he rode a blazing saddle

The internet is filled with opinions. There is a recent trend among posts on such micro-blogger sites as X and Threads as far as opinions are concerned. That is the concept of "unpopular opinion." Users preface their unpopular opinion posts with "Unpopular opinion, but..." and proceed to offer an opinion on a particular topic. "Unpopular," however, is a relative term, depending on the circles in which you travel. Statements like "Unpopular opinion but, mustard doesn't belong on any type of sandwich." are just looking for an argument. The ones that say things like "Unpopular opinion but, Charles Manson was an awful person" are just plain stupid. Opinions on things like television shows, movies, books or food are just opinions. They can only be labeled "popular" or "unpopular" depending on who is reading the statement. I have noticed that a lot of "unpopular" opinions reflect the way I feel. So, I will venture into the realm of "unpopular opinions" and register one of my own.

"Unpopular opinion but, I can't watch Blazing Saddles anymore."

I saw Blazing Saddles in its initial theatrical release. I went to the movies with my parents. It was six months before my 13th birthday. I was familiar with Mel Brooks and his brand of comedy. I loved watching Get Smart. I loved seeing Mel and then partner Carl Reiner play out their "2000 Year Old Man" act on the Ed Sullivan Show. I loved staying up to see Mel Brooks give a frenzied interview on The Tonight Show with  Johnny Carson. I got most of the jokes in The Producers, the first Mel Brooks movie I ever saw and one of my mom's favorites. But when Blazing Saddles hit the theaters, my dad couldn't wait to see it.

My dad was a proud racist. He watched All in the Family as though it was a documentary. He spewed out ethnic epithets as part of his normal everyday conversation. He spoke the notorious "N-word" the way some people say "good morning." That word popped up regularly in dinnertime conversation. My father often peppered his rundown of the day's activities with the "N-word" when describing interactions with customers at the supermarket at which he worked. Sporting events broadcast on television were cheered on by my father with phrases like "look at that 'N-word' run!" It was only as an adult that I realized that this was so grossly wrong and — in hindsight — it should have turned my stomach the way it does now.

My father didn't stop at African-Americans. His vitriol was hurled at Asians, Italians, those of Polish extraction, the Irish, Catholics and even Jews... despite the fact that we were Jewish! So, when my dad read the early reviews of Blazing Saddles, he couldn't wait to be a part of the experience. And when we saw the film... boy! oh boy! did my dad laugh. To be honest, everyone laughed.

Yes, yes... I fully understand that Blazing Saddles was written as biting satire. I know that Mel Brooks collaborated with Richard Pryor, a pioneer in controversial comedy and himself master of topical satire. I get that the way certain words and phrases in Blazing Saddles are used was very well thought out. The jokes are always at the expense of the bigoted ignorant characters. These characters are presented as too stupid to know they are stupid. Cleavon Little, as protagonist "Sheriff Bart," is intelligent and always outsmarts the brainless townspeople. I know that Richard Pryor encouraged Mel Brooks to employ the "N-word" in an effort to "tell the truth" about how racial prejudice functions as a brutal weapon in America. Mel Brooks fought with Warner Brothers over the inclusion of the word. Brooks, whose contract explicitly gave him final content control, stood his ground, making few and insignificant changes to the script.

I get all that. But in 2026, I cringe when I hear that word.

I am reminded of a time when that word was used in sitcoms that I watched. It was used on Sanford and Son, All in the Family and The Jeffersons. It was famously used in a skit on a first season episode of Saturday Night Live, where host Richard Pryor and cast member Chevy Chase played a very racially-charged game of Word Association. I am reminded of a time when that word rolled off my father's tongue like he was asking my brother to "pass the peas" at the dinner table. The use of that word, over time, tapered off on television to the point where now, it is audibly "bleeped" and appears as a line of asterisks in closed-captioning. 

This afternoon, Turner Classic Movies is showing a selection of Mel Brooks movies in honor of his 100th birthday. Wedged between Spaceballs and Young Frankenstein is Blazing Saddles.

Happy Birthday, Mel Brooks. I still can't bring myself to watch.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

police on my back

In the summer of 2020, I wrote about the police for what I thought would be the last time. I don't like to get political on this blog, but sometimes a situation becomes so astounding and so outrageous, I feel I have to address it. (I promise to get back to in-depth analysis of old TV shows and things I ate for dinner as soon as I can.) Not that my opinion makes any difference, but it's more like opening a valve on a pipe to let the build up of steam escape. In 2020, a police officer murdered George Floyd in plain sight of a number of people, including other police officers who did nothing. As a result, the nation erupted in outrage and protest in many cities across the country, including my own city of Philadelphia, the alleged "City of Brotherly Love." Watching the protest on television from my safe suburban home was horrify and, at the same time, enlightening. In the following days, I was educated by a few African-American friends, giving me a perspective on the events to which I had previously been blind. I learned — in the most basic of terms — that white people are awful. Just awful. They are unjustifiably scared and have pretty much caused all of the issues they have with people who are not white. White people have always been in charge and have feared losing that status the entire time. It's just terrible and, sometimes, I am embarrassed and ashamed to be white. I thought — and really believed — that after George Floyd's death and the eventual sentencing of his police officer/murderer, things would improve. I believed that white people would collectively realize their past treatment of non-white people and begin to take the road to understanding, equality and better relationships. I thought that police officers would relax their targeting and profiling and stop being bullies. I would have been better off and achieved more favorable results had I focused my optimistic beliefs on the Tooth Fairy.

