no time for losers

My wife and I went our first cruise together almost ten years ago. Mrs. Pincus had been on a cruise with her family the year before and, when she returned, she did a whole lot of convincing to get me on board (pun fully intended) with the idea.

Once our trip was booked, I really didn't know what to expect. My only frame of reference for going on a cruise was the nine seasons of The Love Boat I had watched and maybe the seven minute excursion into the faux wilderness that is the Jungle Cruise in Disneyland.

In the final week of May 2013, my wife, our luggage and I left New York City's Pier 88 for 7 days of fun aboard the Norwegian Gem. Sure, I knew about the the endless buffets, the spectacular ocean views, the endless buffets, the poolside relaxation, the lavish nighttime staged entertainment and the endless buffets, but I was still unclear about what else there was do occupy my time over the course of a week... you know, besides eating. Well, on Day One we were presented with a full itinerary of activities tailor-made to fit any and all interests. There were sports related activities like basketball and ping pong (not interested). There were seminars about investments (not interested). There were demonstrations of ice carving, cooking and the age-old art of towel folding (somewhat interested). But, my wife and I had a keen interest in the silly game competitions that offered throughout the day. 

At the time, there was a show on television called Minute To Win It inexplicably hosted by TV chef Guy Fieri. On the show, guests would compete against each other in silly little games with the hopes of winning money or prizes. The contests weren't on the level of the Olympics or any professional sports. They were more like the games one would play at a children's birthday party., like carrying an egg on a spoon from Point A to Point B or removing the shaving cream from an inflated balloon with a real, sharp razor. The enthusiastic staff of the Norwegian Gem created their own version of the TV game show, with similar stunts. The prizes, however were not nearly as desirable as those rewarded by a network television show. There were no big screen TVs or diamond bracelets or large stacks of cash. Instead, victors were given a deck of cards or a t-shirt, each emblazoned with the logo of the Norwegian Cruise Lines. Look, we were all there to have fun. We were in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean, away from our everyday lives and surrounded by obscene amounts of food twenty-four hours a day. We weren't physically-fit athletes competing for the honor of representing our respective countries on the world stage. The fact that we were being judged on our ability to stack plastic cups the fastest drove that message home.

For most of us, anyway.

There is something about a cruise that creates human bonding. As the days of a cruise progress, one-time strangers quickly become inseparable friends. I have likened this sea-worthy phenomenon to summer camp for adults. By the end of a cruise, close friendships are formed with folks that have only spent a short time together. These friendships sometimes extend beyond the confining rails of the port and starboard sides of a cruise ship. So, when the time came to choose sides for an hour of frivolous fun, "ship friends" paired up immediately as though these bonds had been in place for decades. Of course, there are a few introverts here and there, but the more gregarious would always welcome the few stragglers into the fray. On one particular session of Norwegian Minute to Win It, a young lady who was sailing alone, expressed a desire to participate in the fun. She was happily welcomed onto a team and the "competition" commenced.

The first round of play involved something with balloons or cotton balls or plastic horseshoes either being tossed or passed or balanced on top of each other. Whatever the object of the game was, everyone was laughing and goofing around and having all the fun they could possibly muster. Some participants were already drunk, which made for an even livelier time. Balls were dropped. Balloons were popped and laughter filled the air. The young lady who was sailing alone began to seethe. She frowned and glared at her teammates. When time was called for this round, her team had placed last. The winning team members were each honored with a cloth drink koozie printed with the NCL logo. The young lady who was sailing alone was furious. Visibly furious. The next game began and, again it was some sort of ridiculous endeavor using spongy balls or an assortment of plastic discs or maybe it employed balloons again. Whatever it was, everyone was having giddy fun. After all, that's what we were here for...
fun! 

Well, most of us, anyway.

The young lady who was sailing alone stomped her feet at the lack of concentration exhibited by her teammates. She saw that the other teams were making higher stacks of discs or popping more balloons or whatever they had to do. Her furrowed brow and clenched fists were strikingly out of place among the insanity that was prevalent among the other competitors. When Round Two concluded and each member of the winning team was presented with a reusable drink cup displaying the familiar NCL logo, the young lady who was sailing alone had had just about enough. Before the next feat was announced, the young lady who was sailing alone raised her voice and announced, "I quit! I will not play any game where I don't win!" She glared with a squinted accusatory eye at everyone before storming off to.... who knows where. We were still in the middle of the ocean, so there weren't too many places to go to avoid your former teammates. Every one was silent for a few seconds, until the air was split with a round of collective nervous laughter. Then we all readied our balloons or mini Frisbees for round number three.

Over the course of the next few days, one couldn't help but run into the young lady who was sailing alone. We saw her at the buffet. We saw her by the pool. We saw her queuing up at the ship's showroom for that evening's performance. 

Everyone saw her, but no one said a word. Almost ten years later, someone wrote about her.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

the french inhaler

After being stuck in the house for a full year, I seem to write only about food or television. Well, to be honest, that is pretty much all that goes on around here. I eat food and watch television. So, until I leave the house, get used to it. It's gonna be one or the other.

By the way, this one is about food.

I remember going with my mother to a McDonald's near my house to pick up dinner. It was usually a summer night when my mom didn't feel like cooking. My father — a simple guy who turned his nose up at "fancy food" — was just as happy to have a Big Mac and fries for dinner... just as long as it wasn't every night. He expected my mom to cook on most nights. Getting food from McDonald's every once in a while was okay, as long as my mother didn't make it a habit. Not that my mother was in fear of my father. She wasn't. It's just that in those days of the late 60s to early 70s, husbands expected to find their wives "slaving over a hot stove" when they came home from work. Lucky for my father, my mom actually enjoyed cooking. And his imagined status a "King of the Castle" remained in tact. On the days my mom wasn't motivated to cook, my father yielded to McDonald's as a gesture of his benevolence. My mom picking it up was — in his mind — him still running things with an iron fist. In reality, my mom didn't mind going. And she liked to drive.

One of the best parts about going to McDonald's with my mom was the extra order of fries she would get for drive home. She'd order a Big Mac for my dad, one hamburger each for her, my brother and me, along with an order of French fries for each of us. Then, she'd tack on a fifth order of fries that we'd secretly share across the bench front seat of her big green Rambler. I'd steady the big bag of burgers and such on my lap and my mom would pull out a single order of fries and lay it on a paper napkin between us. We ate them all up by the time we pulled alongside the curb in front of our house. My dad and my brother were none the wiser that we had gotten a head start on dinner.

