this is a photograph

I have a box of photographs in my basement. It's been there for over thirty years. It took up residence on a little shelf in a closet in my basement in 1993, just after my father died and we cleaned out his house to make it ready to sell. It was filled very quickly at my father's house (the house in which I grew up). Drawers and closets were opened and the contents were quickly assessed. After the separation of stuff deemed "trash" and stuff which Mrs. Pincus saw as "saleable," photographs — all photographs — were tossed into a cardboard box and brought to my house. You can't throw photographs away!, we thought. They're photographs, for goodness sake!

And there they sat. In a box. In my basement... where no one looked at them. No one organized them. No one cared about them.

My mom was the unofficial historian for the family. She knew who was married to who, whose children belonged with which cousin or aunt or whoever. Her knowledge of the family went back to generations that were around before she was born. She knew about family members that never made the trek to the United States. When she married my father, she even was able to decipher relationships in the mysterious Pincus branch of the family. Unfortunately, my mother died in 1991 and she took the family history with her. There was no longer anyone to ask about the ins-and-outs of uncles and grandparents and "how is he related to us.... again?"

In the early days of the COVID-19 insolation, I found myself wandering around my house, looking for something to occupy the time. I came across the box of photos in my basement. I had just joined a private Facebook group that was set up by a second or third cousin with whom I had lost touch. The group was devoted to my mother's side of the family. I started to rifle through the box of photos and select those which featured people I could Identify. Most of these showed my mother in her teens and early 20s. That was a time when she was — to put it into today's terms — a party girl. My mom was gregarious fun-loving girl, always looking for a good time and a hunky guy to latch on to. It didn't hurt that she bore a passing resemblance to actress Barbara Stanwyck. I uncovered dozens and dozens of snapshots of my mom. In most, she was mugging for the camera, striking poses that rivaled 1980s Madonna. In some of the pictures, her arm was laced through that of a shirtless guy with a swimming pool in the background. In others, she was all smiles as she was embraced by a guy in a snappy military uniform. None of these men, I should mention, were my father. 

I found other pictures, too. I found shots of my brother, me and the rare example of the two of us together in the same picture. Most of these pictures were taken by my father, whose inimitable style was apparent by the amount of space above our heads and the fact that we were not always the main focus of the composition. In other photos, I recognized the faces of cousins who are now in their late 60s and 70s. I found pictures of long deceased uncles and aunts seated on sofas I remembered from my childhood living room. However, there were dozens and dozens of pictures that showed people I did not recognize. Smiling women and stern-faced men peered in the direction of the camera. Laughing girls and awkwardly posed young boys sporting thick-framed glasses stared at me from those warped and faded squares of celluloid. And then I'd pick up a picture of my mom in a fur coat on the Atlantic City boardwalk, letting me know that these pictures all belonged to the same family. It's just I was not able to identify everyone.

Mrs. Pincus and I took a lot of pictures. We have pictures from Walt Disney World, Niagara Falls and Hershey Park. We have pictures from ball games and pictures of our cats rolling around on our kitchen floor. We have loads of pictures of our son, from his first day of school and seeing him off to summer camp to high school graduation and countless New Years Eve celebrations. Some of  those pictures have been neatly arranged in multipage albums, but most are still in their developing service envelopes and stashed in the drawers of a dresser in our guest bedroom. (If you want to stay overnight at the Pincus house, you're keeping your clothes in your suitcase.)

I started thinking....

My wife and I are in our 60s. What on earth will become of our photographs when our time among the living comes to an end? And what will be the fate of that box of photographs in our basement? 

My son (who is in his middle 30s) has a house of his own. I can assure you that he does not want to clutter said house with a bunch of photographs from his parents' house, let alone a box of pictures of people that I can't even identify. I'm pretty sure that all of the pictures in our house will meet the same fate that all that unopened mail in my father's house experienced. That would be "Dumpster City."

There have been a lot of great inventions over the years. The electric light bulb. The printing press. Television.  I think the greatest invention is digital photography. If only digital photography was around in my parents' youth. I wouldn't have a mystery box of pictures in my house. I wouldn't have drawers and drawers of pictures that my son will probably toss sometime after my funeral. 

Yes sir. Digital photography is a true innovation. No boxes of pictures. No waiting for developing. And that all-powerful, all-important "delete" function.

