this is cracker soul

Mrs. Pincus and I got married in July 1984. For our honeymoon, we drove to Walt Disney World in Orlando, Florida — foreshadowing what would become a nearly annual trip for us and the eventual extended Pincus family. The drive was a real adventure for the newly-wed Pincuses. As Mrs. P sat behind the wheel of our little maroon Datsun, I studied the map provided by AAA and acted as navigator for our route down Southbound I-95. We stopped at outlet stores and roadside stands offering useless souvenir tchotchkes of whatever locale we were passing through. As we ventured deeper and deeper into the uncharted southern states (well... uncharted for us anyway), we came upon some establishments we had never seen before. We ate our first dinner as husband and wife (aside from the one we had at our wedding — a meal which we both actually skipped), at a place called Aunt Sarah's Pancake House, adjacent to the hotel at which we stopped on our first night. Aunt Sarah's was once a small but thriving chain in the southern United States, content with its status and not threatened by national chains like IHOP. Just as long as Aunt Sarah kept slinging pancakes within a specific area, everyone would get along just fine. (After 17 years of "playing nice," Aunt Sarah's has sadly gone out of business.)

Hitting the road again on the morning of Day Two, we visited our share of Stuckey's, the granddaddy of roadside rest stops. Stuckey's, dating back to the 1930s, once boasted nearly 400 locations across 30 states. Over 4000 billboards nationwide announced the distances to the next store to weary travelers. It was a place to get gas, stretch your legs, visit a rest room of questionable cleanliness and purchase a variety of Southern-style treats like boiled peanuts and pecan log rolls. It was also a window into a culture that a Northerner who had never crossed the Mason-Dixon Line had ever experienced. The flagpole in the parking lot usually flew a large Confederate flag and among the hand fans, sunglasses and snow globes, one could easily find a selection of items depicting "playful" racist sentiment amid images of kerchief-wearing "Mammies" and sinewy, overall-clad African-American children eating watermelons. In 1984, still many years away from the disappearance of such items from Stuckey's shelves, Mrs. P and I marveled at their stock in uncomfortable silence.

Somewhere in North Carolina, we chanced upon our very first Cracker Barrel. We had passed several billboards promising an "old country store" experience, its message illustrated with the help of a friendly-looking country gentleman in a rocking chair leaning on — what else? — a cracker barrel. Up ahead, set back a bit from the six-lanes of I-95, was a rustic little building with a long front porch outfitted with a line of high-backed rocking chairs. Mrs. P veered the car onto the small service road that connected the highway to the parking lot. We parked, walked across the crunchy gravel that covered the lot and stepped up on the porch towards the big wooden entrance doors. Between a few of the rockers were cloth checkerboards on barrels and an array of red and black checkers in position and ready for a new game. The front doors opened to the sound of a tinkling bell, purposely placed to evoke visons of ol' Mr. Drucker or reliable Nels stationed behind the counter of Oleson's Mercantile. 

With beauty shots of fried chicken and fresh sunny-side up eggs splashed across forty-foot billboards, we were of the understanding that Cracker Barrel was a restaurant. But once inside, we were momentarily startled, believing we had mistakenly entered the annual Mayberry Church Bazaar, half expecting to find Aunt Bee and Clara Edwards duking it out over a box of Christmas decorations. Cracker Barrel offers the best of both worlds for the typical vacationer traveling by automobile. There's a roomful of pseudo-country crafts, knick-knacks and clothing along with a large selection of snacks, condiments, beverages and cast-iron vessels in which they can be prepared. Tucked in a nearly-obscured corner is the entrance to the actual restaurant — a large, open, plank-floored dining room with tables attended to by a battalion of gingham-and-denim dressed young ladies just trying get enough money to get through the next semester of college. 

Let me tell you something, as a person descended from the group of people who fought on the non-bigoted side of the Civil War, I was a wee bit uneasy meandering around the faux-homey displays in the Cracker Barrel retail area. As a person who was raised Jewish — albeit a very casual and minimally observant version of Judaism — my feeling of uneasiness was heightened. There was just something about the place that made me feel I didn't belong. From my standpoint, Cracker Barrel is not for everyone. Sure, on the surface, it appears very welcoming and very hospitable — a comforting oasis on the road to one's vacation destination. But, there's an underlying feeling of scrutiny and a palpable air of non-Heimisha that permeates Cracker Barrel. I can't quite explain it, but ask one of your Jewish friends (assuming you have at least one). They'll know what I'm talking about. They'll know that you shouldn't dare ask for a bagel to accompany your country breakfast plate. (As the kids say: "IYKYK.")