When Mrs. Pincus and I began dating, I was pleased to learn that I had found someone who shared my love of French fries. I worked at an ice cream parlor not too far from my future wife's apartment. On nights when I would work late (sometimes until one in the morning), I would stop at one of our favorite restaurants — Copa Banana on Philadelphia's storied South Street — and bring home a big order of their locally-famous Spanish fries for the two of us to share as a bedtime snack. (Sometimes, I'd even wake her up.) Copa's Spanish fries were standard thin-cut French fries smothered in grilled onions and jalapeño peppers... and boy! were they good! Since bringing home an order of Spanish fries became a regular practice, I started bring two orders because I was accused of (and rightly so) scarfing down more than my fair share of the fries from a single order. To this day, I still have a difficult understanding of the concept of "sharing."

In the last several years (before a worldwide pandemic brought the industry to a grinding halt), Mrs. P and I had taken a number of cruises. Along with the trivia games, the campy stage shows and the obligatory reggae cover bands, one of the things we really enjoyed about cruising was the obscene amounts of food that was available 24 hours per day. Throughout the day, ridiculous quantities of food were presented buffet-style and we took full advantage of it. I believe we started a tradition on our very first cruise of grabbing a soup bowl full of French fries before making our way to our next scheduled activity. The fries at the ship's buffet were nothing special — probably frozen, then dropped into a constantly-operating deep fryer as needed. But, they were our comfort food and they were included in the cost of the cruise. And as we all know, the goal of any patron of a buffet is to put that place out of business. Sure, it never happens, but we all give it our darndest effort. Plus, they sure were comforting.

On more recent cruises on the Carnival line, we were treated to TV celebrity chef Guy Fieri's take on French fries, as most Carnival ships are outfitted with a Guy's Burger Joint, adjacent to the top deck pool. While we did not partake of the hamburger offerings (to be honest, they are pretty disgusting-looking heaps of sizzling grease), the French fries were pretty good. They were the "skin-on" variety that may or may not be fresh-cut on board. There were massive sacks of potatoes surrounding the open-air counter-service eatery, but they might have just been for show. Nevertheless, a plateful of fries can be dressed to your liking at the nearby condiments bar, that offers grilled onions, mushrooms, peppers and a slew of squeeze-on sauces including Guy's patented "Donkey Sauce"... whatever the fuck that is. On many a cruise, I have assembled (and subsequently wolfed down) my own version of Copa's Spanish fries. Curiously, Mrs. P, who at one time fought me for an equal share of those Catalan spuds, opts for the regular fries from the buffet. I think she just doesn't like Guy Fieri. Can't say that I blame her.

Two years ago, Mrs. P and I decided to stop eating like ten-year-olds at a birthday party and start eating like thoughtful, responsible adults. We have each eaten a large salad topped with salmon and a baked potato as our dinners for going on two years now. We have supplemented our diet by walking daily. We have both lost weight and feel better as a result. But we have also cut a lot of our favorite foods out of our diet altogether — including our beloved French fries. But, a month or so ago, Mrs. Pincus purchased an air fryer. Immediately we began experimenting with different foods and temperature settings. First, Mrs. P made potato latkes (pancakes) and they were a drippy, runny mess (although they tasted good). After a little more trial-and-error, she made dried apples and bananas. She made "fried" eggplant and mushrooms and peppers.  But, just this week, our old friends French fries made a return appearance at the Pincus household. Our usual nightly baked potato was instead sliced into wedges, sprayed with a light coating of calorie-less olive oil and popped in the marvelous air fryer for twenty or so minutes. Out came a bounty of crispy, crunchy pieces that satisfied our long unfulfilled craving for French fries. Heck, we even had to buy a bottle of ketchup for the first time in two years. They were so good, we had them again the next night and the next as well. Last night, we put a couple of sweet potatoes through the same process. They were delicious, too.

Who would have imaged that the humble French fry would play such a unifying part in my life? Where would I be without them?

Okay... now on to television.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

promises something for everyone

Boy, do I miss going on a cruise. Actually, my wife really misses going on a cruise, but she begins her lamenting as soon as our current cruise pulls into home port. As much as I love cruising, I at least wait until there is a worldwide pandemic to begin thinking of how much I miss cruising.

I remember when Mrs. Pincus booked our first cruise way back in 2013. I was not really happy with the thought of spending a week floating in the middle of the ocean with a bunch of strangers — playing shuffleboard, participating in some sort of dance class by the pool and wearing a tuxedo to dine at the Captain's Table. You see, my only frame of reference for going on a cruise came from The Love Boat.

From 1977 until 1986, I relished in the exotic locales, cheesy plotlines and familiar crewmembers that flashed across my television screen on a weekly basis — sometimes taking twice its allotted hour-long time slot to tell a tale filled with more intrigue than normal. I knew the Pacific Princess inside and out — from the split-level dining room, to the Acapulco Lounge to the secluded Pirates Cove where one could find a sympathetic ear from Isaac, apparently the sole bartender aboard. The staterooms depicted on The Love Boat were spacious and luxurious, decked out with full curtain-and-valance ensembles, wall-sized paintings and king-size beds (or twins with two feet of maneuvering space between). There was a large dresser and a bureau (those are two separate pieces of furniture) and a full bathroom with a door that doesn't hit anything when opened. Guests would regularly invite other guests into their cabin for drinks, hors d'oeuvres, hanky-panky or climbing into a two-piece horse costume to fool a couple of kids. 

On my first cruise, I mistook the corridor to access our room for a "staff-only" passageway, due to its narrow span and the tiny doors that lined its walls. The actual room — once I wedged our suitcases through the door — was closet-like in size with just a few inches of buffer between the bed and the adjacent walls. The bathroom was bisected by a thin curtain that served (unsuccessfully, we would later discover) to contain the shower water from entering the rest of the room. The streamlined toilet jutted out awkwardly from a wall, its jet-engine flushing mechanism activated by a small button an inch above the unit, alongside an ominous sign warning that flushing should only be attempted with the lid closed. I am doing my best not to say the room was so small that you had to step into the hallway to change your mind... but I fear I'm going to fail.