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

revolution 9

I have become pretty active on Instagram. I've been active on social media for some time now, but recently Instagram has taken a big leap over my previously favored platform, the now-vile, politically-charged garbage heap known as Twitter. Sure, I spend waaaay too much time on Facebook (Hey! Who doesn't?), but Instagram has become more... oh, I don't know.... sociable?!?! I find it easier to post  and it's more receptive to creativity, specifically with its stickers and text and music accompaniments. I have been enjoying the enhancements that Instagram allows as far as posting my daily celebrity death anniversaries. And because I fancy myself as an artist (I know, some of you might debate that claim...), I'm always looking for new outlets for creativity. Plus, Instagram is the perfect forum to display my admittedly skewed sense of humor and my love of old television shows. So it's a win-win-win!

A few years ago, Instagram started this end-of-year thing where it allows — or even encourages — the posting of a nine-image collage consisting of one's nine most favored or "favorited" posts from the previous year. With the assistance of several third-party apps, a collage is created — available for downloading, posting and eager for comments. Other internet services have jumped on the "year in review" opportunity, with folks posting their annual granular breakdown of listening habits via Spotify, Pandora and other music-streaming platforms of which I don't use. (Yep, I still listen to the radio.) Instagram's "Best Nine" apps were clunky at first, but have since been reworked and a suitable-for-posting compilation is ready in just a few minutes.

I did mine for 2022 a few days ago and I am posting it here before I post it to Instagram. (Oooh!  JPiC exclusive content! And you don't even have to be a Patreon member!) In past years, I got just a random mish-mash sampling of disjointed and unrelated posts from the previous year. This year, however, I was intrigued by how spot-on my selections were. Of course, there are drawings. I suppose the majority of my Instagram posts are drawings. After all, I like to draw. But the five chosen drawings featured three dead celebrities and quotes from two that are still with us. If you have been following me for any length of time, you know about my affinity for dead celebrities and propensity to immortalize them in my little corner of the internet. Also two drawings are in black & white, two are in color and one is in limited color — a very accurate overview of how I work. 

In addition to the drawings, there are photographs. I post a lot of photographs on my Instagram account. A good portion of my photographs are freeze-frame screenshots if my television. I watch an inordinate amount of television and I see a lot of cool, interesting and unusual stuff (well... to me anyway) and I feel compelled to share them. In this year's "top nine," there are two pictures from television. One is from an old TV show and one is not. The former is a scene from a 1962 episode of The Andy Griffith Show. The scene features a young Barbara Eden, three years before her iconic role as the mischievous bottle-dweller on the sitcom I Dream of Jeannie. I love to spot actors and actresses in unlikely appearances outside of a role for which they became famous. And I love to share them with the people who, like me, are fascinated by this sort of thing... all six of you. The other television photo is from a news report on CNN. I don't remember what the story was about, but I was startled by the fact that the reporter bore an uncanny resemblance to They Might Be Giants guitarist John Flansburgh. And that needed to be shared, too.

The two remaining pictures rounding out my "top nine" are a picture of our dining room table laden with a tempting array of home-baked goodies prepared by my wife, the celebrated Mrs. P. This picture, taken just prior to the onslaught of guests coming to our annual Night Before Thanksgiving Dessert Party, shows the results of a single day of baking (that's right! a single day!) and how Mrs. P makes it look so easy. (Spoiler Alert: It is not easy.) This photo is similar to other photos taken of past year's gatherings, however this one was snapped before our 38th one. These have been going on every year — uninterrupted, even by a pandemic! — for well over a quarter of a century.

The last picture is my favorite. It was taken at this past summer's XPoNetial Music Festival (presented by Subaru), a yearly outdoor music festival held over three days on the Camden waterfront — one of the few beautiful things about Camden, New Jersey. The picture shows me (uncharacteristically wearing a hat) with my two favorite people in the entire world — my wife and my son. And there's no one with whom I would rather spend three days out in the sun, listening to music and surrounded by thousands of people than these two.

I don't know why I was so taken by this little visual glimpse into the world of Josh Pincus. I just was. And, to be honest, it's hard to write a new blog post every week.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

I'm on the hunt I'm after you

In keeping with our current campaign of downsizing a houseful of stuff, Mrs. Pincus and I had a yard sale last weekend. I printed out a stack of signs to hang up around our neighborhood. One evening after work, Mrs. P drove me around and I hopped out of the car to tack my paper advertisements on strategically-determined wooden utility poles within a ten (or so) block radius Chez Pincus.

