery department to retrieve our errant bag. Now, for subsequent orders, we have begun to perform an inventory before we leave the parking lot.

We have also frequented Target for grocery pick up. Target, while still a discount store, is a noticeable step above Walmart. In the pre-COVID-19 days, when we still went in to stores, Target was always cleaner and more orderly than Walmart. And their customer base was well-versed in the art of tucking in a shirt. These days, Target seems to have a better, more-efficient handle on the "curbside pick-up" procedure. Walmart requires customers to book and secure a time slot in which to arrive. Target will happily accept your online order and merely asks for the time you will be in their parking lot (in a newly-delineated area installed since the pandemic began). When you arrive, you log into their website, enter the space number in which you are parked and within a minute or two, a friendly red-and-beige clad employee will appear with your order — sometimes including a free sample product along with the requested items. (Once, we got a fruit rollup. Another time, we got a small box of Cap'n Crunch!) But, even Target isn't perfect. Just this week, Target experienced its first Achilles' heel. As part of our order, I asked for two bottles of Johnson's Baby Shampoo. (Yes, that's what I wash my delicate scalp with, you got a problem with that?) According to the website, it was available, but we were only permitted to place 'one" in our virtual shopping cart. Just before our selected pick-up time, we were informed, via email, that the shampoo was unavailable. "Really?" I exclaimed, to no one in particular, "There's not a single bottle of baby shampoo in that entire store?" No one in particular remained silent. My wife and I headed over to our nearby Target. We parked and notified the store that we were there to accept our order. However, the option to enter your parking spot was unavailable. Someone was required to actually go into the store. Mrs. Pincus donned her mask and gloves, a practice that has become second nature at this point in time, and grudgingly set off for the front entrance. A few minutes later, she returned, holding a plastic Target shopping bag. While at the "pick up" area, she asked about the shampoo, explaining its alleged unavailability. The employee shook her head and said that baby shampoo is with baby items, not health and beauty. Another employee was sent out on a mission and returned with three bottles of the shampoo. I have a hard time understanding how just one person in Target holds the secret as to the location of baby shampoo... and it's not the person filling the online orders. Is Target slipping? Oh, say it isn't so!

There's one more place that Mrs. P goes for groceries, but visits have been reduced to approximately once per month. I'm talking about BJ's Wholesale Club. BJ's Wholesale, if you are not familiar, is like Costco and Sam's Club, selling common grocery items in quantiles far too big for the average family to fully consume before some of it spoils. They also stock giant-size containers of things that you would normally purchase one of in a lifetime — like nutmeg. Does anyone who doesn't operate a ski lodge need a hundred and twelve ounces of nutmeg? Mrs. Pincus has graciously been doing the shopping for her parents, as well as for us. So an infrequent stop at BJ's Wholesale can be beneficial for stocking up on large containers of orange juice or cereal or other items that we know we'll use in a reasonable amount of time (no... not nutmeg). On my wife's most recent trip to BJ's Wholesale, her purchases were actually pretty modest. A bunch of bananas, a couple of heads of lettuce, a case of Polar seltzer for our son and a couple of big bags of Hallowe'en candy that may or may not be distributed — the jury is still out. When Mrs. P began placing her items on the conveyor belt at the check out, the cashier felt that it was fully within her rights to comment on my wife's purchases. "Boy, you sure have a big order," she announced. 

Now, if you've ever been to a BJ's Wholesale (or Costco or Sam's Club), I'm sure you've seen folks dragging flatbed carts behind them laden to overflowing with cases and cases of various commodities like soda, bottled water, bulk packages of potato chips, giant glass jars of pickles or jalapeno peppers. Sometimes, you'll see people guiding several overstocked carts through the aisles — as though they are replenishing the staples of a small convenience store or sandwich shop. As a matter of fact, some of these people are doing just that. Independent businessmen and women come to BJ's Wholesale often — a few times a week sometimes — to buy what they need to help keep their businesses running. Believe me, they are buying way more that eight bananas and a gallon of orange juice. Heck, there were people in the checkout line with triple the order size as Mrs. Pincus's. Why this cashier chose to marvel at a few bunches of produce and a few bags of candy is beyond me.