Tashawn and Michael Bernard

In August 2023, 12 year-old Tashawn Bernard was helping his father wash the dinner dishes in his Lansing, Michigan apartment. Tashawn's father, Michael, asked his son to take a bag of trash out to the dumpster that sat just across the parking lot from their unit in the apartment complex. It was something that Tashawn had done a million times before. After an inordinate amount of time, Tashawn had not returned and Michael became concerned. He left the apartment and came down to the parking lot — only to discover several police cars surrounding the dumpster and his son - in handcuffs - flanked by two police officers and being guided into the back seat of one of the police cars. Both frightened and angry, Michael called out the the officers: "Why is my son in handcuffs?" One of the officers answered back that he would be told "in a little while" and should keep his distance on the sidewalk. With Tashawn in the back of the police vehicle, Michael pressed for an explanation. Another officer explained that they were searching for a suspect in a series of car thefts in the area and Tashawn fit the basic description. As the story unfolded, some disturbing details were revealed. It seems that Tashawn had just tossed the bag of trash into the dumpster when a police car pulled up to him. An officer emerged from the car and unholstered his gun as he began to question the young man. It turns out that the only characteristic that Tashawn shared with the suspected car thief was he was black. Tashawn was a different height, a different build, different age range and was dressed differently. Eventually, Tashawn was released to his father and the two returned to their apartment. (Michael was subjected to disrespectful comments and threats prior to his son's release from custody.) Michael contacted the Lansing Police Department, as well as several media outlets. He demanded an apology, which he did receive a few days after the unfortunate incident. Both Lansing's Chief of Police and Lansing's Mayor offered very standard, very corporate and very cold apologies, with phrasing that would have been more appropriate for a mistakenly-issued parking ticket. Michael has since contacted an attorney for possible further legal action.

When I read this story (that got relatively no national attention), I was saddened, frustrated and angry. I could not imagine what was going through Michael Bernard's head when he saw his son in handcuffs. I thought about how I would have felt if I had seen my son in that situation. But, what would be the chances of that happening? My son is white and police officers would run past a white young man for the opportunity to unjustly harass a black young man. This story made me ask the rhetorical question: "When will this end?"

I got my answer last week. And the answer I got is "never."

David Ryan Harris and his children

On September 15, 2023, David Ryan Harris, a singer/songwriter, got his children up for an early flight from Atlanta International Airport to LAX. It was a six-hour flight and his two boys were understandably cranky from being awakened at 4:15 am, hours before sunrise. As they boarded the flight, a flight attendant became concerned that a light-skinned 7 year-old with curly blond-brown hair was travelling with a black man. The shy young man didn't answer the flight attendant's questions and turned away when asked his name. The flight attendant contacted authorities in Los Angeles. When the flight touched down at LAX, Harris and his two boys were met at the jetway by four Los Angeles police officers and an employee from American Airlines. After some brief public questioning, right at the gate, the police determined that the now-agitated Harris was, indeed, the father of the two boys. A furious Harris noted that his boys are shy and are not obligated to engage in any conversation. Harris unsuccessfully contacted American Airlines customer service before taking his anger to social media.  In a post to Instagram, Harris stated: "If this had been a white dad/mom with 2 little black kids, they would probably been offered an upgrade, not an interrogation." American Airlines later issued an apology to the singer. A company representative contacted Harris, explaining that they were concerned over the possibility of child trafficking. In an effort to "make things right," American Airlines promised an investigation and would credit Harris's account with 10,000 frequent flyer points. Harris pointed out that the airline awards 50,000 points when you open an account, so this is kind of insulting.

I wonder how soon until I read another one of these stories. I wonder when it will end. I wonder when I will stop hearing people say "Blue Lives Matter" as a response to "Black Lives Matter." 

White people, I mean.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

sunday will never be the same

My dad liked things a certain way.

Just add sugar

He liked dinner as soon as he came home from work. (It had better be some kind of meat.) He liked a cigarette as soon as he got out of bed in the morning — even before be brushed his teeth or changed out of his pajamas. He liked to watch certain TV shows on certain nights. The FBI was a Sunday night staple. All in the Family (a show that my father viewed as a documentary) and Kojak were loyally tracked down and viewed on the various nights and timeslots in which they were broadcast throughout the lengths of their respective runs. In the morning, my dad liked a bowl of Kellogg's Corn Flakes with the sugar equivalent of six Hershey bars sprinkled liberally on top before the milk was added. (Why didn't he just eat Frosted Flakes? Two reasons. 1. My mom ate Frosted Flakes, therefore — in the mindset of Harold Pincus — it was a woman's cereal. 2. Those pre-sweetened flakes didn't have nearly enough sugar for his liking.) 

My dad was, by no means, an example of physical fitness. As far back as I can remember, his physique was that of someone smuggling a wok under his shirt. He got little to no exercise and smoked like a chimney. Despite this, before bed each and every evening, my dad would sit down at our kitchen table with a giant glass of chocolate milk and a Tastykake Chocolate Junior (two layers of golden cake cemented together with a rich helping of chocolate frosting and blanketed on top with more of the same) from a renowned local commercial bakery and — until recently — only available in the greater Philadelphia area. And he capped this pre-bedtime snack off with a couple more cigarettes to end his day.

Sunday mornings were something special, though. On Sunday mornings, instead of breakfast cereal poured from a box, my mom would cook breakfast. She'd fire up the stove and prepare scrambled eggs or pancakes or — if she was feeling particularly ambitious — French toast. But before my mom would pull a frying pan out of a cabinet, my dad would have to run his little Sunday morning ritual errand. He had to get donuts.

You know. Donuts.

? ? ? ? ?

