but these stories don't mean anything

 My dad was a character. He was a hard worker. He smoked a lot of cigarettes. He ate a lot of meat and potatoes. And he made up a lot of stories.

My dad passed away in 1993, long before a quick Google search could expose his stories for the lies that they were. I debunked his long-standing tale of witnessing a Phillies no-hitter in his youth, but the truth was revealed a few years after his death. My mother, however, confronted him regarding the incorrect and misleading information (okay.... lies) he'd given colleagues at his job about my mother's true line of work.

Lies or not, some of my father's stories were pretty entertaining... and funny. I was very young when I first heard them and they were often repeated, usually with more embellishment in each retelling. Here's one that he told often. It's a funny story, but I cannot vouch for its authenticity.

In 1944, my father signed up to join the US Navy. It was the midst of World War II and every red-blooded American boy was convinced that it was his patriotic duty to defend his country against the so-called "Axis" powers. So rather than waiting for his number to come up, my dad happily joined the Navy. (He later told my brother and me that in the Navy, you were guaranteed a bed to sleep in, as opposed to the Army where one's nightly accommodations may be in muddy foxhole with bullets whizzing over your head.)

The butter wouldn't melt,
so I put it in the pie.

My father often treated his family to anecdotes about his two-year stint in military service. He was assigned as a radar signal relayer aboard the USS South Dakota, a battleship that was deployed (for a time) in the South Pacific. A radar signal relayer, according to Seaman First Class Pincus, repeated directional coordinates — that were heard in his headset — to the guy who was aiming the giant turrets towards their determined targets. (This may or may not be true. I don't even know if there was such a position as "radar signal relayer.")

My father claimed that Admiral Halsey, Commander of the Navy's Third Fleet, was aboard his ship for several months, during which the high-ranking officer was spotted by my father only once from a great distance. I marveled at this information, being that my only knowledge of Admiral Halsey was, as per Paul McCartney, he "had to have a berth or he couldn't get to sea." Based on the accuracy of most of my father's stories, it is unlikely that Admiral Halsey was ever on the USS South Dakota. Paul McCartney's claim is also undetermined.

I never meant to cause
you any trouble...

Allegedly, the USS South Dakota was struck twice by enemy fire and my father was hit by shrapnel. The supposed source of the shrapnel was two kamikaze strikes twenty minutes apart. Often, my father would roll up his pant leg and display his bony shin to the delight of my brother and me, pointing out a small, raised length of reddish tissue that he insisted was a scar. There was definitely something on my father's leg. If it was the result of a kamikaze is unconfirmed... as is my dad's claim that the Purple Heart medal that he allegedly received was lost my by grandmother.

My father eventually received an honorable discharge from the US Navy at the end of his twenty-four month stretch. He alerted his parents that he would be returning to their West Philadelphia home soon. And soon he did.

Put another nickel in...

There was a chain of restaurants in the Philadelphia area called Horn & Hardart. Horn & Hardart was unique in its format, introducing the "automat" concept to the United States in the early years of the 20th century. An automat offered simple, "home cooked" fare to hungry customers for a nickel or multiples thereof. Once the correct amount of nickels was deposited in the slot, a glass door could be opened through which food was delivered from the kitchen on other side. (The Horn & Hardart automat is featured prominently in the Doris Day/Cary Grant comedy That Touch of Mink.) It was a novel way to eat and it proved to be very popular. At the height of its popularity, Horn & Hardart was serving an estimated 500,000 customers per day across 157 outlets in Philadelphia and New York. My father numbered himself among those customers. He made sure it was his first stop after arriving home from the Navy.

As my father told it, he went to the Horn & Hardart automat windows with a pocketful of nickels. He made his selections, opening each little window, removing each item and placing them on his tray — meatloaf, mashed potatoes, green beans and a slice of pie. (Sometimes, with each telling and retelling, the meal components changed.) My dad looked around the crowded dining room for an available seat. He found one and placed his laden tray on the table. He realized he had forgotten to get a cup of Horn & Hardart's famous coffee, so headed over to the wall of coffee urns, sifting through his pocket change for another nickel. He drew himself a cup of coffee and returned to his waiting civilian meal. However, when he returned to his table, there was a disheveled woman in ragged clothing busily munching away at my father's dinner. My father was dumbfounded. He stood — frozen — watching this woman shovel forkfuls of meatloaf and potatoes — his meatloaf and potatoes — into her maw. His mind scrambled. What could he do? If he chased her away, he certainly wasn't going to eat the picked-over scraps that was now his dinner. So, he did the only thing he could do. He went back to the automat windows and repurchased a duplicate meal. This time, he stopped to get coffee before finding a table.