The dining room on The Love Boat was huge and the showroom was tiny with a small stage jammed with musicians, barely leaving enough room for Charo to shake her cuchi-cuchis. There appeared to be just three bars on the ship — one at the pool, one in the Acapulco Lounge and the aforementioned Pirates Cove. The always jovial and accommodating Isaac Washington  seemed to man all three, even donning an eyepatch and striped tunic to match the buccaneer theming. I can tell you for a fact that if ships only had three bars, they would invariably tip over from the lopsided distribution of patron weight. The showrooms, on the other hand, are multi-deck affairs, some with stadium seating in the upper tiers and intimate booth and theater seating on the main floor. The stages are pretty elaborate, employing trap doors, hydraulic risers, props and lighting and more than enough room to contain a dozen Charos and all the cuchi-cuchi energy they could muster.

Which brings me to the other crew members. There was Burl "Gopher" Smith, the ship's yeoman purser — a position so vital that the chief purser was never seen, leaving Gopher to fumble through the cruise, chasing after Doc Bricker's cast-offs, hiding from the captain and tripping over his own feet. Doc Bricker was a baffling character. He greeted arriving passengers, assisting in checking them in and providing directions to their accommodations. He also surveyed the group for those who displayed symptoms of illness as well as those female passengers on whom he could perform a "skirt-ectomy" by the time they dock in Puerto Vallarta. I have been on eight cruises and I have never seen the ship's doctor.

Cruise director Julie McCoy — with her cockeyed smile and look of constant bewilderment — is the antithesis of every cruise director I have ever encountered. Most real-life cruise directors are pulsating balls of pure energy, injecting a feeling of fun and excitement where ever they go. They are on 24 hours a day! Some are more on than others, but all subscribe to the same basic philosophy: "The passengers must have a good time all the time!" Cruise directors are in show business and the entire ship is their stage. There is no time to have a quiet, candlelit dinner with Tony Roberts when you got a ship full drunk and uncoordinated Baby Boomers who came to dance and sing along to the best of Motown. I swear I've seen some cruise directors in two places at the same time — leading a lesson in dancing like Michael Jackson and, minutes later in another part of the ship, reading "Green Eggs and Ham" to a bunch of over-stimulated children. Besides, cruise staff are not permitted to, shall we say, "interact romantically" with the passengers. I'm pretty sure that, when you're asleep, they are below deck, fucking each other any way. The only thing that real cruise directors have in common with TV's Julie McCoy is the cocaine usage. How else can they keep up that energy?

Then there is the captain — stern but lovable Merrill Stubing. I have only seen the actual ship's captain of any ship we've sailed on when he showed up on "Pose with the Ship's Captain" picture night and during an informal question and answer session, finally debunking the theory that there are shirtless guys below deck shoveling coal into boilers like in Titanic. Otherwise, the captain is sequestered on the bridge, driving the goddamn ship! He isn't mingling with the passengers, showing them where Promenade 215 is or joking with his college professor who said he'd never amount to anything. His look-alike brother isn't boarding and he isn't laughing off "bald jokes" from his barely-competent crew. He's navigating storm-affected waters for the quickest possible route to get your pasty white ass on a beach by 10 AM tomorrow morning... of course, that's after you've downed a stack of fifteen pancakes and a couple of Sea Day Brunch Bloody Marys. See? No time to court Marion Ross or help his ship-bound daughter with her algebra homework.

According to The Love Boat, the entire ship is effortlessly managed by five crew members, a couple of whom don't really seem to do anything. Sure, Al Molinaro was an ill-tempered chef in one episode and Abe Vigoda was a beleaguered steward in another, but Isaac and Gopher seemed to be pulling double duty waiting tables. In reality, the buffet alone has hundreds of workers silently putting out more food for the perpetually-famished diners. Others are stealthily clearing tables and sweeping up the messes left by finicky and frustrated children. Still others are behind the scenes whipping up familiar and gourmet fare on a scale that rivals a summer camp, an army base or a federal prison. The formal dining rooms are run like clockwork and never have I witnessed a waiter lose his footing and slam a multilayer cake into the captain's lap — a mishap that occurs at least once an episode.

And never have I seen someone fall into the pool fully clothed.

I miss cruising. But at least I have Love Boat as an unrelatable distraction while I'm waiting to cruise again.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

try a little kindness

I have been accused of being a curmudgeon, a pessimist, grumpy, a crank, a griper, a complainer, a sorehead.... well, you get the idea. Yeah, I know. I find fault with my fellow human, recurrently pointing out things they do that — shall we say — "rub me the wrong way." And, if you are a regular reader of my blog, or, God forbid, know me in real life, you know that I don't often acknowledge when someone does something kind, something genuinely thoughtful and unselfish. Well, that's about to change. And please forgive me if I begin to choke up while I type.

My wife and I met Richard on our sixth cruise. A few moths prior to our departure, Mrs. Pincus joined a Facebook group whose membership was comprised of folks who had booked the same late October sailing aboard the grand Norwegian Breakaway. Mrs. P was very active in this group and interacted daily with a core group of folks who were soon-to-be our fellow cruisers. This made for a very interesting cruise once we set sail, because it was as though we were vacationing with a bunch of our friends. A pre-arranged "meet-and-greet" on our first full day at sea created friendships that were strong during our week on the ocean and remain strong (thanks to social media) to this day. One of these people was Richard.

Richard is a fun-loving guy in the truest sense. He loves fun. He attracts fun. He exudes fun. He's a fun guy. (Keep your "mushroom" jokes to yourself.) In addition to being an avid and very experienced cruiser, Richard is a writer, an editor, a foodie and an amateur filmmaker. He's the kind of guy you sit next to at a bar and — after several hours — you think, "Wow! This is a great guy!" And if you've ever had the opportunity to be on a cruise with Richard, you could easily find yourself in that very situation. During our cruise in 2017, every time I looked up or passed one of the many bars aboard the ship, there was Richard, umbrella-sporting drink in hand, head back and laughing among a group of people who were also laughing. (This is not to imply that Richard spends seven days on a ship drinking and laughing 24 hours a day. He might, but I don't want to be the one to make such an implication.) I actually wrote about an incident involving Richard just after our 2017 cruise. You can read it here.

At the end of our cruise, Mrs. Pincus and I exchanged email addresses and social media contacts with all of our new found best friends and went off to live the rest of our lives. Now, we regularly see, correspond and "like" each others posts, making it feel like we are all still connected. We comment on Richard's Facebook status and his quirky Instagram pictures and he gives ours the ol' "thumbs up" in return.

At the end of 2019, Mrs. Pincus and I returned from our ninth cruise. It was our second one of the year. We had two more planned and the idea of additional cruises in our future. Mrs. P wisely purchased a gift card from Carnival Cruises for a pretty significant amount. 