Over the years and through many journeys down I-95, my family and I stopped at Cracker Barrels. We noticed that locations began popping up more frequently and closer in proximity to one another. We even ate in Cracker Barrel's dining rooms one or two times, often finding it very difficult to find an entrée (or even a side order) that fit into the criteria of a family that keeps Kosher (like mine). A lot of Cracker Barrel's victual offerings are proudly, if not stealthily, cooked in or with some sort of fat rendered from an animal that doesn't possess a cloven hoof or chew its cud. (You have the internet. Google the "rules of kashrut" and settle back for a wild read.) Pancakes or eggs were a safe bet, but corn muffins and hash browns were inexplicably prepared with bacon fat. After a while, the Pincuses wised up and stopped elsewhere for meals along the 900+ mile trip. We still stopped at Cracker Barrels here and there, just not to eat.

Just last weekend, Mrs. P and I attended a collector show in Maryland, a couple of hours drive from our suburban Philadelphia home. The COVID-19 pandemic, coupled with some pressing family issues, have kept us grounded for the past few years... more specifically, keeping my wife from engaging in one of her favorite activities — road tripping. Mrs. Pincus loves to drive. Loves it! Almost as much as I hate driving. In our nearly forty years of marriage, we've driven to a lot of places. (Well, she's driven. I just sat in the passenger's seat and gazed out the window like a puppy.) But Mrs. P loves tooling along, window down, wind blowing, fiddling with the radio buttons and taking in the whole carefree experience. On our way home from Maryland, we found ourselves on familiar I-95 in the once-familiar position of looking for a place to have dinner... harkening back to those long-gone days of checking a AAA TripTik for rest stops. Of course, the TripTik has gone the way of the dinosaur in these instant gratification days of the internet. Now I just merely Googled "restaurants near me" and, with the mobile GPS coordinates emitted by my phone, the glorious internet guided us to a selection of chain and local restaurants available at the next exit. One of those places was a Cracker Barrel. Mrs. P lit up. "Hey, let's give Cracker Barrel a shot!" (We had briefly decided on Red Robin, but weren't committed.)

Mrs. Pincus steered the car off the highway and followed the posted directional signs to Cracker Barrel. A narrow road looped around the parking lot of a Hampton Inn where, nestled behind a bank of landscaped trees and bushes, was the familiar rustic porch of Cracker Barrel. The rocking chairs on the porch were now constructed with some poly-carbonite-neo-fiber-wood-like alternative, but their appearance brought back memories circa our honeymoon trip. We entered the building and were immediately transported back decades. The store stock was the same. Sure, things were a bit updated, but there were still plenty of knurled wood plaques with "WELCOME" painted in distressed pink letters. There were displays of smiling Christmas snowmen and rural-looking Halloween witches side-by-side. There was a toy section filled with quaint "Wooly Willys" and wooden trains, along with trendy electronic devices and Barbie-themed items. Near the dining room entrance, there was a large area with shelves full of candy and chips and unusual bottled sodas. Mrs. Pincus picked up a few candy packages in hopes of bringing back a little surprise for her parents. She began scanning the packages for a symbol indicating Kosher certification. (This has been a common practice for us. I hope you Googled  "rules of kashrut" like I suggested.) I told her not to bother. Even though we have entered the 21st century and more and more businesses are doing their very best to accommodate the needs of those with specific food aversions, allergies or dietary restrictions based on religious, philosophical or environmental beliefs, Cracker Barrel is still a Southern company with Southern values and, if it weren't for recently-passed laws, would still be flying the ol' Stars and Bars right below Old Glory on their flagpole.