Oh, we will get through this dark pall that is hanging over us. COVID-19, I mean. Stupidity we're stuck with.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

i love the dead

With so much going on in the world — so many important topics up for discussion and debate — I thought I'd focus on a subject that holds the utmost importance to me.

Me.

Specifically, my wonderful and turbulent relationship with the internet. Over a decade ago, I entered the world of the World Wide Web when I published the first entry* on joshpincusiscrying.com, my illustration blog. My blog consisted mostly of entries for the weekly challenge posted on Illustration Friday, a sort-of community of artists from all over the world. Illustration Friday offers a single word of inspiration and allows artists a week to interpret that word until the next Friday brings a new word. I have actively participated in this process for eleven-plus years, never missing a single week (even when Illustration Friday missed a few themselves). I began small, hesitant to post anything controversial, fearful of editorializing, expressing my opinions or — gulp! — causing a stir. In between my weekly drawings, I began to create drawings of my own inspiration, under the category title "from my sketchbook."  But, over time, I began to inject some of my unorthodox sense of humor that has become the unofficial Josh Pincus trademark. 

In 2008, I posted this drawing of aspiring actress Peg Entwistle, who met an untimely demise in 1932. A distraught Peg, weary of the cruel treatment she received from film executives who crushed her glittery dreams of stardom, flung herself from the top of the massive "H" in the famed "Hollywood" sign that loomed over Tinsel Town. My illustration pissed a reader off so much that he contacted me with a series of threatening emails. I was so pleased that someone took that much time and effort with something that I created, I couldn't have been more flattered. As an artist, as far as I'm concerned, there is no such thing as bad publicity. I would rather have my art evoke anger than joy. Anger is a much stronger and more passionate emotion. 

But it didn't end there. I was reprimanded by the admin of another illustration website. I received more threatening emails regarding a drawing I did of session drummer/convicted murderer Jim Gordon. I pissed off a fellow artist who accused me of being a bully. The list goes on and it's all documented under the "About" tab on my blog's homepage.

In 2008, I joined Twitter, which — depending how you look at it — was the best or worst thing I could have ever done. Twitter became the ideal place for Josh Pincus to flourish. It became an outlet for  my jokes, commentary, sarcasm and stream-of-consciousness thought. To date, I have logged over 55,000 tweets. It's a wonder I ever get any work done. Soon, I began to promote my drawings on Twitter. I gained more followers and widened my audience, although, I maintain, that I draw primarily for my own amusement.

Troublemaker

Last year, while looking to amp up my illustration output from what had dwindled to just one per week, I began a new series on my illustration blog. I kicked off 2016 by posting the first drawing in my series I decided to call "Dead Celebrity Spotlight." As I stated in the premiere entry, this would marry two of my prime interests: drawing and celebrities who had passed on. The "drawing" part was obvious. I have been drawing since I was a child. The "dead celebrity" part stems from my love of old Hollywood, chock full of obscure tales of fleeting fame and spectacular deaths and my affinity for visiting cemeteries (yeah, I do that). So, after drawing and writing about a different dead celebrity (some that you recognize, some that you hardly even heard of) every week for an entire year, I continued the series into the current year, adding some special "mid-week" entries as the news of the passing of a beloved and renowned public figure broke. There are (as of right now) one hundred and twelve drawings and stories in the Dead Celebrity Spotlight series. I plan to keep posting new ones every Friday. I hope they garner the reaction that my most recent post achieved.

Early Friday morning, I woke up at 5:45 and, after showering and brushing my teeth and warming up the Keurig, I lumbered up to the third floor of my house to post the daily celebrity death anniversaries on the Josh Pincus Facebook fan page. Then, before heading back downstairs for a cup of coffee, a bowl of Raisin Bran and a couple of episodes of The Andy Griffith Show prior to catching my morning train, I selected a draft from the backlog library of "Dead Celebrity Spotlight" section of my blog to publish. This day, I chose a personal observation of teen idol David Cassidy, whose death just last week at a youthful 67 shocked and saddened a generation of fans who grew up watching and loving him on The Partridge Family. My drawing and commentary went live at 6:19 AM and, little did I know, all hell was about to break loose. My tweet, which is set up to automatically generate from Facebook, got some "likes," some "retweets," and some "replies" — one of which was quite displeased by my sentiment.