See that picture at the very top of this blog post? Those — as far as I knew — were "donuts." If you went to the store to get eggs, you came home with a dozen little white things in a molded cardboard container formed to protect their fragile shells. Those were eggs. They could not be mistaken for anything else and they fit into  no other category. If you were tasked to go out and return with a baseball, you better come back bearing a nine-inch round, leather-clad sphere reinforced with 108 red stitches. Anything else would not be a baseball and you would have failed your mission. For young Josh Pincus, "donuts" were a specific thing. They were round, airy cake-like pockets stuffed with an overflowing abundance of viscous sugary jelly (Maybe grape, maybe raspberry. There was no real discernable fruit flavor.) and covered in a dense coating of clumpy powdered sugar, opaque enough to obscure any hint of yellow-gold pastry beneath. The jelly would seep out of a tiny hole at one end. To avoid getting squirted with jelly, you had to strategically place your first bite where that little "fill hole" was. That, my friend — and only that — was a donut. Those round things with a hole in the middle and covered with frosting and sprinkles? I didn't know what those were, but they sure weren't donuts. 

Free,
if you look like a girl.

On Sunday mornings, my dad would venture out to a nearby bakery to buy "donuts" and he would return with a plain white box sealed with several tight wrappings of twine. Once the twine was cut and the lid lifted, there were a dozen of those things I just described and they were donuts. On rare occasions, I would go with my dad to the bakery, where one of the stout Teutonic frauen would smile at me and offer a free cookie from their stock. "Isn't she cute?!?," they'd announce with an inflection reminiscent of Marlene Dietrich. That's right! "She!" My mid-1960s locks often led to being mistaken for a girl. But, I didn't correct them, fearing it would jeopardize this and any future free cookies. Munching my justifiably earned treat, I'd watch my dad point to the donuts in the case and instruct the Germanic abeiterin to fill a box with a dozen of them. I gazed at the other baked goods on display behind the glass-paneled cases. There were strudels, cupcakes and the giant tray of cookies from which my free one was chosen, along with other sugary bounty. Of course, there were those round things with frosting and sprinkles... but I didn't know what they were. I only knew we never brought them home. We came to get "donuts" and they — most definitely — were not donuts.

Admittedly, I was sheltered as a young child. The most influential people I came in contact with were my parents. But, as I got older, I began to notice things. Things I never really noticed before. I noticed that other kids' dads ate pizza. (My dad did not.) I noticed that other kids' dads drank Coca-Cola. (My dad did not.) I noticed that other kids' dads never used the same words my dad used for Asian people and Hispanic people and even that one he regularly used for black people. I eventually learned that those round things with the hole in the middle and covered with frosting and sprinkles were also donuts... just another variety. But they were donuts, just the same.

I learned a lot from my father. Most of what I learned, he didn't teach me.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

never gonna give you up

My wife and I had Phillies season tickets for 18 seasons and we were pretty avid baseball fans. Besides going to Phillies games, we would watch other, out-of-market games on TV and even visit other ballparks. We wouldn't necessarily go to other cities when the Phillies were the visiting team (as a matter of fact, we would prefer not to). We liked to compare Philadelphia's stadium to other city's stadiums. (All were much better than the giant toilet bowl that was Veterans Stadium, but after 2004, nothing compared to beautiful Citizens Bank Park. Fight me!) We also liked to to see how other teams handled the "fan experience," including available concessions, ease of parking and stadium entry and how fans were made to "feel at home" and be "part of the game." (With the exception of the Phillie Phanatic — the greatest mascot in the Major Leagues — the Phillies experience leaves a lot to be desired.)

We gave up our season tickets in 2014. Actually, we kind of gave up on baseball, as well. We stopped watching games and we stopped visiting other ball parks. But, just this year, while on the hunt for outdoor activities in the (fingers crossed) waning days of the worldwide pandemic, we began to go back to baseball. We've already been to a few games here in Philadelphia and yesterday we even ventured to Washington, DC to visit Nationals Park. We made plans with Mrs. P's Virginia-based cousins who, for reasons that are still unclear to me, are rabid Atlanta Braves fans. The Nationals were playing the Braves, so this would be a great opportunity for a particular family member who, at sixteen years old, would be attending his first Major League baseball game.

The Atlanta Braves began life in the latter part of the 19th century as the Boston Braves, adopting a Native American in a feathered headdress as their logo. They relocated to Milwaukee in 1953, still keeping the stereotypical Native American motif as part of their uniforms and team logo. The team moved to Atlanta in 1966, still clinging to, and even elaborating on, the cartoonish portrayal of Native Americans, including a depiction of a "laughing Indian" as the team logo. They added the presence of "Chief Noc-A-Homa" at Braves' home games, who would emerge from his left field teepee and dance when a home run was hit by a home team player. Russell Means, an actor and Native American activist and advocate, complained about "Chief Noc-A-Homa," citing the name as "derogatory" and his actions as "insulting" to Native Americans. Instead of sympathy and re-examination of the concept, the Braves PR department explained that the actor who portrayed the character at the ball park was, himself, Native American and therefore validated the whole scenario. It was essentially a kiss-off to Means and his accusations. In 1991, stadium organist Carolyn King began to play a stereotypical, yet familiar, "Indian" riff for most Braves' at-bats. When coupled with the distribution of oversized foam tomahawks, the infamous "tomahawk chop" was born. Once the Braves became a pennant contender, fans were relentless. They wielded their foam "weapons," or just their outstretched palm, in a mock "chopping" motion when the Braves scored a run or made a spectacular play. Soon, the action could be spotted in other stadiums when the Braves were the visiting team.