We were seated in the restaurant by a very attentive young lady who handed us menus and returned quickly to fill our coffee mugs. I noticed that Cracker Barrel now offered Impossible™ sausage, the trendy new plant-based meat substitute, alongside their standard fare of pork sausage, pork bacon and pork pork. (Plant-based foods have been a boon for those who keep kosher [Mrs. P] and follow a vegetarian diet [me].) I remember when Cracker Barrel announced that they would be adding plant-based sausage to their menu. The uproar on social media was incredible. Folks (who I was surprised could operate something more complicated than a lawn mower) posted tweets and Facebook comments, expressing their anger with Cracker Barrel's decision. "How dare they buckle to the needs of these "woke" people!" "Keep this plant-based bullshit off the menu! I want my bacon!" "We don't need this crap on our menu! Vegetarians can eat somewhere else!" were just some of the disgruntled sentiment I read. I expected to see someone asking that string beans be removed from the menu, too, " 'cause I don't like string beans!" Cracker Barrel's regular customers are very protective of their beloved rest stop. They want to keep it free of infiltrators with their new-fangled, plant-based, progressive-thinking healthy food and all-inclusive ideals.

After dinner, we paid our check via a sophisticated-looking terminal at the front counter. With our credit card inserted into a slot beneath the tiny screen, we were offered the option to leave a tip in one of three "pre-figured-out for you" dollar amounts. The clientele, however, looked like they would be paying their bill by bartering with provisions from their dirt farm. On my way out the door, I passed a rack filled with CDs by classic country singers as well as Jason Aldeen. There may have been a Confederate flag rolled up in the corner.

Cracker Barrel is an interesting diversion from real life. Try the pancakes. You get your own little bottle of syrup...and maybe a judging glance, if you're lucky.

Y'all come back now, y'hear?

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

keep Baltimore beautiful

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No microwaves for you.

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

Pancakes!

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

Not included in this story.

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

We cruised.

At the mercy of a bungee.

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

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

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

baby what a big surprise

My wife and I just returned from a seven-day cruise to the Caribbean aboard the Carnival Breeze. But this story isn't about that cruise. It's about the events that led up to the cruise. If you want to read about a cruise, go here. If you want a story about deceit and intrigue and messing with family, then here we go.

A little over a year ago, Mrs. P's cousin Liv planned a family cruise to celebrate her 45th year of wedded bliss to her husband Peter. My wife is very close with Liv and her three children, Scoop, Veronica and Juniper. The children are grown, some with children of their own. Mrs P is close with that entire branch of the family, even though they live in Virginia Beach. Mrs. P often takes the six-hour drive to spend a weekend with them. I have made the trip, as well, when I could, but, honestly, they want to see Mrs. P, not me. When Mrs. Pincus found out about their cruise plans, she secretly booked a trip on the same ship, as a surprise. At the time, I was limited to vacation days from my job, so Mrs. P would be taking this trip solo. She planned to drive — alone — to the Port Canaveral launch destination, staying — alone — overnight along the I-95 corridor. Then she planned to board the ship as stealthily as possible and surprise the whole clan. Mrs. Pincus regularly speaks with Liv and Juniper, even visiting them over the past year, but she never breathed a word about her secret plans. Actually, she didn't tell anyone about her plans for fear of someone spilling the beans.... and in her family, there is an awful lot of bean spilling.

Well, a year is a long time and, as they say, the best laid plans of mice and men...

Everything was planned perfectly. Mrs. P arranged for a hotel near Port Canaveral, Florida that included parking and shuttle service to the cruise terminal. She would leave on Thursday morning, leaving plenty of time for a Friday arrival. She would keep the trip on the down-low, so as not to arouse any suspicion. With these plans in place, Mrs. P visited Virginia Beach a few months ago for the first birthday of Scoop's son. She steered the conversation away from "cruise talk," only briefly and casually asking about their plans. Meanwhile, Mrs. P was gathering gifts and novelties to share with Veronica's pre-teen children who, most likely, would be the most surprised and thrilled to have the magical Mrs. Pincus along on their vacation.