My father loved this story and he told it a lot. It is a funny story. I just don't know if it really happened.

But, honestly.....who cares? That was my dad.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

tangled up in blue

I am on vacation this week, but please enjoy this story from my illustration blog originally published in 2013. The topic of my father came up recently and I was reminded of his penchant for stretching the truth.

“Oh, what a tangled web we weave
When first we practise to deceive!”
— Marmion by Sir Walter Scott

My dad was a liar. And not a very good one.

In the long ago days before the internet, when facts were a little tougher to confirm, my dad made up shit left and right. He loved to tell of how he cut school as a child and sneaked off to a Phillies game. He claimed he witnessed a no-hitter, but couldn’t tell anyone because he’d get into hot water for skipping school. He loved telling that story. Years later, after a minimal amount of “Googling,” I discovered that the entire tale was fabricated.

By trade, my father was a butcher. He was employed by a local supermarket chain for many years, until he worked himself up to the corporate level. A suit and tie replaced his bloody apron as his regular work attire. At this new level, he was rubbing elbows with (in his eyes) the “upper crust” and was entitled to be included among the attendees of an annual corporate executive convention and banquet. My mother, at the time, established herself a little business of transporting neighborhood children to kindergarten at the nearby elementary school. For a mere three dollars per week, she’d stuff twenty toddlers into the open space of her station wagon and — seat belts be damned! — deliver them to their preschool. A little jostled and shaken-up, but relatively safe. My father, however, had told his colleagues that his wife was otherwise employed. He had told them that she was a teacher. But, he did not corroborate his deception with my mom. She was not embarrassed by how she earned her pay. (She was proud, as a matter of fact!) So, while mingling at a pre-dinner cocktail hour, my mom was confused when my dad’s boss asked what subject she taught. With a look of momentary bewilderment, she corrected the man, explaining that she was not a teacher. My dad was livid, despite not briefing my mom on the bullshit he’d been shoveling at the office for the past eleven months.

When my son was born, my wife and I continued the Jewish tradition of honoring a deceased family member by naming a newborn in their memory. My son would be carrying on the symbolic names of my wife’s beloved grandfather and my beloved maternal grandmother. The official naming was done at the brit milah (circumcision ceremony). During the proceeding, the mohel (one who performs a circumcision) announced our child’s Hebrew name to the small congregation gathered in our home. My father’s mother leaned in to my dad and asked who our baby was being named for. Then she asked who my older brother was named for. My dad replied, “Max (my brother) was named for Pop (meaning my father’s father).” This, of course, was not true. My paternal grandfather was still fourteen years from meeting the Grim Reaper when my brother was born. Jews just don’t that and my father knew it. He also knew he was lying to his elderly mother.

My father became very sick very suddenly in October 1993. Actually, he was sick for a long time, he just didn’t let anyone know — so, it was sudden for the family. My father was keeping company with a very nice woman who filled the void in his life left by my mother’s passing two years earlier. As my father drifted in and out of consciousness in a hospital bed, my immediate family — my brother Max, my wife and myself — entertained my dad’s lady friend’s future plans. With sparkly eyes, she spoke of arrangements and promises that my father made — how they would marry in the new year, how she would move in with him. She continued to explain that my father justified the enormous amount of money still owed on a thirty year-old house was due to a second and third mortgage being obtained in order to pay for my art school education.

“Whoa!,” I interrupted before another word was uttered, “I paid for art school. Me! No one else!”

We all stared at each other across the little semi-circle we had formed in the hospital hallway. “What else did he tell you?,” Max asked. She had been told by my father that he was a partner in the current supermarket in which he was employed (he wasn’t). The place had just experienced a devastating fire and he was concerned about the cost of rebuilding (it was not remotely a concern of his).

We were dumbfounded. After 36 years of lying to my mother, my dad had the opportunity to make a fresh start in a relationship. Instead, he chose to continue on the path that he was used to.

I love and miss my father. He taught me a lot, but he had no idea how he was teaching me.

taking care of business

For over 20 years, Mrs. Pincus has sold stuff on eBay, the popular online auction/marketplace. Before you ask... no, she will not sell your stuff for you. We have enough "merchandise" to sell that will last a lot longer than the time we have left on earth. However, if you like to see some of the items that are currently up for auction, please... stop reading now and click HERE. You can come back to this story anytime. But you may get outbid on that one elusive treasure to complete your collection.