So, we had our little yard sale and when the new week began, we put off the tedious task of taking down the signs until mid-week. (Yes, we are civic-minded people, who do the right thing and take down the signs we put up. Unlike most people who advertise their yard sales, choosing to leave the responsibility of removal for the "sign fairy" or until they deteriorate in the elements.) On Wednesday evening, Mrs. P got behind the wheel of her car and I took the passenger seat, ready to retrace our route through our neighborhood.

As we tooled around our small, suburban community, we saw that someone (or someones) had beat us to the punch. Many of the signs I had attached to utility poles were now just bright-colored corners held in place by heavy-duty staples. In some instances, a long strip of neon green paper sporting the first digits of our address flapped in the breeze. But, for the most part, only corners remained. Sure, there were plenty of signs still intact and I was determined to get each and every one, provided we could remember where we hung them all.

On a long stretch of Church Road, a main thoroughfare that bisects Elkins Park and continues on into the next township, I had hung a number of signs on consecutive poles. I jumped out of the car, finding it easier to just walk the whole way, instead of getting in and out of the car every few feet and have Mrs. P continually halt traffic. So, I got out and my wife drove on ahead to circle the block and eventually meet up with me down the road. I strolled the sidewalk, grabbing and ripping down each sign as I came upon them. At a forked intersection, a small car slowed down next to me and a young man emerged from the passenger side door. He was tall, athletic-looking in a University of Pittsburgh t-shirt and a dark ball cap — the bill pointing backwards — on his head. He hesitantly approached me. I assumed he was going to ask directions like a guy did last week when I was hanging the signs up. (A guy in a rusty heap, its backseat filled with assorted stained boxes and bolts of dirty fabric, leaned over and shouted through the open passenger window, "Which way's Glenside [another nearby town]?" I pointed over my shoulder and said, "Back there." "Back there!?!," he repeated in angered disbelief. He gunned his engine, ignored my reply and continued in the opposite direction.)

The young man smiled. "Sir, would you mind if I took your picture?"

I cocked my head and squinted to indicate I need further explanation. He complied. "My friends and I are on a scavenger hunt. We need a picture of a red-headed stranger." He offered a forlorn look, punctuated by a sorrowful pair of puppy dog eyes.

I laughed. "Sure," I said, "You can take my picture."

A look of relief and elation came across his face. "Really? Cool! I gotta call my friends. They'll be here in a minute." He quickly tapped his cellphone and then shoved it into his pocket. While we waited for his friends, I asked him what else was on his scavenger hunt list. "Any call for old yard sale signs?," I asked and gestured with the stack of spent signs in my hand.

He allowed a small laugh. "Ha! No.," he continued, "We had to walk a stranger's dog."

"Someone let you walk their dog?," I questioned.

"Oh yeah, and she was very nice about it," the young man said proudly.

"I would have run off with the dog.," I joked. He didn't get that I was joking and briefly gave me a look of slight horror. I quickly changed the subject. "So, have you been driving around Elkins Park looking for a red head for a long time?"

"Not really.," he replied, "Well, not too long."

After a minute or two, another small car parked illegally across the street, its two right wheels up on the curb. The doors flew open and four kids in their 20s bounded out, each wearing a heather gray t-shirt emblazoned with the logo of a different college. The group gathered around me like we were posing for a family reunion picture and I was the long-lost relative, discovered after years of searching. I announced, "Before you take your picture, is it okay that I'm not a natural redhead?" They laughed and assured me that it was fine. They took their picture, thanked me over and over again and bounded off in much the same manner they arrived.

My wife pulled up as the episode was ending and I filled her in as I climbed into the car. When I finished, she laughed and told me she had passed them on her drive around the block.

"They were putting clothes on a fire hydrant and taking a picture.," she revealed.

Who says nothing exciting ever happens in the suburbs? 