With all the details and plans taken care of, all that was left was waiting for the date to roll around and the surprise to get underway. Then, a monkey wrench was thrown into the works. Without any warning, I was laid off from my job at the beginning of July, just five weeks before the cruise departed. Past experience had revealed that the job market was not exactly a welcoming place for a 58-year old graphic designer. Mrs. Pincus, however, was stuck with a laundry list of non-refundable charges and payments that had already been made. She felt horrible about taking a fairly pricey trip  — alone — while I stayed home and looked for a job. She suggested that, as long as I had the time, I should come along. She would check to see if I could be added to her cabin booking. She would also check for an open spot on the terminal shuttle. Calls were made and reservations were amended. This contradicted everything I stood for. I hated the idea of taking a vacation when I should be out looking for a job. I continued on the job search and, luckily, secured a new position just a few weeks after losing my job. At the interview, I explained that I had a previous obligation and I would not be able to start until the third week of August. My new employer was fine with that and I felt a whole lot better. With my conscience clear, we continued with our plans. Mrs. Pincus was actually relieved that she would not be taking the journey alone... although we were not convinced that our surprise presence would be welcomed by Liv and her family.

Mrs. Pincus chatted often with Juniper and Liv, answering their many questions based on our previous cruise experiences, but careful not to appear too enthusiastic. On Wednesday, the day before we (collectively) planned to leave, Mrs. Pincus told Juniper that we were going to take a road trip to celebrate my new job and to give our new car (purchased in September 2018) a chance on the open road. Juniper remarked "you should just come on our cruise with us" and Mrs. P nervously giggled and brushed the invitation off.

We left before sunrise on Thursday morning with a full car and no set destination for our first night. I joked to Mrs. P that this time tomorrow, not one member of her family would be speaking to us. We stayed in phone contact with our Virginia contingency who would be starting out later but picking up I-95 near Emporia, Virginia and, most likely, wind up ahead of us. We arrived at South of the Border, the infamous tourist trap in Dillon, South Carolina, just missing the Virginia convoy by a few minutes. They drove through the night, arriving in a pre-booked air B&B in Kissimmee, Florida with plans to hit Walt Disney World for a single day. We made it to a Hampton Inn in Walterboro, South Carolina, just under 80 miles from the Georgia state border. The next morning we would get to our Titusville, Florida accommodations in the afternoon and make innocent plans with Juniper and her parents for dinner at Disney Springs, the revamped shopping and dining area at Walt Disney World. Mrs. Pincus spoke with Juniper, who wondered what we were doing headed to Florida. Everyone knows how much my family loves Disney, so it really wasn't that out of the ordinary. Without revealing that we already had a hotel room, we met at Disney Springs and had a quick dinner at the Earl of Sandwich sandwich shop, then checked out the new stores and layout of the refurbished and reimagined entertainment district. We parted ways around 9:30 and wished them a great cruise, never alluding to where we were off to next.

The next morning, we drove our car to the Cocoa Beach shuttle and parked in a space near where the shuttle bus was loading. Twenty minutes later, we found ourselves in the Port Canaveral cruise terminal, waiting for our boarding time to be announced and hoping that Liv, Juniper and the family wouldn't arrive and spot us. Finally, we were able to board without incident. We entered the three-story lobby on the Carnival Breeze, marveling at the decor and excited by the thought of the week ahead. We also tried to gauge the reaction we would receive once our cover was blown. Would we be embraced or would we be reviled for muscling in on their cruise? We were baffled.

Almost an hour had passed as we stood conspicuously by the door through which all arriving passengers boarded. Suddenly, our Virginia cousins arrived.... and they were all smiles and bursting with laughter. It seemed that they booked the exact same shuttle service and parked their car in the same row in the parking lot. In addition, Veronica had a bag of trash to discard and she spotted my wife's Grateful Dead inspired license plate, as we were parked next to the trash can. She snapped a picture and exclaimed, "I knew it! I knew it!"

As they say, the best laid plans of mice and men...

We had a great week that ended with everyone still on speaking terms. But next time, we'll try to better cover our tracks.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

let me tell you 'bout a place I know

I work hard, so when I take a vacation, I want to go to a place that I know I will have a good time. I, admittedly, have a different idea of "relaxation" than a lot of people I know. I don't care to spend a long time laying on a beach, doing nothing. I'm not particularly fond of beaches anyway, but if my wife, who enjoys laying out at a beach, wishes to include that as an "activity" during our vacation, I will certainly oblige... for as long as I can. Oftentimes, I'm only good for fifteen minutes before I get "antsy" and have to go for a walk or find something to actually "do."