Now, when most people hear that my wife sells stuff on eBay, they wrongly assume that she quickly lists thousands of items and then sits back while the money rolls in. Hardly. Listing items is a tedious, repetitious and time-consuming task. But, it doesn't end there. There are endless questions from prospective buyers. Questions that could very, very easily be answered if the buyer would only read more than the first three words of the auction title. Mrs. P is very careful to include pertinent information for each item (color, dimension in inches, sizes for clothing). Unlike some sellers on eBay, she no longer includes an extended, flowery description — opting instead to post pictures of the particular item, taken from several angles. (A picture is worth a thousand bids, as they say in the online auction game.) Nevertheless, no matter how long or short the description, Mrs. P regularly fields questions like "What color is this?" or "What size is this shirt?," despite the answer appearing in the title or the first sentence of the brief explanation of the item.

Then, there's the packing and shipping of the items once they sell. Mrs. Pincus maintains an office near our home that serves as a merchandise warehouse and packing center, stocked with boxes and padded envelopes and tape and bubble wrap. My wife is a regular face at our local post office, making trips there three times per week. So it's a job, my friend. A real live job. Just like the one you go to and complain about every day.

The other thing Mrs. P has to deal with — just like at your job — is assholes. Yep. They are everywhere. While the majority of eBay transactions come off smoothly, every so often, some jerk pops up and causes unnecessary trouble. (Just like at your job.) There are folks who make up elaborate stories about bidding on items by mistake. ("My two-year old bid on this when I wasn't looking." or "I was putting my phone in my pocket and I accidentally bid on and paid for this item.") Mrs. P treats them with courtesy and in the most professional manner, although they are all lying thorough their fucking teeth.

Then there is what is referred to as "buyer's remorse." This is when a purchased item arrives and it is not what the buyer envisioned (although each auction displays numerous pictures of the item). Or, the buyer has second thoughts about buying the item in the first place. Both of these usually evoke some sort of made-up tale of damaged packaging or a flat out lie about the item never arriving. Both of these scenarios are usually accompanied by a demand of a full refund of the purchase price. This is when "buyer's remorse" becomes "mail fraud." 

And then there are times when the unbelievable occurs.

Some time ago, Mrs. Pincus sold a small figurine of DC superhero Green Lantern to a buyer. The figure measures a few inches tall and is meant to stand on a shelf and be observed. It is not an action figure for play, as it is affixed to a base and is constructed from solid piece of molded plastic. 

A week of so after the Green Lantern was paid for and shipped, Mrs. Pincus received an email from the buyer, explaining that the figurine arrived broken. As per my wife's usual procedure for items allegedly damaged in postal transit, she politely asked for pictures of the afflicted figurine in question. At first, the buyer balked and offered the lame excuse that he did not have a camera — a situation that no longer exists in the free world. After a little email back-and-forth and a bit more coaxing, the buyer sent one picture. This picture, as a matter of fact...

Mrs. Pincus and I marveled at this photo. We felt like we were playing one of those "Spot The Differences" games from Highlights for Children magazine we loved as children. First off, this is a picture of an action figure with articulated arms and legs. The original figurine that my wife packed and shipped had non-moving appendages. The green color of the costume is different. The costume configuration is different. The sculpting of his little muscles is different. (If I may draw your attention the the figure's groin area [I beg your pardon!], you will seen the green color extends down to the figure's upper thigh. In the original figurine that my wife sold and shipped, everything from the waist down is black. The green ends at the abdomen. What I'm trying to illustrate is — this guy sent a picture of a broken Green Lantern figure he happened to have lying around. (Remember that thing about "mail fraud" I mentioned? Insert that here.) Mrs. Pincus immediately reported the entire episode to the good folks at eBay's fraud department. They took care of the rest.

We can only imagine that we ruined this guy's intricate international Green Lantern action figure Ponzi scheme, assuming he must have a stockpile of broken Green Lanterns and various disconnected arms and legs.... and my wife foiled his evil plan.... or something like that.

I guarantee this won't be the last eBay flim-flam story. It certainly wasn't the first.

***** UPDATE *****

Thanks to a head's up from a loyal reader of this blog, it appears that this motherfucker was scamming us worse than originally imagined. The picture that he sent to Mrs. Pincus to accompany his claim of the broken action figure wasn't even his picture! It was nabbed from an online article about repairing broken action figures, published a few years ago. See for yourself HERE.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

OK computer

I'm not exactly sure when it started, but it has been going on for quite some time. I'm talking about those mysterious calls from a man or woman with a vaguely-familiar, yet unidentifiable, foreign accent originating from a number blocked by your caller ID. The caller, speaking in a staccato, obviously scripted, delivery, officially informs you that they are calling on behalf of Microsoft Technical Support. They continue with bad news. It seems that your Windows computer has been sending them messages that it has been infected with a dangerous virus (sometimes more than one dangerous virus! Eeek!) The alleged technician says he has called to help remove the virus from your Windows computer. Usually for a price.