A Twitter user named Mar offered this reply:

In typical Josh Pincus fashion, I responded:

I thought this was funny enough to post as a screenshot on my Facebook page as well.

Later, another angered Twitter user, suspiciously calling herself  "Laurie," perhaps as an homage to Susan Dey, David Cassidy's TV sister on the 70s sitcom, expressed her displeasure at the choice of terms I used as the title of my illustration series (on my blog).

This one was puzzling. Was she offended? Really? It's not like I said "Croaked Celebrities," or "Celebrities Now Residing in Box City," or "Lifestyles of the Rotting and Famous," or any number of other derogatory euphemisms for "The Great Beyond." "Dead" is a perfectly good, non-offensive word. Funeral directors, doctors, newscasters, even your mother ("Oh dear, I just heard from Fannie that Milton is dead.") use it all the time. 

So, not being one to drop things until they are thoroughly beaten into submission, I questioned:

Laurie replied:

But the criteria for inclusion in this series is the celebrity has to be dead. Not for any particular length of time, just dead. I have done drawings of celebrities within minutes of the announcement of their death (former Phillies pitcher Roy Halladay comes to mind). I tried to stress this in 140 characters or less, but my confusion hindered my ability to be as articulate as I would have liked. Instead, I returned this:

Her brief retort popped up almost immediately, followed by what is commonly known as  a "kiss-off:"

And, just like that, she was gone. Her portion of the debate ended. Her final summation delivered. As Archie Bunker often proclaimed: "Case closed!"

When I was compiling screenshots to compose this entry on It's Been a Slice, I was met by this message when I visited "Laurie's" Twitter account page:

Now we're talking. Or... maybe we're not.

I said it before, and I'll say it again: Oh, do I love the internet!

* Ironically, that initial entry, in March 2007, featured an illustration of Bill Cosby, whose shattered career has been chronicled in recent headlines. How prophetic of me. I think.

***** ***** ***** ***** *****

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www.joshpincusiscrying.com

open the door, richard

For however long I have maintained a Facebook presence, I have posted the death anniversaries of notable (and not so notable) people on a daily basis. Each morning before I make breakfast for myself, I scan the dark corners of the internet and select a group of folks whose common bond is the day they took their final breath and joined the choir invisible (as George Eliot so eloquently put it). I find a suitable photo and post it along with the simple, non-descriptive line: "So and so died on this date in this particular year." It's up to the reader (one of the 244 faithful who have chosen to "like" Josh Pincus is Crying) to Google the name to find out more, if they so choose. Hey, it's a hobby. Just like collecting stamps. Sort of.

I also post current celebrity deaths as soon as I can confirm information of their demise. Now, my criteria for "celebrity" varies greatly. Of course, a famous actor or actress, politician or sports figure fits the bill. But, I have also included those with lesser-known sobriquets but well-revered significance in the world of pop culture. Last February, for instance, just a week prior to the passing of Supreme Court Justice Antonin Scalia, one Mary Fiumara, died at the age of 88. Ms Fiumara was prominently featured in a commercial for Prince spaghetti that ran for 13 years. In April, Lee Waas passed away at 94. He wrote the happy little jingle that blared out of loudspeakers mounted on the roofs of Mr. Softee trucks, announcing the welcome arrival of the ice cream man. Though I have been obsessed with celebrity deaths for years, I have taken my little hobby to the internet in an effort to keep better track of the demise of famous people and to bring the information to a wider audience. I have "met" (in internet terms) many people who share my interest, thus giving me a bit of validation. So, I will continue.