Then, the world was hit with a devastating global pandemic. In addition to taking lives, COVID-19 wiped out businesses, social gatherings, travel and commerce of all types. All manners of places where large numbers of people congregated — movie theaters, concert venues, sports stadiums, theme parks and, yes, cruise ships — ceased operation. After a few weeks of working from home, I found myself among those filing for unemployment insurance. Thankfully, Mrs. Pincus's eBay business was active, providing us with one source of a steady income. However, we had placed a pretty sizable deposit on a cruise booked for October 2020. A deposit that, given our current financial situation, we could not afford to lose. The cruise lines were all being very cautious. They were indeed canceling scheduled sailings, but they were doing it on a slow, month-by month basis. You see, if you cancel your cruise, you only receive a partial refund of any funds already paid. If the cruise line cancels, then all payments are refunded... and cruise lines aren't real keen on giving refunds. So, in April, we anxiously waited for a cancelation announcement from Carnival. 

Albatross.

Then there was that gift card. We had a lot of money locked up in it. There was an overhanging possibility that cruise companies would not survive a lengthy shutdown. A gift card would be worthless if there was no company to redeem it. We were in no position to lose a considerable amount of money. So, Mrs. Pincus attempted to offer the card for sale in her eBay store. She did a little research and discovered that listed gift cards were still selling. However, she soon found that she was not permitted to sell a gift card, based on the type of account she had. We began to feel trapped and desperate. Mrs. Pincus toyed with offering it for sale on Facebook, specifically one of the many available marketplaces. Then she remembered Richard.

Richard maintains a Facebook group for people who love cruising. She contacted Richard, via a private message, asking permission to post the gift card for sale in his cruise group. Richard instantly gave his approval. Then, he added something totally unexpected. Totally unprovoked. And totally unselfish. Richard offered to buy the card from us outright. Mrs. P read and reread the offer several times to make sure she was seeing what she thought she was seeing. Mrs. Pincus asked for an amount that was less than face value, hoping that a "split the difference" offer would be more enticing. Richard would hear nothing of the sort. He insisted on the full amount. We were speechless. That's not just a "figure of speech." We were unable to produced a sound. Mrs. Pincus began to cry as she typed out a simple "thank you" to Richard. Honestly, we spent only a few fleeting minutes with Richard on a huge ship over three years ago. We didn't get to know him as well as we had liked... which makes Richard's act of kindness all the more special and touching.

Bonus.

Within minutes, Richard send a payment through an online payment service. Mrs. P securely sealed the card in an envelope and set out to baking a batch of her famous kamish broit (sometimes called mandel bread) to accompany the card in shipment, as an extra added gesture of sanity-saving and relief-inducing gratitude. She packed everything up nice and safe and took it to the post office the next day with her daily eBay shipments. She kept a watchful eye of the delivery, carefully monitoring the tracking, keeping tabs on its journey to northern New Jersey where Richard lives. Mrs. Pincus finally received confirmation of delivery. She waited for a message from Richard, because the US Postal Service isn't always accurate. 

She waited.

And waited.

And waited.

Unable to contain her anxiety, Mrs. Pincus contacted Richard to make sure he had, indeed, received the package and the precious gift card within. He laughed, explaining that a box has been sitting on his dining room table all day. He didn't open it because he assumed it was for his partner Gary. While he texted, Richard opened the box and assured Mrs. Pincus that the gift card was in his possession. He also explained that he would be keeping the kamish broit away from Gary.

See, there are still nice, kind, thoughtful, generous people in the world. Richard is at the very top of that list.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

beyond the sea

I'll be honest with you. It's kind of tough to write a weekly blog post when you haven't left the house in six months. I guess I could write about watching television.. Oh, wait... I did that already. I guess I could write about what I've eaten. Oh, wait... I've done that, too. Well, how about I tell a funny story that I don't think I told before? Okay. Here goes...

Remember vacations? Remember when we took vacations? Well, Mrs. Pincus and I have taken a vacation nearly year that we've been married. In 2013, we took our first cruise and that has been our main choice of vacation every year since. We even took two cruises in some of those years. Although we've had many varied adventures on our various cruises, they have really all been pretty much the same. That's not a bad thing. We enjoyed each one, but the "cruise experience" for us doesn't really change from one cruise to the next. Perhaps. it's because we do a lot of the same activities on every cruise — buffet, shows, trivia contest, interactive games, casino, hokey singers in a lounge. Not necessarily in that order, but we would participate in all of those activities at some time during our one week stay aboard a giant, floating "city on the seas." 

One particular morning, on one of these cruises (I actually forget which one, but it doesn't really make a difference), we were eating our breakfast out on the deck just outside of the ship's buffet. Actually, we had just come from the buffet line, where we piled our plates high with a selection of breakfast foods, as well as coffee and and juice. Now we had located an empty table in a shady area outside in the fresh Caribbean air, but covered by an upper deck overhang that afforded protection from the direct rays of the tropical sun.

Mrs. P and I were enjoying our morning meal, when we noticed two young men surveying the immediate area for an empty table. They were in their 20s, most likely traveling together, possibly coming off an evening of drinking and romantic companionship courtesy of someone they didn't know 24 hours earlier. They stood at the outer edge of the assembly of tables and chairs, slowly swiveling their heads and squinting to zero in on a place to set their overly-laden plates. (And I do mean "overly-laden." Looking at what they had collected from the buffet, I wondered if anything was left for the other passengers.) 

The two fellows spotted a dining room worker just clearing away the dishes and utensils from the previous diners, so they quickly moved in and snagged the newly-cleaned table. The table was just a few feet from where Mrs. P and I were seated. We nodded and offered a friendly "good morning" to the guys, as we "cruise veterans" have become accustomed to doing after a day or two aboard ship. The prevailing atmosphere becomes one of instant camaraderie — a sort of "we're all in this together" feeling, not unlike adult summer camp. They hesitantly nodded back and returned half-hearted smiles. Then, we watched as they placed their plates on the table's surface, turned their backs and looked around again, mumbling something about "where's the coffee?" They wandered off in search of java, leaving their breakfast-filled platters unattended, unguarded and very vulnerable.

This was a foolish move.