These calls are infuriating... for a few reasons. First, I imagine my poor in-laws receiving one of these calls and being thrown into a panic. While they have accomplished a lot and have improved on their computer skills, my wife's parents are not exactly what you would call "techies." Anything more advanced than sending an email would be like asking them to plan the next mission to the International Space Station. Not to knock their ability — after all they just turned 80 and computers were unheard of in their day — but they are not really interested in furthering their computer knowledge. They know enough to perform the few necessary tasks they need and that's sufficient. So, if one of these so-called "Microsoft Technical Support" calls are convincing enough, there could be some real trouble — both technical and financial.

The second reason I hate these calls is my contempt for anything deceitful. Obviously, these calls are Trojan horses preying upon the fears of the uninformed. They know they're lying. They know they are not calling from Microsoft. I could never understand how some people can tell lies and feel fully justified in their actions. Why don't they get a job where lying is not a requirement? It's maddening.

My wife, however, has turned the whole thing around and made these unsolicited and unwanted calls into a game. The object of the game is to get the caller to hang up first. Mrs. P usually goes the "I'm an Idiot" route, pretending that she is not familiar with anything the caller says. 

"Microsoft?," she'll ask in faux surprise,"What's that?" 

Sometimes the caller will hang up immediately. Other times, she'll get someone with infinite patience who will explain everything. 

"It's the company that made your computer.," they'll offer. 

"Someone made my computer?," she'll reply... and that usually does the trick.

I play this game by different rules. I try to catch the caller in their own trap. I have told these people that, indeed, my computer is sending messages. Messages from Satan!  *click!*  My usual line of attack is to tell these callers that I don't own a computer. This has elicited varied reactions — from an immediate disconnection to an incredulous "are you sure you don't?" 

Two nights ago, our daily viewing of Jeopardy! was interrupted by one of these calls. A very well-spoken, articulate woman, again claiming to be from Microsoft, informed me that she was receiving messages from my Windows computer. I cut her scripted spiel off mid-sentence.

"What kind of computer do I have?," I asked.

She paused and remained quiet for a few seconds. Then, she answered, "We have been getting messages from your Windows computer."

"What version of Windows am I running?," I pressed.

She paused again, gathered her thoughts (possibly to scan her script for the proper reply) and took another approach. "We are getting messages from your server." She carefully emphasized the word "server" to let me know that she, indeed, had technical know-how. 

I quickly countered. "What kind of server am I running?"

*click!*

I guess I won that round.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

I was only telling a lie

My dad was a liar. 

Some of his lies were taken as truth, because, at the time, there was no easy way to fact-check every detail of the stories he told. He told his co-workers that my mother was a school teacher (she wasn't). He told his family that he gave up smoking (he didn't). After my mother died and the opportunity of a new leaf waiting to be turned presented itself, he told a woman he was dating that he was part owner of a supermarket and he was in debt due to the expense of my art school tuition (he wasn't  and he wasn't). He lied, it seemed, as a hobby — the way some people collect stamps or bowl.

One story my father loved to tell was about a no-hitter he saw when he was a kid. He told this story to my brother and me often when we were young. According to my dad, he skipped school to go to a Phillies game. The game turned out to be a rare no-hitter. Afterwards, the city was buzzing with talk about the no-hitter, but my father (who, of course, was a kid at the time) couldn't tell anyone that he was at the game because he would get in big trouble for ditching school. My brother and I were amused by the story. Perhaps there was even a bit of underlying caution in the story — "Don't cut school!" Turns out the only "underlying" about the tale was just plain old "lying." 

See, when this story was told to us (and the many, many times it was repeated), there was no such thing as the internet. It was difficult to quickly check on baseball statistics. One had to own volumes of books chronicling the vast amounts of records from years past. Even then, locating the information would be a task unto itself. But one day, after my father had passed away, I decided to research his claim. Now that I had a computer in my house, this would be a cinch. 