When protests were levied against the Cleveland Indians and the Washington Redskins regarding their team names and practices, their respective management examined their options. Sure, it took a while (In DC, it took a few years. In Cleveland, it took decades), but eventually, they did the right thing. In 2018, Cleveland removed all reference to "Chief Wahoo," the long-time mascot depicted as an exaggerated caricature of a Native American. At the end of the 2021 season, it was announced that the team would be renamed "The Guardians" to start the 2022 season, the new name being a reference to the iconic sculpted figures on the Hope Memorial Bridge in downtown Cleveland. The Redskins, cited by Native American groups to be just as offensive as the unspoken "N-word," ditched the racist moniker and went with the generic "Washington Football Team" for two seasons while a new name was selected. The 2022 season will see the team rechristened the "Commanders," while sporting a stylized, though rather nondescript, "W" on their uniforms.

But the Braves are standing firm. Sure, they slowly eliminated the "laughing Indian" from team uniforms, but they kept the bright red tomahawk, still displayed prominently across players' chests. The Braves' front office claims the team's relationship with the Native American community is "a proud expression of unification and family." Spokespeople from the Native American community beg to differ.  

In the 2019 post-season, the Braves were facing the St. Louis Cardinals in the Division Series. Cardinals pitcher Ryan Helsley, a vocal member of the Cherokee Nation, expressed his dismay about the controversial "tomahawk chop" and its accompanying chant by fans. The pitcher said he found the fans' chanting and arm-motions insulting and that the chop depicts natives "in this kind of caveman-type people way who aren't intellectual." Upon hearing this sentiment, the Braves discontinued the sale and distribution of the popular foam tomahawks. The stadium organist was instructed to immediately stop playing and inciting the "chop." Related graphics would no longer be displayed on the stadium scoreboard. The Braves then released a statement saying they would "continue to evaluate how we activate elements of our brand, as well as the overall in-game experience" and that they would continue a "dialogue with those in the Native American community after the postseason concludes." Various Native American groups continued to condemn the Braves' actions. Even in the aftermath of Cleveland and Washington changing their team names, the Braves announced on-going discussions regarding the "chop," but defiantly stated that the team name will remain unchanged.

At Saturday's Nationals-Braves match-up at Nationals Park, I saw a substantial representation of Braves fans, identified by the abundance of tomahawk-emblazoned jerseys and t-shirts scattered throughout the seating area. After a lackluster beginning, the Braves lit up in the top of the third inning when first-baseman Matt Olson took a 1-0 fastball over the fence, scoring two teammates who were already on base. This prompted the visiting Braves faithful to rise from their seats and enact the notorious "tomahawk chop" and its equally-notorious low, throaty chant. A solo home run in the very next at-bat by third-baseman Austin Riley kept 'em standing and kept 'em chanting. Mrs. Pincus's young cousin and his father were cheerfully waving their outstretched arms, joining in on the rebellious activity. Sideways looks and silent jeers be damned! These are our Atlanta Braves! Proud team! Proud rituals! Proudly confrontational! The Nationals fans (if there really are any), the casual baseball fans and those just looking for something to do on a Saturday afternoon sat quietly, sort of like the victim of a relentless bully.

I felt like I was being Rick-rolled.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

welcome to my world

Remember that guy I told you about last week? My co-worker who stinks? Well, I have another co-worker who also stinks... but in a different way.

I have been in and around the commercial printing business for approximately 40 years. I have worked for printing companies. I have designed for printing companies. I have dealt with printing companies as a customer. In my nearly four decades of experience, I can safely say, with certain small exceptions, that people in the commercial printing business are some of the dumbest people I have ever met. The frightening majority of folks in the commercial printing business are ignorant, narrow-minded lunkheads who, aside from operating a printing press roughly the size of a battleship, can't do much else. And the sales force in the commercial printing business don't posses the skills to operate the presses, so they are even dumber. Salespeople who sell commercial printing services are a special kind of dumb.

Here's my most recent encounter with one of their representatives.

In my current job, I design ads and other promotional materials for the supermarket industry. I work closely with a guy who sells the owners of these supermarkets on the idea that their store needs these items in order to drum up business. After lengthy in-person or phone conversations with the customer, the salesman hands me scribbled pages of notes and rudimentary drawings and it's my job to translate these hieroglyphics into something "pretty." After submitting a design idea, the salesman runs it by the customer and it goes though several more rounds of changes, edits and additions until an approval is given and it goes to print. The changes are usually transmitted via email . But along the way. some of those changes are delivered verbally, in the form of the salesman sitting behind me as I guide my mouse cursor around my computer monitor, telling me "Move that there." and "Change this to that." 

The salesman in question is a slick little motherfucker with a Mephistophelian beard, French-cuffed shirts and a vocabulary like a longshoreman. An uneducated longshoreman. He complains about the stupidity of every single one of his customers. He second-guesses his customer's changes and often directs me to make changes contrary to their changes... only to have those changes changed back to what they originally requested.

Just this week, I was working on a door hanger for a supermarket grand opening in the South Jersey area. (You know what a door hanger is. It's a long cardboard advertisement with a slotted hole cut in it that... you know... hangs on your doorknob.) This particular piece had gone though an inordinate number of changes over a period of a couple of days. (I generated nearly eight unique proofs, only differentiated by a few insignificant changes — none of which would ever be noticed by a potential recipient as he tosses it from his front door into the pile of the week's recycling.)

Late on Friday afternoon, the salesman stomped into my office, grumbling something about "more changes." He plopped himself into a nearby office chair and asked me to pull up the pending door hanger-in-progress on my computer. As I searched my folders for the proper version of the InDesign file, the salesman said: "The first thing the customer wants, is to add 'Black Lives Matter" to the front, under the logo."