As soon as the two guys walked away from their table and anticipated breakfast, a large seagull swooped down and began investigating the situation. You see, several hours earlier, while most of the passengers were still asleep in their cabins — either enjoying a lazy slumber as vacationers or nursing the adverse effects of late-night reveling — the captain had guided the vessel into a predetermined port in keeping with the cruise itinerary. Which port? Who knows? After so many cruises, one pastel-camouflaged, distressed Caribbean harbor looks like all the others. Out in the open water, the animal world is sparsely represented — maybe a single, circling bird or the solitary jumping dolphin. But, in port, the seagulls are abundant and always in search of food scraps to scavenge. This particular seabird had hit the avian jackpot. Here were two enormous, bird-ready smorgasbords and no one around on "shooing away" duty. The feathered filcher gingerly pranced around on the table top for a bit before going full in on a stack of waffles with his beak. Mrs. Pincus and I watched in silent horrified amazement as bits of food flew up with each of the bird's rapid-fire pecks. The guys had still not returned and the gull was taking full advantage, enjoying an array of bacon, croissants, pancakes and — however cannibalistic — scrambled eggs. Either content or frightened, the bird finally flew away. From the far side of the dining area, one of the "20-something" fellows approached the table, his fingers curled around the porcelain handle of a steaming cup of coffee.

Mrs. Pincus — her involuntary motherly instincts kicking in — spoke up promptly before the young man lifted a fork or even sat down. "Excuse me," she began, raising her voice slightly to accommodate the distance between our tables, "I wouldn't eat that." The guy looked around at first, then focused on us, once he realized from where the warning was coming. He cocked his head inquisitively and replied, "Why not?"

Mrs. Pincus explained that, in his brief absence, a seagull had made a personal feast of the unprotected food they had left. The guy looked at us. Then, he looked at the two plates on the table. He lowered his head a bit and scrutinized the plates a bit more closely, visually probing the food for tell-tale signs of invasion to corroborate my wife's story. He looked up and, gesturing with his extended forefinger, he asked, "Both plates... or just mine?"

"Both, I think.," Mrs. Pincus answered. She furrowed her brow and a sort of disgusted grimace crossed her lips.

Just then, the guy was joined by his traveling companion. He saw his friend was having a conversation with some lady that he didn't know and asked "Hey, what's up?" His now-informed buddy related my wife's eyewitness account of the winged food thief. The two of them studied their plates, which, honestly, looked relatively the same as before they embarked on their coffee objective. As they continued to assess the extent of the damage, I finally interjected. "Y'know, you can just go get another plate of food," I said, "It's included in your trip. You can get as much as you like."

They didn't seem too motivated to go through the process of re-assembling "the perfect breakfast," as though months of rigorous preparation had led up to this very moment. Their body language and lack of urgency seemed to indicate that they would never achieve the exact balance of waffles and syrup or the precise ratio of orange marmalade to corn muffin surface area.

Mrs. Pincus went into full maternal mode. "Just go get another plate, boys.," she insisted. I had heard this tone many, many times when my son was younger. I also remember my own mother's stern command when I required guidance I didn't know I needed. Reluctantly, the two travelers headed back in the direction of the buffet, which was still open for another few hours and fully stocked with copious quantities of every single item that they had selected before. With a little thought and effort, they could easily duplicate their platters right down to the last pat of butter and golden square of hash browned potato. Hell, they could even grab that oversized lemon Danish they passed up on their first go-round. They could even grab two.

Their mothers would have been very pleased.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

sea change

Before everything went to shit due to the global COVID-19 pandemic, Mrs. Pincus and I had a cruise booked for the final week of October 2020. I had scheduled for the time off from work (a new job I had started full-time in February). At the end of the work day on March 13, my employer informed everyone to take home their desk computers and instructions on how to log on to the company network were distributed via email. After six weeks of "working from home," my entire department (as well as others) was dissolved and every employee — save for a skeleton crew — was let go. 

Industries across the country were shutting down, having employees work from home where applicable. Businesses that operated with patrons in close proximity — amusement parks, movie theaters, concert and sports venues — were shuttered. And all cruise lines discontinued all scheduled cruises for a few months. Our October cruise was nearly paid-in-full. With no regular income — except for my meager unemployment insurance payment — the price of a cruise is money that we could use for other, more essential needs. The problem is, if we canceled the trip, we would be penalized. We would stand to lose a portion of our deposit that we could not afford to lose. So, we would have to wait.... patiently. When you are stuck in your house for eleventy thousand weeks with no job, patience is not very easy to come by.

As the weeks of quarantine turned into months of quarantine, cruise lines were regularly assessing the safety and logistics of re-starting business. Mrs. Pincus and I closely followed the proposed scenarios and alternate procedures being suggested by cruise lines. We weren't too pleased with the solutions and how temporary or permanent they'd need to be.

Well, in a cavalcade of mixed feelings, our October cruise was canceled by Carnival. We, of course, were disappointed that we would not be going on a cruise. We were relieved, however, that we would not have to make what could possibly be a life-or-death decision about taking a cruise. Carnival made that decision for us. And we were offered a full refund of everything we had paid to date... which was, indeed, everything.

My wife and I began to assess the future of cruising. Since our first cruise seven years ago, my wife and I have become very enthusiastic about going on cruises. We like what we like about cruising. I assume that everyone who takes a cruise likes it for specific activities, even if they are different from the ones we like. We have a great time, which, based on my feelings before my first cruise, is very surprising to me. Sure, nearly every cruise we have taken was identical, but that's the experience we enjoy. We like to play trivia games. We like to go to the buffet. (I really like to go to the buffet!) We like the kitschy entertainment. We like meeting new people that we probably will never see again — but, thanks to the magic of the internet, can maintain a friendship as though they lived right next door. But, under the current circumstances as defined by the malevolent coronavirus, all the things we love about cruising will have to change. And that's the part we are wrestling with. Do we really want to take a cruise that is a completely different experience than our previous cruises? 

Well, the buffets would have to be eliminated to cut down on so many different people handling plates and serving utensils... not to mention those travelers who just handle the actual food with their hands.

Showrooms would have to reconfigure seating to allow for social distancing. Heck, the entire ship would have difficulty maintaining social distancing, from the narrow corridors, to the cramped, but mandatory muster drills, to the closeness of seating in the main dining rooms, sometimes with total strangers.