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

freeze frame

For eighteen seasons, Mrs. Pincus and I were proud Phillies season ticket holders. Well, maybe we weren't proud for every one of those seasons, but, you get what I'm saying. We first purchased our tickets — four seats in the lofty 500 level of Philadelphia's notorious Veterans Stadium — to qualify to buy two tickets to the 1996 All-Star Game that was scheduled to be held in our fair city in the mid-season break in July.  In 1996, if you recall, the Phillies were terrible. Just three years removed from a World Series appearance, they were now a bedraggled crew of over-the-hill under-achievers. Despite the pitching prowess of dominating southpaw Terry Mulholland and future asshole Curt Schilling, the Fightin's put up abysmal numbers, closing the season just five shy of losing 100 games. We had to literally beg friends and family to join us to occupy our fourth seat. We whittled it down to three seats the following season.

Our plan was especially prepared with families in mind. It was a 13-game plan, every Sunday home game. The April games were cold. The August games were broiling. But, all in all, it was a memorable piece of family bonding for me, my wife and our young son. We all grew to have a love of all things baseball. We visited other ball parks in other cities. We knew the goings-on with other teams. We could rattle off the current standings at any point during the season. My wife could explain the infield fly rule, fer crissakes! When the Phillies moved into their new digs at beautiful (and I do mean "beautiful") Citizens Bank Park, and started to get good again, we were right there with them. We got to know — and became close with —  the group of folks whose seats were surrounding ours. Even when our son decided he wanted his summer Sunday afternoons unencumbered by endless foul tips and Seventh Inning Stretches, Mrs. P and I continued to renew our Sunday plan with just two seats. And we did that right up until the end of the 2013 season, when we quietly opted not to purchase tickets for 2014. The last five years were the most exciting of our entire run... and for a reason that you would not expect.

As any true baseball fan can tell you, baseball is boring. Sure it has its exciting moments — the grand slam, the walk-off home run, the elusive triple play*, the no-hitter** — but, for the most part, not much happens in between. In June of 2009, a benign discussion at work yielded a brilliant idea. During a lull in the workday, some co-workers and I were discussing people wearing Phillies jerseys to Phillies games. I always thought it was weird, along the lines of wearing a t-shirt of the band you are seeing in concert.. Everyone knows why you're there! You're there for the same reason everyone is there. You're a fan! Do you really need to label yourself? I found myself in the minority, everyone in agreement that wearing a jersey of the home team shows support. Okay. I get it. It's just not for me. Then, someone brought up whose name is appropriate to put on the back of a jersey. Well, obviously, your favorite player's name would get the honors... I mean, as long as we're showing support. We all agreed that putting your own name was just flat out wrong! A total violation of the hallowed rules of baseball. An unforgivable infraction that must be dealt with... publicly. And so, my alter-ego was born.

The very next Sunday, I became "Photographer N." I was a silent, stealthy whistleblower exposing those who dare rank themselves among baseball's greatest — the Ruths, the Mayses, the Gehrigs — by displaying their own moniker across their shoulders while bypassing the earned respect and applied diligence. I am a firm believer that anyone over the age of twelve looks silly wearing a baseball jersey to a game — but that's my pet peeve and I know I am in the minority, But, an adult shelling out $200 for an officially-licensed Major League Baseball jersey and ruining it by getting their own name on the back — that's just stupid. Does some out-of-shape accountant sitting in the upper deck with his personalized jersey tucked into his dress pants really think he's gonna get a "call up" if the Phillies' bullpen runs out of relief pitchers? Well, it was my self-proclaimed duty to expose these guys for all the world to see.

With my digital camera battery fully charged, Mrs. Pincus and I arrived at the ballpark early and nonchalantly strolled through the crowds on the main concourse. I kept a keen eye open to my surroundings, hoping to spot someone — anyone — with their own name on a Phillies jersey. I was not disappointed. As a matter of fact, I was pleased — if not a bit disturbed — by just how many people had no problem displaying their innermost baseball fantasies to their fellow Phillies fans. Among the "Utley"s and the "Howard"s and the "Halladay"s, I saw numerous non-Phillie names in big red letters unjustly stitched across those red pinstripes. I got as close to the offenders as I could and snapped a picture, preserving the evidence for later display. On my first day of this project, I got five pictures. After we arrived home from the game, I started a new WordPress blog called "Who Does He Play For?" Every week, I would add to the collection of "jersey offenders." I posted the photos I gathered that day and captioned them with words of good-natured ribbing (well, "good-natured" unless you were the subject). Some days, I came home with a collection of pictures that numbered in the high twenties. As the weeks passed, I started receiving pictures from other Phillies fans, thanks to an anonymous email address posted on the blog's masthead. My blog was even acknowledged by a sportswriter from the Philadelphia Daily News and was mentioned in an online publication devoted to sports uniforms.