Just this week, I acknowledged the passing of a character actor named Richard Karron. Karron was a stand-up comic who was performing at New York City's famous comedy club Catch a Rising Star, when actor Dustin Hoffman took a liking to his routine. Through this connection, Richard began getting bit parts in television and films based on his distinctive, gravelly voice and boisterously fun personality. He appeared in television dramas and sitcoms, as well as taking small roles in Mel Brooks' History of the World, Part I and Anne Bancroft's slapstick but endearing Fatso, her feature-length directorial debut. In addition, he was in a series of commercials on TV and radio for the regional auto parts chain Royal Auto ("We're Sens-a-tive!"). Karron was a member of the Screen Actors Guild for 35 years, yet his name remained mostly unknown. Well, Karron fit the profile of the type of unsung "celebrity" I like to remember and when I discovered that he passed away on March 1, 2017, I let the internet know that I knew who he was.

I never anticipated the shit storm it would unleash.

At 1:20 PM, on a day nearly two weeks after the fact, I posted an innocuous, "Josh Pincus"-style death announcement for Karron on my Facebook page, like I've done hundreds of times before for similar-level celebrities. The "likes" and comments began almost immediately. First was my pal Steve, who joins me in my love for pop culture and forgotten celebrities. In his initial comment, he reminded me of Karron's Royal Auto commercials. Next came a "thumbs up" from my wife. An hour or so later, a fellow named "Gimmi" commented that Karron had lost a significant amount of weight. It's true. In his early career appearances, Karron cut quite an imposing figure and, based on the type of role for which he was cast, his size was an attribute. In more recent photos, he looks as though he had shed a good portion of his bulk.

Now, for those of you who do not know me personally — I am a bit of a smart-ass. No, actually, I'm a lot of a smart-ass. It's just my nature. I have been known to make jokes at "supposedly" inappropriate times. But that's the beauty of being a natural smart-ass. There are no inappropriate times. Nothing is sacred and everything can be funny. I have done my very best to have that aspect of my personality come across on my blog and, for the most part, I think I've been successful. I try to be funny any chance I get. And, if you don't think I'm funny, rest assured, I think I'm funny and that is what's important. So when Gimmi made his comment about Karron's weight loss, I couldn't resist. I replied:

Well, Steve thought it was funny. Of course, I thought it was funny. Mrs. Pincus, who has been my best audience for the last 35 years, thought it was funny. But, alas, Valerie, in The Beach Boys hometown of Hawthorne, California, didn't see the humor at all. As a matter of fact, I must have struck a nerve, because her outrage prompted her to tell me (with Gimmi in her corner): 

See, this is the stuff I live for! This is what makes the internet the greatest invention since... since.... well, ever! I insulted someone I never met, on the other side of the country with a joke that, technically, she had to search for. (I checked. Valerie is not currently a "Facebook follower" of mine. I guess I've blown that chance now.) I love getting comments on my blogs (this one and my illustration blog), especially negative ones. Sure, I appreciate the ones that tell me how wonderful I am. But the ones from readers that have been offended by something I've drawn or written (or both) are the ones I cherish and remember. It's the angry ones that tell me someone took the time to really study what I have produced and, instead of dismissing it as just another blemish on the face of the internet, they took the time to let me know how abhorrent they found my work. Now, that's a sincere commitment! So, imagine my excitement when this little exchange popped up under my original announcement for poor Richard Karron.

Steve joined in my elation and I offered another snide comment to all participants. Valerie, however, was not amused. As an alleged personal acquaintance of Richard Karron, she found my retort repugnant and Steve's accolade equally deplorable. (All claims to close relationships to celebrities — no matter what the level of fame — is "alleged" on the internet. Unless the claim can be backed up or is made by me.) Plus, Karron began his career as a stand-up comic working in small clubs delivering gritty material. I can only assume that he either heard or told jokes of a similar edgy tone.

My mom taught me to laugh at everything. I get my subversive sense of humor from her. My mom died 26 years ago and I have joked about her death on several occasions. It doesn't mean I am disrespecting her memory. On the contrary, with every snarky comment, I am keeping her memory alive.

Oh, this is not the first time I got into a "back and forth" with a total stranger on the internet. I don't think it will be the last, because you never know what benign statement will set someone off. Since the internet is so vast, coupled with the protection one gets from commenting under the guise of anonymity, these usually reserved voices are riled up without much effort. The more riled they get, the more likely they are to tell me exactly how they feel. 

And that makes me love the internet more and more every day.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com