Vacations for my family have mostly involved travelling to a place we've never been before — then going there for several consecutive years until we chose another place we've never been and then repeat the procedure. We went to Walt Disney World for our honeymoon in 1984, then returned for two consecutive years. We took a break when my son was born, but once we decided he was old enough to appreciate the Florida theme park, we went — and went and went.

We visited Niagara Falls when our son was little and, again, returned each summer for several years in a row. We have repeated this pattern with Las Vegas, Hershey Park, Disneyland and, of course, based on its proximity to our home, Atlantic City and nearby Jersey Shore destinations. When our son got older and our vacations were reduced to my wife and me, we latched on to taking cruises. Honestly, I balked and actually shunned cruising for a long time. My wife had brought up the notion several times over the years, but finally, I conceded and — I will now admit — I love it. We just returned from our sixth cruise in five years. See? We even made cruising fit into our vacation formula.

So, if you've been paying attention, you will notice a subtle (or not so subtle) similarity among all of our vacation destinations. The overlying theme is "kitsch." That's right! We like to go to places that are entertaining. Hokey, tourist-y places with bright lights and loud music and gaudy colors. We like to see stuff that we can't see at home. And if there's a cemetery nearby, that's a bonus.... at least for me. Got it?

Earlier this week, singer/songwriter Wesley Stace (who used to perform under the name John Wesley Harding) tweeted this statement that smacked of "I've had enough already!" sentiment:

When I read it, I immediately felt Mr. Stace's pain. Despite the fact that I do not know specifically what his tweet was addressing, I certainly understand the frustration that it expresses. You see, over the years, everyone — and I mean fucking everyone! — has told me where I should go on vacation. Not suggested. Not mentioned. Told. Insisted. Nearly demanded. And by some of the recommendations, you would think these people — friends, family, co-workers — had never met me. These folks know what I like, know my interests, my quirky sense of humor, my love of pop culture and all things "corny." Yet, the vacation scenarios that have been presented to me are downright mind-boggling, For instance, years ago, I was planning one of the many trip I took with my family to Walt Disney World. After I secured my vacation time from work, a co-worker (Actually, he was my boss. A tall, fidgety guy who stayed at the office daily for as long as he possibly could, giving me the impression that he was "in charge" at work, but not "in charge" at home) made a vacation suggestion to me in a manner in which I have come to loathe.

"You know where you should go on vacation?," he began. I hate this preface. I have been on the receiving end of this introduction many, many times. I brace myself, because what follows is a proposal that I would never in a zillion years enjoy. And, sure enough, this one was no different. "Yellowstone National Park!," he revealed his "perfect vacation spot" for the Pincus family. I stared at him blankly, waiting for that smug grin to fade from his face. I thought for a minute before I offered my reasons for why Yellowstone National Park, while a fine destination, is not a place that would fit in to the Pincus's vacation criteria. Except, I wasn't so diplomatic.

"Why on earth would I want to go to Yellowstone?," I answered, "I can see trees on my way to work! I can't see singing pirates on my way to work!" I continued before he could open his mouth. "I don't camp. The thought of camping repulses me. That's why I bought a house, so I wouldn't have to sleep in the dirt."

Another time, while we were making plans for a summertime vacation, my ex-sister-in-law, who had just returned from a week at a beachfront time-share in Hilton Head Island, South Carolina, began singing the praises of that locale. "Oh, you should go to Hilton Head! You will love it!," she gushed.

"What is there to do in Hilton Head?," I deadpanned, not responding well to someone telling me what I should do.

"There's golfing and bike riding and there's the beach.," she continued as though she was reading straight from a brochure from the Hilton Head Tourist Bureau.

"Have  you ever seen me golf? Or ride a bike? And how many times have you seen me happily on a beach?," I countered. She seemed to have forgotten that not everyone enjoys the same things. While suggestions are perfectly fine, her command of "you should go here" caused me to become irritated.