I froze.

I slowly turned around, something I rarely do, as I prefer to accept dictated changes while I face my computer screen. "Really?," I asked. Customer changes of any kind never surprise me. Store owners have been known to make any number of unusual requests ("unusual" in my opinion) for what they want added to their advertising in the name of the dangerous combination of "promotion" and "community awareness."

He laughed heartily. "No," he clarified, "I'm just kidding."

This made me angry. Very angry. First of all, as the "new guy," I was in no position to say anything about anything. I couldn't reprimand him. I couldn't explain how I found his callous comment offensive. I couldn't tell him how his belittling of the BLM movement was dismissive of an entire race that has been dismissed for years and years. I certainly understood his derisive remark. The supermarket is located in a predominantly black neighborhood. In his narrow little mind, he saw me — a white guy with gray hair — as a comrade. A compatriot. A confederate. An ally. A reflection of his own way of thinking. He even repeated his little racist comment to the real stinky guy behind me — who chuckled with his acknowledgement.

The salesman continued dictating the actual changes he wanted and I made them to the document. I generated a PDF proof and emailed it to the salesman, hitting the big "SEND" button as he exited my office. I stewed for sometime until I gathered up my jacket and left the office myself, as it was the end of another work week.

Over the weekend, I thought (on and off) about my few options. I decided — reluctantly — to do nothing. Not to say anything to my supervisor at work. Not to say anything to the nice lady in Human Resources who I have not seen since my first day of work seven months ago. I decided to let it pass. Racists will always be racists. I can't change that. Stupid people will always be stupid. I can't change that either.

The best I can do is blog about it.

So I did.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

strange days indeed

In May 2020, I joined the thousands and thousands of people across the country who lost their jobs due to the global COVID-19 pandemic. Losing a job is tough to begin with, but under these circumstances, a bad situation has been made more complicated. First, with businesses closing left and right, who is hiring? Second, what are the logistics of starting a job, what with the majority of the workforce who have managed to keep their jobs working from home. Am I really comfortable going into an office environment at this time? Add that to the fact that I am approaching my 60th year among folks charged with doing the hiring that weren't yet born when I took my first job. Well, let's just say that the stars aren't exactly aligning in my favor.

I have many, many years of experience in all aspects of graphic design, marketing, publishing and a few other fields whose technical description would just bore those unfamiliar. The problem is the process for finding a job has changed drastically since I was knocking on doors and passing around my then-sparse resume. Everything is done through the cold, faceless, impersonal internet. You upload your resume. You fill out a brief, identifying form and then you wait. And wait. And wait. Hoping that one of these offers will contact you for an interview. I have had a handful of interviews since May — some via Zoom and others on the good old-fashioned telephone. I have sent my resume to literally hundreds of posted job offers with only a few replies.

Just a few weeks ago, I saw an ad for a graphic designer at a local printing company. The abbreviated description of the position was very similar to positions I had held in the past. I sent my resume and, surprisingly, I got a response the next day. Via email, we arranged for and confirmed a time to speak on the phone. The agreed-upon time came and went. No call.

I emailed this "prospective employer." In my most polite manner, I sheepishly apologized  (as though I was my fault) for not being able to speak and asked if there was time that was more convenient to his schedule. This is his reply:

Please excuse me if I was difficult to get hold of. I've been swamped with applications, while at the same time needing to keep up with my customers and preparing for a changeover with my outgoing, very capable associate.

Have I viewed your portfolio? Do you have a website or a social media site which I can refer to? Have you visited our website? If you want to write me a short story as to what type of position you're looking for, and your present status, that would be one way for us to keep in touch. 

Any chance that we could talk this evening, around 6:30? 

Of course I was agreeable, despite 6:30 on his suggested evening was right smack in the middle of my wife and I attending to "guests" getting their curbside pickup at the pandemic version of our annual "Night Before Thanksgiving" dessert party. But, securing a job takes priority in my book, so I planned to sneak away for a bit, while Mrs. Pincus attended to our guests. I sent this "prospective employer" a link to my online design portfolio (as is done in these times) and told him I was anxious to speak at 6:30 that evening. He replied with this somewhat odd email:

Checked out your website. Interesting. Can I trouble you to please call me at 630 - 215.725.XXXX. I'm relaxing at that time after dinner, and I don't usually think about business matters. I might just forget. But on the other hand, I'll be happy to chat with you when you call.

Please take a look at our website beforehand, so you'll see what we do.

I visited his website. It appeared that he had merely filled in a supplied template with information pertaining to his specific business. It was minimally informative, but, honestly, nothing special. While I perused his website, he sent me another email. In this one, he noted the high school from which I graduated and asked if I grew up in Northeast Philadelphia. I found that to be an odd inquiry, but I replied that I did, but I now reside in a suburb just outside of the city limits.

At 6:30 that evening, I slipped away to the quiet second floor of my house and dialed this "prospective employer" at the number he supplied. After a few electronic rings, he answered. I introduced myself. He asked if I went to his website and I replied that I did. "So, whaja think?," he spat out, with a tinge of indignancy in his tone. I explained that he appeared to be a commercial printer and I have dealt with and worked for commercial printers over the past thirty years of my career. He interrupted me with a gruff correction. "We are a print broker." (A print broker is sort-of a "middle man." He does not own or operate an actual printing company. Rather, he uses actual printers to supply his orders, selling them to his own customers at a price marked up from the wholesale price he receives from the printer. A print broker is a glorified salesperson.) I happily expounded on my understanding of the "print broker" concept as well as my experience in design and project management. He interrupted me again. This time, he pressed the previously undisclosed "sales" aspect of the position. I flatly told him that I was not a sales person and that I would not be comfortable in a sales position.