Our beloved trivia games would need to keep participants six feet apart, leading to players taking up huge areas of lounges and forcing the activity's host to speak even louder, repeating questions and stretching play time way past the time allotted for the event. Multiply that by every on-board activity for the entire week and I see a lot of disappointed passengers. Plus, there is the intimacy of bars and discos and swimming and water slides and sports.... ecchhh! it's a mess. Then there's the issue of other people not following the rules. And people on cruises love to not follow the rules. I don't think I want to spend the money for a cruise and not get the cruise I am used to. Until I am sure the cruise industry will go back to the way it was — the way I'm used to — Mrs. Pincus and I will have to pass, albeit reluctantly.

When this is all over (when ever that is), will we define our life timeline as BC (Before COVID-19) and AC (After COVID-19)? 

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

sit down, you're rocking the boat

In the summer of 2012, Mrs. Pincus went on a cruise with her extended family. It was made very clear, by my brother-in-law, that I was not included in this trip. Just as well. The thought of going on a cruise, despite being an avid fan of The Love Boat, did not have the least bit of appeal for me. Upon my wife's return, however, I heard all about the endless food, planned activities and kitschy entertainment. I have to admit, I was slightly intrigued. So, based on Mrs. P's casino "activity" (at the time), the good folks at Harrah's Atlantic City offered us a free cruise. With a little bit of convincing, we took the offer. (The "free" part was the clincher.)

Flash forward to today, I am the veteran of eight cruises. I never imagined that we would become the people that I made fun of on our first cruise... and in such a short period of time! I still maintain that all of the cruises have basically been identical. Sure, they have been on different ships with different people and at different times of the year, the overall experience has been the same. They've all featured buffets with endless amounts of food, planned activities (like trivia contents, where on our most recent cruise, we were accused of cheating) and hokey entertainment presented by troupes of fresh-faced performers giving their all as though they were on a Broadway stage, not one rocking back and forth in the middle of the ocean.

Mrs. Pincus and I have had conversations with a number of crew members, something — believe it or not — not many passengers do. A lot cruisers treat the crew like servants, foisting angry demands upon them with a tone of of contempt. Others ignore the crew, except for waiters and bartenders. But my wife and I have had really interesting interaction with crew members while we were waiting for a trivia game to start. Most cruise ship staff hail from outside of the United States, so we have heard fascinating tales of sneaking stealthily through farmland in the Philippines to steal watermelons. We were told about tiny villages in the Middle East, where a crew member's family is the recipient of wired funds and get to see their loved one in person every six months. We learned how employment on cruise ships works (six month "contracts" with the option to renew). These stories have all brought me to the conclusion that most cruise ship staff are akin to carnies. Some of them — not all of them, but a lot of them — lean towards the transient and unseemly side of society. I can only imagine what goes on below the "passenger" decks and I imagine that it's not unlike the "steerage party" scene from Titanic. I picture crew members crammed into tiny, closet-sized rooms — drunk, dirty and sleeping with each other. Just my opinion.

On our third or fourth cruise (I honestly forget which), Mrs. P and I encountered a particular member of the entertainment staff. He stood out from the rest of the young men and women, in that he was wild and rambunctious and overly animated. On our first evening aboard, we met him in the showroom, prior to showtime. He was dancing wildly to the piped-in music. He was hugging guests and acting silly. He came over to where we were seated and made exaggerated "flirty eyes" at Mrs. P. (All in fun, of course.) He introduced himself as "Oston," explaining it was like "Boston" without the "B." Then, he turned his head as an attractive young lady walked by. He loudly remarked: "There goes my future ex-wife." (We would hear that joke countless more times thoroughout the week.) Oston was a native of Turkey and regularly reminded everyone of that fact. When hosting activities,  he would regularly mock his difficultly with non-Turkish phrasing by announcing: "Press 1 for English." We ran into Oston nearly everywhere we went on the ship — hosting trivia games, wandering around near the pool, at the buffet, in the showroom, everywhere. He walked a thin line between fun and annoying. 

At the end of the week, we thanked Oston for enhancing our vacation. However, Mrs. P and I secretly agreed that he would most likely be fired at the end of this trip. He just didn't fit in with the "Norwegian Cruises" persona. We couldn't put our finger on what exactly was the problem, but it was something.

My wife and I went on another cruise this past October. This time, we sailed on the Carnival Pride, out of the Port of Baltimore, just a two-hour drive from our suburban Philadelphia home. The Pride is a smaller ship than any of the others on which we previously sailed, and it made for a more intimate and enjoyable trip. On our first evening aboard, we spotted a familiar figure dancing wildly in the aisles of the Pride's main showroom. It was Oston and he was up to his old unmistakable tricks. We got his attention (which was tough, considering his short attention span) and he came over to us. We jogged his memory until he "sort-of" remembered us from that Norwegian cruise several years earlier. Mrs. P asked him how long he has been with Carnival. He smiled a crooked smile and proudly told us that this was his first cruise with the line. He also told us that he had briefly been employed by Royal Caribbean after leaving Norwegian.

On this same cruise, we met a quiet woman who was traveling with Flossie, her eight-year-old daughter. Flossie revealed herself to be a natural performer, as we saw her participating in a number of karaoke sessions as well as showing off her dancing skills in other audience-participation activities. And during the course of the week aboard the Pride, Flossie became enamored with Oston. She followed him from activity to activity, silently observing him with big, puppy-dog eyes. Flossie even bought a plush teddy bear, which she named "Oston," in homage to her favorite crew member. Oston seemed flattered by the youngster's extra attention, but it was hard to tell since his behavior could only be described as "off the rails." At the end of the cruise, Flossie was in tears and parting with Oston was borderline traumatic.

My wife connected on Facebook with Flossie's mother. She told Mrs. P that the ride back home (they drove back to Toronto from Baltimore) was rough, as poor Flossie cried most of the time. When she wasn't crying, she was talking about Oston. Mrs. P remained in regular contact with Flossie's mom and one day, just a week or so after our cruise, she told my wife that they booked another cruise aboard the Pride for November — just so Flossie could see Oston again.

Just prior to their November sailing, Oston emailed Flossie's mom, asking her to pick up some personal items for him. (He knew that they would be sailing.) He asked for toiletries, as well as socks, underwear and sneakers. Flossie's mother complied with all of his requests. When the date of the cruise arrived, she met up with Oston and handed over the items he asked for. He expressed his gratitude. Flossie was ecstatic at seeing Oston. The week aboard the Pride was magical for her. Oston (and all of the entertainment staff) paid special attention to the girl, sometimes affording her "co-hosting" duties at certain activities. Flossie's mom sent Mrs. P photos and videos of little Flossie dancing and singing with Oston. Her smile was huge in every shot. At the end of the week, Flossie and her mom had another tearful departure and headed back to Canada.