My dad was born in 1926. The closest no-hitter achieved by the Phillies, to that date, was thrown by one Johnny Lush, but that was in 1906, twenty years before my father was born. Plus ol' Johnny tossed that 6-0 gem in Washington Park in Brooklyn, not Philadelphia, against a stunned Trolley Dodgers team. Red Donahue threw a 5-0 no-no against the Boston Beaneaters in Philadelphia, but that was in 1898, before my dad's parents were born. The next Phillies no-hitter was Jim Bunning's perfect game on Father's Day 1964, but by that time, my dad was the father of a seven-year-old (my brother) and a three-year-old (me). His "skipping school" days were long behind him. And that game took place in New York. What I'm trying to say is: My dad made the whole thing up. The whole story! Everything! He probably never even cut school.

As I got older, my mother let me in on the hundreds and hundreds of lies my father told throughout our lives. I developed a keen sensitivity for bullshit and, needless to say, I can spot a liar a mile away.

I had a recent co-worker who, within a week or so of his being hired, told a story during his first "I'm the New Guy" get-to-know-me session with a small contingency of his new colleagues. The informal "get acquainted" conversation bounced around from "where do you live?" to "where are the good lunch spots?" to similarly benign, but superficially friendly, chit-chat topics. Soon, the subject of concerts was introduced. We were a bunch of guys with a twenty-year span separating our ages, but all sharing a love of music. Some of the younger guys related their experiences with Coldplay and Phish. I, of course, told of the many Grateful Dead shows I attended (albeit begrudgingly). Being the oldest of the group, I continued listing the various highlights of nearly forty years of concerts ranging from Alice Cooper and Elton John to Tony Bennett, The Clash, The Dead Milkmen and even Donny and Marie. The new guy chimed in, hoping to bond and offer a bit of camaraderie. Explaining that he grew up in the Philadelphia area and was happy to return after living elsewhere for many years, he waxed with sentimentality about his concert-going days as a rambunctious college student. He expounded on one particular performance at the Mann Center for the Arts, a pastoral, open-air venue situated within the gently sloping lawns of sprawling Fairmount Park. He claimed he attended a show by the venerable soft-rock troubadour James Taylor, he of mellow, Southern California, acoustic-driven tunes sung with a sweet, airy tenor. This guy told us about a typical James Taylor concert featuring a cavalcade of his easy-going hits like "Sweet Baby James," "Fire and Rain" and "Handy Man." Singable, hum-able, non-offense — everything his fans came to hear. 

"Then," our co-worker continued, "he announced that he and the band were taking a short break. And when he came back for a second set, they broke into 'Led Zeppelin's Physical Graffiti' and played the whole fucking album!" 

Our little group stood in silence, our eyes darting back and forth to one another, looking for confirmation that we all heard the same thing.

"Yeah, man, it was awesome!," he elaborated, "James Taylor and his band were fuckin' rockin' out and the crowd was getting pissed off. A lot of people started leaving, but he didn't care, man!" Now the new guy was morphing into Peter Fonda from Easy Rider, punctuating each statement with a drawn-out "man!" 

"My buddies and me were diggin' it, but most of the audience was really bummed. James and his band were wailin', man! Just banging out that Zeppelin!"

The "bullshit meter" in my head was about to explode! The lies were coming at me too fast and furious for me to keep up. Fortunately, our little session broke up and we began our workday. The first thing I did was scour Google for any possible pairing of the search terms "James Taylor" and "Led Zeppelin." My first search yielded nothing, as I had expected. I tried every combination of "James," "Taylor," "Led," "Zeppelin," "Physical," "Graffiti," "concert," "Mann," "Philadelphia." Nothing. Only single mentions of the individual words were returned in the search results. I put my searches aside and got some work done. Later in the day, however, I brought the conversation up to my co-workers once the "new guy" wasn't around. I posed the scenario again, pointing out the various tell-tale faults and inconsistencies in the story.

Would James Taylor, an established singer, risk alienating his fans with such a brazen, uncharacteristic performance? Why would he choose a Led Zeppelin album —  one that clocks in at nearly 90 minutes — to perform, in song sequence? Just supposing, for a second, that this actually did happen — would James Taylor have continued to perform an entire set of music by a band that is out of his genre, while his audience vacates the premises in droves? How come there is nothing about this unusual incident anywhere on any website? Hang on. I'll answer for you. It's because this didn't fucking happen!

I could not grasp the reasoning behind such an outlandish story. Was the "new guy" trying to impress us? Did he really think this was the proper route to take? Did it even occur to him that the facts of his anecdote could easily be debunked with a quick and effortless visit to the internet?

Once we got to know the "new guy," all of these questions were answered. It seemed that this lie was just a preview of what was to come. Two and a half years later, he was escorted off the premises.

Whether he realized it or not, my dad prepared me well.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com