It's funny how many people who know me, really know nothing about me. I like plastic-y places. Surreal, goofy places. I like factory tours (I've seen how Tupperware is made and how rum is distilled.) and silly, tourist-y places. I like cemeteries, but only to see the graves of famous people. I don't like white-water rafting or tennis or sleeping under the stars. And no matter how much you suggest, or in some cases, insist, I'm never gonna like those things.

I'm very sure of where I should go on vacation. Have a good time on yours.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

honeymoon with B troop

I wrote this story nearly eight years ago and it appeared on my illustration blog. Since I am on vacation with my spouse of thirty-three years, I thought I'd share this tale of our honeymoon. It's one of my favorites.                                                            

Let's get something straight. Men are idiots. They are bumbling awkward misfits who should be eternally grateful that women take enough pity on them to disrupt their own self-fortitude and take them as their husbands. As my 27th wedding anniversary draws near, I am reminded of how my own dear wife ignored all of the idiotic warning signs I displayed on our honeymoon and stuck it out with me for over a quarter of a century.

In the early morning hours of July 15, 1984, while the USFL champion Philadelphia Stars were embarking on their celebratory march down Broad Street, the new Mrs. Pincus and I were readying ourselves for our first trip as husband and wife. We crammed our suitcases into the tiny hatchback of our Datsun 200SX and pulled out of the parking garage of Philadelphia's Hershey Hotel (now a DoubleTree), where we spent our wedding night. Being children at heart (some more than others), our destination was Walt Disney World, the perennial mecca of pretend, just outside of Orlando, Florida.

As we ate up the distance on our 990-mile journey, our conversation bounced about from our wedding the previous night to the plans for our vacation-at-hand. Playing the part of navigator, I deciphered the TripTik as my "better-half" helmed our automobile — music blasting out of the rolled-down windows. We made several stops along the way to quench my new bride's thirst for new shopping experiences. I believe we patronized every Stuckey's and Cracker Barrel between Philadelphia and North Carolina, checking out the tchotchkes  and souvenirs and stocking up on pecan log rolls and locally-distributed soft drinks along the way. Convinced we were making excellent time, we called it a day at a Quality Inn in Roanoke Rapids, North Carolina, just south of the Virginia border. We were given a room that faced the parking lot and offered an inviting view of an Aunt Sarah's Pancake House, which — based on the remoteness of our accommodations — would, no doubt, be our dining choice for the evening. We hurriedly stashed our luggage in our room. Our short walk across the gravel parking lot was quickly interrupted by a tiny kitten who was wandering around the walkway in front of our car. My wife, a sucker for a cute, pink-nosed, whiskered face — and cats, — immediately envisioned the feline as our traveling companion for the remainder of our trip. I explained how that idea was not a great one considering — well, considering everything — the drive, our reservations in Florida — everything!  A brief discussion yielded an amicable compromise. We decided to bring some small containers of coffee creamer to give to the cat when we returned after dinner.

Several stacks of pancakes later, we took the return stroll across the crushed-stone lot to our hotel. My wife remembered to grab a handful of pre-portioned cream containers, but as we approached the lighted area around our door, there was no sign of the little cat. I pulled back the foil lid on one of the small plastic cups and set it on the ground, allowing easy access to its pseudo-dairy contents. We patiently waited, craning our necks and scanning the surroundings for a glimpse of the cat. Our futile search lasted several more minutes until we finally retired to the confines of our evening's lodging.

An hour or so later, my wife became curious about our feline friend. She asked me to glance outside to see if the puss had come to investigate the processed cow juice we had left for him. Obediently, I parted the curtain and leaned toward the window. As I did, a face leaned in toward me, its head cocked at the same inquisitive angle as mine. Startled, I jumped and hastily threw the curtains back to their concealing position. My wife, shaken, asked what the matter was. I whipped around and said, "Someone was looking in our room at the same time I was looking out." I trailed off, realizing what had just transpired. Mrs. Pincus started blankly at me, her arms folded across her chest and that look  I would soon become very well-acquainted with across her face. Once my initial panic subsided, I realized that the guy I saw peering into our room had a certain familiarity to him. He wore the same glasses and the same shirt as me. He also had the same hair, though parted on the other side. It was at that moment the entire episode crystallized. The combination of the brightly-lit room and the darkness outside coupled with the opaque barrier created by the enshrouding curtains caused the window to take on the characteristics of a mirror. I sunk in the embarrassing affirmation that I had just been frightened by my own reflection. In front of my wife of thirty-six hours, no less.