Then things got..... strange. 

Flossie's mom received a barrage of texts from Oston saying that he quit his job with Carnival. He was at the airport with Turkey as his destination. A lot of what Oston was saying was incoherent, either due to a language barrier or his erratic behavior. He told Flossie's mom that he has misplaced his passport and left his bags at the airport. He was staying with friends in Maryland... or Pennsylvania. He kept changing his story. In one text, he sounded "desperate" (as Flossie's mom described it) and said he felt "worthless."

Then he asked Flossie's mom for money.

Flossie's mom had, evidently, made connections with other crew aboard the Pride. They warned her to steer clear of Oston. They pegged him as a conman. They explained that he had a pattern of this behavior and he should be avoided. One of his former coworkers told Flossie's mom it would be best to end all contact with Oston right now.

Flossie's mom was confused. She saw no signs of any deceit from Oston... on either of their cruise encounters. He was enthusiastic and appeared sincere with Flossie. Sure he was a bit wild, but he interacted with Flossie like a protective older brother. But these accusations of being a con man sure seemed to be feasible. Flossie's mom was diplomatic and, most importantly, realistic. She explained to Oston that, while she would like to help, she was in no position to offer the financial support he requested.

Flossie's mom hasn't received a text from Oston since.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

keep Baltimore beautiful

Well, we just returned from yet another cruise — our second one this year. We sailed on the Carnival Pride. This was our first cruise that left from the port of Baltimore, the so-called "Charm City," a misnomer if I ever heard one.

When Mrs. Pincus booked this trip, she arranged for an overnight stay and a shuttle to the cruise terminal through an online service called "Park Sleep Fly." (Wasn't there a serial killer with that nickname?) We packed our luggage and headed south on I-95 towards the Best Western BWI Airport Inn & Suites. For around a hundred bucks, they offered a room for overnight, parking for our car for the week we'd be away and shuttle service to the pier — plus a complimentary breakfast in the morning. Sounds good? Yeah..... we'll see.

We followed the directions as the indispensable Waze app guided us to our destination. Exiting I-895, Mrs. P navigated through what can only be described as a seedy-looking neighborhood, eventually arriving at our accommodations situated in a small courtyard at the end of Belle Grove Road, just past two auto body salvage yards.

The first thing I noticed as we pulled into the parking lot was the distinct lack of "Best Western" signage and branding. Nowhere was there any indication that this hotel was part of the Best Western chain. The backlit sign at the street very plainly identified the place as "BWI Airport Inn and Suites" The front of the building bore no signs at all. I found this strange and a bit suspicious. We parked and entered the building at the lobby. It looked like a million hotels we've seen (and passed) along the I-95 corridor, but still, not a single "Best Western" anything in sight. There was a large seating area opposite the front desk that was obvious used for the included breakfast in the morning. Mrs. Pincus confirmed our reservation with the slutty-looking blond behind the desk. We were informed that the cost of the shuttle was not included in the final price of our stay. Mrs. P quickly scanned the confirmation that she had printed out and we reluctantly paid the additional charge. The woman behind the desk rattled off a list of convoluted instructions regarding the timing and meeting area for the shuttle the next morning. She handed my wife a small cardboard portfolio with our electronic room keys and disappeared into a back room. Mrs. P and I exchanged silent glances, knowing full well that neither one of us was certain as to where and how we were to be taken to the pier tomorrow morning. We dragged our luggage over to the elevators.

The elevator arrived. We entered. The door closed. The inside of the doors were decorated with large, full-color graphics of the Baltimore Orioles — which were defaced with angry, jagged gouges obscuring the smiling visage of the familiar Oriole logo. The doors opened at the seventh floor and we followed the directional wall signs to our room. A pile of trash — two greasy pizza boxes, several Coke cans and some unidentifiable crumbled paper — was on the floor next to the small utility room that housed two vending machines and a commercial ice maker. The pile remained for our entire stay.

We found our room and Mrs. P swiped the plastic key card in the lock. A little green light above the knob flashed. I opened the door. The first thing I noticed was a black backpack sitting on the floor under the lone window. The lights were out. The beds were made. The room appeared clean and unoccupied... except for the backpack. Again, Mrs. Pincus and I exchanged bewildered glances. I slowly approached the backpack and gave it a gentle nudge with my foot. Mrs. Pincus exclaimed in horror, "What are you doing?"

"I'm checking to see if something is in it.," I replied, although I was quickly cut off by a stern "Don't touch it!" from my wife.

We decided that the removal of the backpack was the responsibility of a hotel employee. Still with our luggage in tow, we retraced our steps to the elevator (passing the trash pile along the way). Back at the front desk, we encountered a new member of the hotel staff. This woman was dress in a more professional manner and wore a name tag that identified her as the manager. The blond who greeted us earlier was nowhere in sight. Mrs. P told the manager of the strange backpack in our room. The manager listened and immediately asked if we'd like a different room.

"No," Mrs. P answered, "We just want someone to remove the backpack."

A fellow from the maintenance staff was summoned and he accompanied us to our room. Once inside, he fearlessly approached and grabbed the backpack. "Anything else?," he asked with a smile and without waiting for an answer, he grabbed the remote control for the television off the desk. "Let me make sure your TV works.," he said, and mashed a few buttons on the device until the screen lit up. We thanked him as he exited our room.

As night fell, Mrs. P and I ran through our dinner options using Google for nearby restaurants. Across the street was a Checkers, whose neon sign inexplicably flashed "Gheckers" from a side window. Next to that was a Dunkin Donuts. We ruled out both of theses choices, settling instead on hoagies from a nearby Wawa, the beloved Philadelphia convenience chain that has expanded down the east coast. I got directions to the closest Wawa. As we walked to our car, I spotted two young ladies exiting our hotel from the rear of the building. They were prancing towards a car parked in the corner of the parking lot. Both were dressed like stereotypical prostitutes you'd see in any episode of any police show on television in the 70s— short, tight skirts, sparkly tops, fishnet stockings and impossibly tall platform shoes. Glances were exchanged for a third time.

No microwaves for you.

The Wawa was a short drive from our hotel, but located in an equally sketchy neighborhood. We ordered from the touch-screen kiosk, just like at our hometown Wawa. While we waited for our order, a woman, possibly inebriated, burst in and approached the associate who was assembling our sandwiches. She loudly asked if they had a microwave that she could borrow, an odd request, in my opinion. The Wawa associate waved her off and continued with our order as the drunk woman staggered out of the store. More silent glances were exchanged. After dinner, we watched television and then went to sleep.