He was quiet for a moment. Then he spoke.

"The real reason I wanted to speak to you, " he began, "was I when saw your last name, I figured you were Jewish. I am getting up in years and was hoping to sell my business. Jews are very entrepreneurial. Maybe you'd be interested in buying my business?"

I looked down to see that my jaw had fallen and was now laying of the floor between my feet. I was speechless. Speechless. Thoughts scrambled in my head. 

"I am not interested in buying a business at this time." I managed to get those eleven words out of my mouth.

"Okay." he laughed. "I have been swamped with applications. I wonder why so many artists are out of work and can't keep a job?" I surmised that this was a rhetorical question. He ended with "I'll be in touch. Send me some references." I said goodbye and he said goodbye.

I haven't heard from him and he hasn't heard from me, either.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

your racist friend

A few days ago, Mrs. Pincus had to make a drop-off at a local UPS Store, something she has done countless times as a part of her eBay business. (I said 'NO!' She will not sell your stuff for you! Please stop asking!)

The closest UPS Store to our suburban Philadelphia home is just a short drive away, but it is situated as the end store in a strangely-configured strip center. After delivering the bulk of her thrice-weekly shipments to the post office, my wife will drive to the UPS Store and enter the parking lot through the more convenient back lot entrance. You see, the front parking lot — the one accessible from busy Old York Road — employs a one-way cattle chute, allowing cars to only enter from the busy four-lane highway. The narrow entrance is flanked by high cement retaining curbs and sort-of lazily snakes into the parking lot to insure that drivers maintain a single-digit speed limit. There is a small parking up in the front and a larger one behind the building. Once patrons are ready to leave the lot, the only exit is in the back. It is still a bit tricky, as all exiting vehicles must turn left (onto Wyncote Road)  and towards Old York Road. 

Here's a map so you can follow along....

The exit to the street labeled "Wyncote Road" is sometimes blocked by a trailer truck  (as the red circle indicates) unloading new automobiles for the car dealership across the street. So, navigating your way out of a routine stop at the UPS Store can become an ordeal. The day that Mrs. Pincus was there most recently was an ordeal, all right... but not for logistical reasons.

As she was coming up Wyncote Road, she spotted  a car attempting to exit via the cattle chute roadway at the front of the building. Sometimes, drivers try to buck the rules and sneak out this way, if there are no other cars around. It's wrong, but people do the wrong thing all the time. In this case, however, another car was coming in to the parking lot, correctly using the cattle chute. Since the road was constructed to purposely allow just one car to use it, a problem was occurring. Mrs. Pincus pulled into the parking lot at the rear, grabbed her shipment from the cargo area of her car and approached the building. She could hear some horns honking and the sound of arguing, though no actual words were discernible.

In these current days of social distancing, Mrs. P took her place in a queue line that had formed outside the rear door of the UPS Store. Soon, she was joined by a man who fell into formation six feet behind her. The man began to speak out loud, to no one in particular. He was complaining about the drivers in the small parking lot. Soon, it was revealed that he was one of the two drivers involved in the standoff in the cattle chute at the front of the building. ("Standoff in the Cattle Chute" sounds like the title of a 1940s Western from the John Ford canon.) The man exhibited his frustration at the driver going the wrong way and his difficulty in getting the fellow to understand he was going the wrong way. My wife nodded her head in approval, adding something like "Yeah, I know..."

Suddenly, the man ended his angry rant with "Y'know, Black Lives Matter and all that crap..." before trailing off.

SCREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!

WHAT?!?

My wife blinked and, if her mouth wasn't covered by a cotton mask stretched between two elastic bands secured around her ears, her jaw probably would have fallen to the ground.

"What does someone's poor driving habits have to do with the 'Black Lives Matter' movement?," she asked the man.

He readily answered. "Well, y'know, they all want their rights now and they all do what ever they want. The whole 'civil rights' thing has been blown way out of proportion. Once they got their rights in the 60s, things have been going downhill. And now this whole 'Black Lives Matter' thing.... awful. Just terrible."

Mrs. Pincus was speechless. This is 2020. In the United States of America. She finally said, "I didn't see if the other driver was a man of color, but it doesn't matter."

The man, who was Caucasian, replied, "Well, he was and they think they can do whatever they want now." This guy wasn't letting up.

Mrs. P announced, "This conversation is over." It was her turn to move up in line. She dropped off her package and headed to her car. The man called out to her, "Stay safe!"

I have no conclusion to this story, except that our society still has a long way to go. Sadly, it's a very long way.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

dig a little deeper

When my son was little, I would read to him every night before bedtime. I was a big fan of introducing him to classic children's stories and even those that were geared toward those a bit beyond his age group. But, — and this is not a brag — he was way more "on the ball" than a lot of his peers. I read Roald Dahl's lesser known works, as well as the original, non-Disney-fied, versions of the Winnie-the-Pooh stories. I also read the original Tales of Uncle Remus that white author Joel Chandler Harris collected and compiled in 1881. These are the stories upon which Disney based its notorious 1946 animated/live action musical amalgam Song of the South. However, in the version we had, the stories were ultra-sanitized versions of the post-Civil War folk tales. For most of the stories I read to my son, I made up and "performed" a number of funny voices for each character in the books. He loved those books and we read them often throughout his early years. Were they problematic? In hindsight, I suppose they were. 