This blog had taken on a life of its own, as well as injecting new excitement into the boring routine of going to a Phillies game. Don't get me wrong. We enjoyed our Sunday outings, but, as I mentioned, baseball is not a particularly exciting sport. However, we were making our own excitement. But it didn't come without risk. When I spotted an "offending jersey," I would take off into the crowd, leaving poor Mrs. Pincus (now using the counterpart alias "Mrs. Photographer N") in the dust, worrying if some drunk guy with his own name on his jersey would catch me taking his picture and beat the crap out of me. Would she stumble across my bloodied and battered body a few hundred feet up the concourse with my camera stuffed in my mouth, mob hit-style? Nope. She never did. I was careful. Plus, I came to see that most people are oblivious to their surroundings. With the flash on my camera turned off, I have gotten within inches of a subject and remained undetected. As a courtesy to the folks who deserved no courtesy, I blurred any visible faces in every photograph, including innocent bystanders.

My "Who Does He Play For?" blog kept me busy with nearly 1500 posts over five years, including posts during the off-season (because there is no rest for the weary). But, at the end of the 2013, after 18 seasons spanning two ballparks, Mrs. P and I decided not to renew our ticket plan. I hung up my camera and "Photographer N." faded into the crowd, remaining unidentified until the confession you are now reading.

Mrs. P (or should I say "Mrs. Photographer N") and I went to a Phillies game just last week. I am saddened to say that the tradition continues among the fans. Luckily, I brought my camera and I snapped one for old times' sake.

Although the blog is no longer active, it is still available to peruse (HERE) as an archive until the internet takes it down. Enjoy. I know I did.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

* saw one

** saw one

I saw the harbor lights

Here's a fun fact: When the Food Network conceived the show Diners, Drive-Ins and Dives and offered hosting duties to Guy Fieri, they had to explain what exactly a diner was to the boorish, peroxide-blonde celebrity chef. He just could not grasp the concept, despite being a "restaurateur"* for over twenty years.

However, anyone who grew up on the East Coast — specifically in close proximity to New Jersey — is very familiar with diners and all they have to offer. Poor, derided New Jersey is home to the largest collection of diners in the world — a claim that is completely understandable. A drive through any small town (Jersey has a lot of them) will reveal scenery regularly dotted with gleaming chrome eateries. Diner menus are renowned for their encyclopedic proportions, offering page after laminated page of every possible configuration of meal from hearty breakfasts to full-course dinners (with soup or salad, choice of two vegetables and Jell-o or rice pudding for dessert) to late-night snacks. Even those watching their weight need not worry, as diners notoriously offer "lo-cal" versions of popular dishes. Diner owners seem to think that a hamburger served with peaches and cottage cheese constitutes suitable diet fare. Every diner offers pretty much the same, abundant selection and the same quality food. Not great, but somehow, comforting. After all, it's kind of difficult to screw up eggs or a tuna melt.

I have always loved eating in diners. They are a fascinating time capsule, a place where eras from the past remain a part of the present. What is really fascinating  is that, no matter where they are located, they are all pretty much the same. Same set up. Same decor, Same wait staff. You know what i mean. That teased-haired woman with the doily on her head and too much rouge on her cheeks, her voice roughened by years of cigarette smoke, her vocabulary peppered with lots of "hon"s and "sweetie"s and "not a problem"s. My dad's favorite diner was The Heritage, a place just a few blocks from our house. Our family ate there often. My dad ate breakfast there every weekday morning for decades, and after my mom died, he ate every meal there. The Heritage had a waitress that fit that description. As a matter of fact, all of their waitresses fit that description.

This past summer, Mrs. Pincus and I took regular drives to and from Atlantic City. Sometimes, we went to spend a day on the beach. Sometimes, we went to take care of other obligations. One evening, we were driving back home to Philadelphia. As we drove, we discussed our options for dinner. Growing weary of pizza and sandwiches from Wawa (we love 'em, but...), we decided to stop at one of the many diners that we usually pass on our routine transversing of Route 30. The narrow, mostly two-lane, highway that is Route 30 snakes through many small towns — Pomona, Absecon, Egg Harbor City, Chesilhurst, Elwood, Hammonton — in Southern New Jersey. For a lot of these tiny burgs, the only place to eat is a diner. Just ahead of us, between a church and an Auto Zone, we spotted the soft glowing neon of the Harbor Diner. But this time, we stopped.