Pancakes!

The next morning, we packed up our stuff and headed down to the lobby. The lobby and breakfast area were bustling with activity. Folks were milling around — assembling a morning meal from the array of items set out by the hotel. Aside from the usual fare of coffee, bagels, cereal and yogurt, there was a self-serve waffle iron and a contraption that dispensed pancakes that looked like it was designed by Rube Goldberg.

Not included in this story.

We got clarification of the procedure for the shuttle. A woman with a clipboard scurried in and out of the lobby, checking off names and gathering groups together. A ten-seat mini van pulled up outside and folks were instructed to file in, leaving their luggage for the driver to pile up in the back storage area. After a bit of confusion and misinformation. Mrs. Pincus and I were directed to the van and soon we were officially off. Within twenty minutes, we were dropped off at the pier.

We cruised.

At the mercy of a bungee.

A week later, we returned from the sunny Caribbean to Baltimore, which was experiencing a heavy downpour. After a fairly simple debarkation process, we claimed our luggage and started towards the designated shuttle area. Trudging through the maze of people waiting for the departing cruise, we maneuvered to the small bus shelter where we spotted some families we recognized from our hotel (and a few we actually spoke to on our cruise). Our waterlogged colleagues told us that they had been waiting for some time, even after a call to the hotel assured them that "someone will be there in a few minutes." A familiar ten-seat mini van pulled up and our group hustled to find seats inside. Once our luggage was loaded, the driver struggled with the sliding side door, grinding it uncomfortably along its track, forcing it to close. His efforts were unsuccessful. Finally, he asked the husband of a young lady (we watched her sing a karaoke version of Dolly Parton's "Jolene" a few nights earlier) to grab and attach the free end of a rubber bungee cord to the inside door handle. This was as suspicious as the backpack in our room. The driver hit the gas and ascended the on-ramp of I-895. As the van gained speed, the sliding side door slid open — first an inch, then a few more — kept in check only by the flexible restraints of the bungee. The karaoke girl clutched and pulled her husband closer.

The shuttle lumbered into the parking lot of the Best Western BWI Airport Inn & Suites. A neon yellow emergency vehicle — its top lights blazing — was parked under the carport at the buildings entrance. Two men in reflective vests stood by the ambulance's rear doors. Mrs. Pincus and I — the first ones out — quickly collected our luggage from that back of the shuttle. We found our car at the rear of the building..... and got the hell out of Baltimore.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

good morning here's the news

“I hate the news!” – Roger Rabbit

I stopped watching the news in 2016, just after the last Presidential election. I lost faith in the caliber of reporting offered by the major networks including CNN. I grew irritated with the news anchors, reporters and guest commentators. They were no longer reporting the news. Instead they were creating sensationalized stories that were introduced with jarring teasers that ultimately ended with empty non-stories. In addition, all news broadcasts became political quagmires and it was making my head spin. So I stopped watching. I switched to my local newscasts, only paying attention to Philadelphia-focused stories, weather forecasts and tales of how poorly the Philadelphia Phillies were performing. Otherwise, I never watched any television news broadcasts.

This doesn’t mean I was uninformed. I still read headlines on Yahoo’s homepage on the internet, electing to read further if a particular headline caught my attention. If this occurred, I would only read two or three sentences, which was usually enough to get the gist of the story. I also stayed informed by logging on to Twitter, where a “hot button” topic was presented, critiqued and hilariously mocked by the select group of sarcastic assholes (and I mean that with the highest respect) I choose to follow.

During the (now anticlimactic) Mueller Report, I began watching CNN with my wife again. Nothing had changed. It was the same rehashing of extreme commentary and blown-out-of-proportion reporting that we had previously turned off in disgust.

It's the end of the world as we know it...

I have only seen bits and pieces of the right-wing propaganda mouthpiece that is Fox News, mostly in clips shown during pointed jabs on HBO's "Last Week Tonight with John Oliver." I consider myself a liberal and have only ever voted for Democratic candidates in any election*, so I naturally gravitated towards news reports that appear to be more left-leaning, but I have come to the conclusion that CNN is no different from Fox. They both use the exact same methods and tactics to report the same stories, except Fox takes the extreme right view point and CNN takes the extreme left view. Otherwise, they are identical.

So, I stopped watching national news again. I was sick of politics.

...and I feel fine.

My wife and I are preparing for another cruise with stops in the Caribbean, including Freeport in The Bahamas. At the end of August, that part of the Caribbean was hit – and hit hard – by Hurricane Dorian. We watched The Weather Channel in horror as live pictures of hundred-mile-per-hour winds and torrential rains ripped through the frail structures of Freeport, obliterating everything in its path. At one point, Mrs. P changed the channel to CNN. There was nothing political about a hurricane. We expected straight reporting about a weather phenomenon. We wanted to see professional, qualified reporters offering insight and documentation of the devastation occurring in a major tourist area – one that we would be visiting shortly. Instead – and keeping with CNN’s “lowest common denominator” style, we heard sensationalized editorializing that would have been more suited to a live report about Armageddon. We have seen reports of this nature usually reserved for winter storm predictions. But now we were witnessing solemn-faced news anchors with wide eyes and slow, deliberate deliveries, make vague blanket statements, leading viewers to believe that the entirety of the Bahamian Islands were, at this point, merely a memory. In reality, Freeport and the surrounding areas suffered the brunt of Dorian’s wrath. However, the Bahamas is an archipelago of 700 islands. Nassau, a popular stop for many cruise lines, sits on the island of New Providence, 130 miles away from Freeport. While Nassau received its share of the storm, it only experienced minimal damage. CNN made it seem as though the Bahamas were wiped from the face of the earth. They showed the same footage of flooding and played the same audio of people pleading and crying, without once clarifying that this was limited to the Freeport area and that most other parts of the Bahamas were spared. In my opinion, this was inaccurate and irresponsible reporting.

Network news has become entertainment. The focus is on ratings – getting the viewer to stick around and not change the channel. Reporting the actual news is waaaaay down on the priority list.

I won’t be watching the news anymore. Besides, it cuts into my Andy Griffith Show time.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

*mostly due to residual feelings about the Republican-leaning voting records of my bigoted father and my bigoted grandmother.