If you are a regular reader of this stupid blog (and why would you be?), you know that I am an avid Disney fan. I have written about various trips to Disney theme parks and other Disney related anecdotes. I went to Walt Disney World for the first time with my friends just after I graduated from high school. We had such a good time that we returned again the next summer. (Actually, we were so drunk during our first trip, we went back to see what we missed the first time.) My wife and I went on our honeymoon in 1984. We went back again in '85 and ventured back one more time at the end of 1986, when Mrs. Pincus was pregnant with our son. After he was born, we put our Disney trips "on hold" for a while. Once we could no longer convince my son that The Disney Store in a nearby mall was "Disney World," we had no choice but to plan a family vacation to the central Florida resort... which we did in the summer of 1995. My son was so familiar with all things Disney that he was more prepared to experience the magic of Disney than any other guest — child or adult. Of course, everything was new to him, but there were plenty of attractions that had popped up since my wife and I were there almost a decade before. One of those was the elaborate "E-Ticket" experience called "Splash Mountain."

Splash Mountain has an interesting genesis. It started life as part of a massive project that never made it past the planning stages. When Walt Disney World opened in 1971, Imagineers (the guys who conceive and design the rides) decided not to build an east-coast version of the Pirates of the Caribbean ride, so popular in California's Disneyland. They didn't think a pirate-themed ride would interest Floridians, since so much "pirate lore" exists in and around Florida. Instead, they planned a sprawling experience that featured a cowboy-and-Indian themed boat ride (to pacify the "Pirates" fans) and a wild Western-themed roller coaster through a prairie town. The ride, christened "Thunder Mesa," was troublesome from the start. While still on the drawing board, its size and proposed technology was a logistic nightmare. It also promised to send its budget far beyond original limits. When guests started asking: "Hey! Where are the pirates?," Disney rethought their decision and scrapped the "Thunder Mesa" project. They turned to Imagineer Tony Baxter, who was brainstorming an attraction to fill out Disneyland's fairly sparse Critter Country. He came up with a variation of the standard "flume ride," so popular in other amusement parks. Tony's vision was to incorporate some of the Audio-Animatronic figures from the recently-shuttered America Sings and theme the whole thing to the film Song of the South. Although the Oscar-winning song from the film, "Zip-A-Dee-Doo-Dah," was a Disney staple, Song of the South was a strange choice on which to base a ride in the 1980s. It was not particularly popular and had only been re-released four times to lukewarm reception since its initial run in 1946. By the time construction on Splash Mountain began, Song of the South had completed what would be its final theatrical release three years earlier, amid growing controversy over the depiction of racial stereotypes. Nevertheless, Splash Mountain opened in Disneyland in 1989 and its Florida counterpart followed in 1992. From the very beginning, the ride was one of the most popular in its respective park. The Florida version clocks in a nearly 12 minutes as it takes guests on a whirlwind — and often wet — journey through the world of the villainous Brer Fox in his pursuit of the happy-go-lucky, mischievous Brer Rabbit. Hulking hapless Brer Bear, along with a cheerful menagerie of anthropomorphic swamp critters, entertain riders with a selection of tunes woven around the main "Zip-A-Dee-Doo-Dah" theme. At the ride's conclusion, riders often discuss their unfamiliarity with the songs and the characters, as the overwhelming majority of Disney guests have never seen Song of the South. Yet, for nearly thirty years, Splash Mountain boasts long lines and wait times upwards of an hour on any given day.

The first time I rode Splash Mountain, I loved it. It was both exciting and charming. I remember wishing that the ride moved a bit slower, because I think I missed a lot of the subtleties scattered throughout individual tableaus as the story unfolded. I even felt the same excitement the first time I conquered the smaller. leaner, slightly altered Disneyland version of the attraction. However, after riding both versions, I was uncomfortable in spending the rest of my day in damp clothes. Oh yes... you may get wet. Getting wet should only be the biggest issue with the ride. The hard truth is, just like the film that is its basis, Splash Mountain is fraught with derogatory imagery and mocking dialects that really have no business being glorified in a family-friendly theme park.

Just this week, in the wake of a long overdue awakening to racial injustice, racial inequality and old-fashioned prejudice, Disney has announced plans to re-theme Splash Mountain — ditching the racially-insensitive characters from Song of the South. The curently-unnamed attraction will feature characters and a story line from Disney's 49th animated full-length feature The Princess and the Frog, a 2009 release that was (mostly) praised for spotlighting Disney's first (and so far, only) African-American princess. Disney made the announcement on various social media and news outlets. Being the greatest marketers on the planet, Disney made no mention of reasons for the change and made no mention of the characters from the current Splash Mountain ride. The press release was purely forward-thinking, excitedly written and enthusiastic in its descriptive vision.

Disney has made numerous changes to their theme parks over the years. Some rides were changed or removed so quickly, you probably forgot they ever existed (The Tomorrowland Phantom Boats, a Disneyland "Opening Day" attraction, wasn't around to see its one year anniversary.) But die-hard Disney fans get very protective and very defensive when it comes to their most beloved rides at their theme park. And a ride being changed based on hurtful racial issues — acknowledged or not — does not sit well with a contingency of spoiled-rotten, uninformed, oblivious, insensitive, elitist, privileged white people that, unfortunately, make up a good chunk of Disney's fan base. 