There's a light....

The Harbor Diner is pretty unspectacular. It's chrome-clad exterior is similar to a thousand other diners on Route 30 and throughout South Jersey. Inside, the faux leather booths, silver-flecked Formica counter and other characteristics were, again, as nondescript as any other establishment in its category. A young lady grabbed two hefty menus and directed us to a booth along the front of the narrow building. We scanned the numerous offerings for something that did not include meat. On most diner menus, the vegetarian-friendly options are plentiful. I decided on an entree from the typewritten dinner menu that was attached with a clip to the pre-printed menu, expanding the selections by at least 30. The waitress — another young lady who bore all the signs of evolving into the waitress I described earlier — deposited glasses of water on our table and asked if we were ready to order. My wife ordered a lettuce and tomato club sandwich, an assemblage that sometimes requires a bit of explanation and garners strange looks when it is made clear that no bacon is to be included. However, our waitress scribbled the order on a pad without so much as a blink. I ordered grilled salmon and was promptly informed that salmon was not available. I settled, instead, for fried flounder, a diner staple and a point of misty reference from my youth. I ordered fried flounder at The Heritage Diner more times that I can remember. A short time later, our food arrived. It was typical diner food and it was good. Really good. Afterwards, Mrs. P got rice pudding to take home.

A week or so later, we stopped at the Harbor Diner. This time we were with our son and his girlfriend, returning from a relaxing day on the Atlantic City beach. Our family was greeted by the staff of the Harbor Diner as though we  were regulars. We ordered and we all enjoyed our choices. It was a good meal, nothing spectacular or exotic. Just good food at ridiculously cheap prices.

Cluck and Z with Murphy on the side

A few weeks went by and, once again, Mrs. P and I found ourselves at the Harbor Diner. This time it was late, nearly 11 PM. We looked over the menu and decided to have breakfast nine hours early. Mrs. Pincus ordered sunny-side up eggs, toast and home fried potatoes. Strangely, the preparation of the eggs required a bit of additional explanation. The waitress asked if my wife if she wanted her sunny-side up eggs "over easy." My wife smiled and clarified, "No, sunny-side up." The waitress nodded without further expression and jotted something down on her little pad. I ordered a mushroom-cheese omelette and its standard accompaniments. When our food was brought out, I promptly took a picture of my classic-looking platter and posted the result on Instagram. Google Maps, into which I am automatically logged on, asked If I wished to post my photo to the gallery created for the Harbor Diner. I happily accepted, uploaded my photo and then dug into my late dinner/early breakfast.

A few days later, I got an alert from Google. Someone had a question for me about the Harbor Diner, based on the photo I posted, no doubt. I clicked the notice and this eloquent, astute dissertation popped up:

I read it. And reread it. And reread it again. Technically, it wan't a question. Obviously, this fellow was disappointed with his visit to our newly discovered. eatery. Even after several run-throughs, I was still confused by this poor customer's sentiment. His anger seemed to have totally obliterated his ability to use punctuation, save for a set of misplaced ellipses. That aside, I sort of surmised that he saw a young lady (presumably a waitress, although he does not make that clear) smoking in the "ketchen," which I understand to be the area where the food is prepared and not the late creator of the popular.Dennis the Menace comic strip. His food was "diff" and "cold," which, unless it was ice cream or gazpacho (which I do not believe they offer), is unacceptable. Actually, I'm not sure was is acceptable, as far as "diff" is concerned. He concludes by saying that he is paying for this kind of service and he would go there "agian" (sic).

I was saddened by Mr Google "M"s convoluted rant cum complaint about the Harbor Diner. I cannot speak for Mr. "M," (actually he can barely speak for himself), but I know that I will happily return to the Harbor Diner, if given the opportunity. 

Perhaps next summer. Perhaps next week.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

*allegedly

on a clear day you can see forever

I took this photo of the Disney Studios in Burbank, California on Saturday, October 23. This view, from high in the Hollywood Hills, can only be seen from one place.

Wanna know where I was when I snapped it?

Click HERE and find out.