The next morning, the incident was not subject to further discussion or analysis. I loaded our bags back into the car and we silently restarted our southbound course. However, within minutes, we were, once again, laughing and talking on the open road. Soon, we reached the sun-drenched expanses of central Florida. We plunged into a week's worth of fun and excitement, leaving my display of bonehead behavior a distant (but not forgotten) memory.

Our time in Disney World wound to a close and we began the long trek back to Philadelphia and to the new world of domestic marital bliss. Our trusty map from Triple A directed us to a more scenic homeward route. Veering off of I-95 just north of the Georgia border, we traveled through towns that could have doubled for the ramshackle settings of Erskine Caldwell's Tobacco Road.  At one point, we stopped for gas and, as I dispensed the fuel from the tall, glass-globe topped pump, Mrs. Pincus went to pay in the dilapidated shack that served as an office. She came out chuckling and told of two men playing checkers on a barrel top and how payment was accepted by a Jed Clampett look-alike who was leaning on huge jar proudly labeled "pickled pig's knuckles."

Our drive up Route 17 was long and tedious and, aside from several enormous tobacco fields, far from scenic. My watch ticked past midnight and the hotel offerings were separated by more and more emptiness. Finally, an ethereally-lit Ramada Inn shone like a beacon in the otherwise sleepy hamlet of New Bern, North Carolina. My wife navigated our vehicle just under the carport by the lobby entrance and I hopped out to check the availability of a room for the night. I pulled on the door and, despite obvious activity in the illuminated lobby, it was locked. I could see a burly man jogging from behind the reception desk and heading toward the door. Several other people inside glanced in my direction without changing their positions. As the man drew nearer, the gun jammed in his shoulder holster came into view. "Holy shit!," I thought, "I'm interrupting a robbery!" Frozen in my shoes, I quickly turned to Mrs. Pincus still seated behind the wheel of our idling car. I was about to mouth "Help!" to her, when the man unlocked the door and identified himself as a security officer, explaining that they keep the door locked at such a late hour. I inquired about a place to crash for the night and was informed that a lone room was available. I paid and was handed the keys (actual keys — this was 1984). I ran out to grab our suitcase. A minute later, Mrs. Pincus and I boarded the elevator.

Exiting at the proper floor, we located the room number corresponding to the oversized plastic fob to which the key was attached. I turned the key in the knob, reached inside the slightly opened door and flicked on a light switch. I swung the door fully open and, ahead of me, the television flickered with life. The bed was blocked from view by a wall, but I know an "on" TV when I see one. And an "on" TV usually means someone is watching it. I slowly closed the door and whispered to my wife, "I think there is someone in the room!  The TV  is on!"  Could the front desk have made an error? Did they lose track and book us into an occupied room? I opened the door again and called out "Hello?" No reply. I called again. "Is anyone here?" Again, there was no reply. I instructed my wife to wait in the hall. I entered the room. The TV blared. The bed was made and undisturbed. I cautiously swept my extended arm across the heavy, drawn curtains — in case a possible intruder had learned their lesson in camouflage from a 1940s detective movie. Satisfied that the curtains were not disguising any thugs, I dropped to my knees and checked under the bed. Coming up empty, I bounded into the small bathroom and gave the shower curtain a good shake. Echoing the words of Zelda Rubenstein in Poltergeist,  I announced to my spouse, "This room is clean" and welcomed her in. We were both exhausted but, although I had given the room a thorough once-over, we slept uneasily until morning.

I woke early. My wife awakened as I was dressing. I sat on the edge of the bed and while I pulled a sock onto my foot, the TV suddenly switched on. Then, it switched off. Then, on again. Rattled, I turned around to Mrs. Pincus and asked, "What's going on?" She answered, "I wanted to see what this controlled,"and pointed to an odd-looking light switch on the wall next to the bed. It differed from the other switches in the room, in that it was surrounded by a tarnished metal back plate and not the standard, cream-colored plastic. She flicked the switch several more times and the television screen brightened and darkened in the same sequence."Hey," I began my revelation, "there's a switch just like that next to the door." — I trailed off just like I did in another hotel room a little over a week ago. Again, my foolishness came to the forefront, as I slowly comprehended that I  had turned the TV on the previous night when I opened the door and reached for a light switch. Now, I was facing the big mirror over the dresser. I didn't need to turn around. Mrs. Pincus's reflection was giving me the look.