I first saw the announcement on the official Disney Parks Blog, where the new, reimagined ride was lovingly described. It was accompanied by an artist's rendering, approximating a still-unrealized scene from the ride. The timeline for construction was vague, as Disney parks are currently closed due to the global COVID-19 pandemic, with tentative opening dates still "iffy" as new cases spring up every day. Disney's goal in making this announcement was two-fold. First, it needed to address the "elephant in the room," righting a wrong that should have been addressed years ago, but also to inject a bit of optimism into its current stagnating situation. The company hoped to evoke visions of bright, shiny new enticements on the sketchy horizon. The news was met with reaction, both favorable and disappointed. The favorable ones offered praise and excitement. The disappointed reactions were vicious, filled with selfish complaints, racist sentiment and indifference to the fact that more that just you visit Disney theme parks. Some cite their own love of the ride as a valid reason not to change it. Others dismiss any notion of offensiveness because it doesn't offend them. What these narrow-minded, self-appointed defenders of Disney forget is what Walt Disney, the man himself, said: "Disneyland will never be completed. It will continue to grow as long as there is imagination left in the world." He also said: "Times and conditions change so rapidly that we must keep our aim constantly focused on the future."

They also forget the current philosophy of the Disney Company — and that's the "cha-CHING!" of a cash register.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

every cop is a criminal and all the sinners saints

I really try to steer away from politics and controversial issues, but I will make an exception. The current climate of racial tension has weighed heavily on me. I know, I know, I'm an old white guy. I'm very aware of the fact that I have enjoyed "white privilege" my entire life. There are people who I know that have been the victim of systemic racism their entire lives. I understand that as best as I can, but I am still in the process of getting the education I didn't know I needed.

My dad

This country seems to be getting a long-overdue education as well. White people, who have made the rules and policies for years and years, are slowly discovering that their rules and policies suck. Some progress has been made over the past week. Some. Statues of revered Civil War luminaries and known slave owners have been toppled and even dumped in lakes in cities across the country. In my own city of Philadelphia, the reviled statue of racist mayor Frank Rizzo was spirited away under cover of night after protesters defaced it and demanded its removal. (My father, who passed away in 1993, was a huge fan of Frank Rizzo. He shared Rizzo's narrow-minded view of minorities and relished his public display of bias. My father was smitten when he saw the blustery Rizzo on a TV news report, attending a formal function with a night stick jammed into his cummerbund like a sword. If my dad was still alive today, I would most likely, not be on speaking terms with him.) It was a long time coming. Too long, as matter of fact. And there's still a long way to go.

The story I will relate here has stayed with me for years, but only now, do I understand that, under different circumstances, it would have resulted in a much different outcome.

In the early 80s, I was a student at a Philadelphia art school. My parents made it very clear to me that If I chose to further my education, I was on my own. They were not going to supplement any sort of tuition in any sort of way. So, to earn money, I worked at my cousin's health food restaurant, the same one where I met the woman who is now my wife (the esteemed Mrs. Pincus). Three evenings a week, I dished out food from behind the cafeteria-style set-up and made friendly chit-chat with the customers. At the end of the night, I'd lock the front door and, along with a co-worker, break down the steam table and cold foods, storing stuff that could be put out the next day for lunch and discarding the unsalvageable. Tony, my co-worker, would retire to the second-floor kitchen to wash the pots and utensils, to the accompaniment of some of the greatest music I ever heard. (Tony introduced me to the awesome sounds of The Sugar Hill Gang and Grandmaster Flash.) I would stay in the first-floor dining room, where I would stack the chairs on the tables, fill up a wheeled bucket with hot water and some kind of industrial cleaning agent, and mop the floor as quickly as I could, doing the shittiest job possible. (Hey, I wanted to get home!)

Over the few years that I worked at the restaurant, I got to know several of the neighborhood regulars, including the policeman whose "beat" was the two blocks that included our address. Every Wednesday, Thursday and Friday evening, the officer would pop in to the restaurant to say "Hello" or sometimes just give a friendly wave, as he made his way up Spring Garden Street. He'd patrol the north side, headed west, then, I suppose, he'd reverse at some point and return on the opposite side of the street. Sometimes, I'd only see him once a night. Sometimes, twice.

One Friday night, on a particularly humid summer evening, I was just finishing up the mopping. I opened the usually locked door to relieve the stuffiness as I completed the strenuous final task of my closing ritual. When I finished, I dragged the bucket towards the back door, carefully controlling the random splashes of dirty water. My destination was the parking lot behind the restaurant, where I would kick over the heavy bucket, spilling its contents along the cement gutter that ran around the perimeter of the lot. The bucket was awkward and required a few kicks until it landed on its side, releasing a flood of brown mop water. When it was completely empty, I grabbed the handle and guided it back through the back door and into the restaurant...

...where I was met by our police officer, with his gun drawn and his arms and legs locked in the "I mean business" Weaver shooting stance.

I froze. I'm surprised I didn't crap my pants. When the policeman recognized me, he relaxed his arms and slowly holstered his gun. He wiped his arm across his forehead and said, "I saw your front door wide open."

"I-I-I was dumping the mop bucket out back.," I somehow managed to stammer. 

I confirmed that everything was okay. He bid me a "good night." He descended the front steps and continued down the street. I watched from the door way for a while, as his figure disappeared and reappeared in the distance between street lights. And I caught my breath.

I'm sure, later that night, I told my parents or my girlfriend about the incident and we got a quick laugh. But, now that I reflect on it thirty-seven years later, I have come to the painful conclusion that — if I had been black — I would not be typing this story right now.

I'd be dead.

And that's wrong.

#blacklivesmatter

This link, highlighting black-owned business, was sent to me by a reader. Perhaps it will be a resource that you can use. I have not researched any of the businesses that are mentioned, I am merely posting this as a request. I do not endorse nor am I connected to any of these businesses. Thanks, JPiC

https://www.websiteplanet.com/blog/support-black-owned-businesses/

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