We silently finished our packing and headed to our car.

July 2011 marks 27 years of a marriage that has overcome the demonstrations of stupidity that book-ended our honeymoon. I know I am not alone in my struggle for consistent intelligent thinking. But, I am  in the minority of those who will admit to it.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

big bottom

All this and candles, too.

After seeing countless commercials for the casual dining chain restaurant Red Robin (yummmmm!), Mrs. Pincus and I got the opportunity to dine at one of their 538 locations on our most recent trip to Virginia Beach. Earlier in the day, Mrs. P's cousin Juniper chauffeured us around nearby Williamsburg with our actual destinations being several local wineries. The penultimate stop on our whirlwind tour of the historic city (of which we saw no sites of any historic significance) was a Yankee Candle® store of theme-park proportions. (Oh, you read that right! It's an enormous building that resembles a hotel, jam-packed with display after fragrant display of the stout, glass-potted, wax-'n-wick beauties. The multi-room complex is supplemented with cookware, handbags, candy and other unrelated, non-candle items — just to fill the place out.)

We'll meet 'neath that giant Red Robin sign
that brings this fair city light.

As the sun set and our thoughts turned to dinner options, we surveyed the landscape. I am convinced that the geographic area known as the Eastern Shore of Virginia has more fast food and chain restaurants per square foot than any other place on earth. Along both sides of Interstate 64, some of America's favorite restaurants can be spotted. National heavyweight advertisers like Outback Steakhouse, Carraba's Italian Grill, Olive Garden, TGI Friday's and hundreds of Starbucks, along with regional entries like Smokey Griddle Pancake House and Southern Pancake & Waffle House (the South sure loves them some pancakes!) were among the wide array of evening meal choices. Juniper suggested Red Robin (yummmmm!) and said there was one just ahead. I checked the GPS on my phone and — sure enough — 100 or so feet ahead, in a shopping center that looked just like a dozen shopping centers we already passed, was a Red Robin (yummmmm!), its channel-lettered logo glowing bright red, reflecting off the adjacent Dick's Sporting Goods. We found a parking spot, then entered the restaurant. We joined a fairly large group of hungry patrons, all gripping now-silent pagers, poised for a vibrating explosion of LED lights informing the holder that seating and menus were mere moments away. 

Objects may appear larger
in our commercials.

Soon, our pager's lights began blinking and a young lady in a popped collar, logoed polo shirt led us through a maze of booths and bistro tables to a semi-circular booth in the far corner of a room that boasted three gigantic screen televisions as its main decor. We all slid awkwardly into our booth and perused the menu. Now, I'll be the first one to admit that my silly, self-imposed dietary restrictions severely limits my choices in most restaurants, but, rest assured, I can always find something to eat on nearly every menu. And Red Robin (yummmmm!) would be no exception. I settled on the vegetarian-friendly version of their signature Banzai burger, piled high with grilled pineapple, cheddar cheese and a thick teriyaki sauce, in addition to lettuce and mayo. This, as are all entrees, was accompanied by the highly-touted "bottomless" fries. Oh yeah! The centerpiece of Red Robin's (yummmmm!) advertising is their promise of an endless supply of generously-cut steak fries, always available and always plentiful, even long after you've gobbled up the last of your burger. The implication was that fries could continue to be delivered through dessert and coffee, as long as the customer desired.

Really? REALLY??

We ordered. When our meals arrived, I scrutinized the tiny chrome-plated cup that stood in the shadow of my burger in the corner of my plate. Eight, maybe nine, broad steak fries stood upended in the confines of the scant metal container. I thought about the images I had seen in Red Robin's (yummmmm!) effective advertising campaign. Visions of fresh-cut potatoes, mounds of golden-brown fries fanned out and overflowing from the blond-wood cutting board — far, far too many for one person to consume, but readily available for the taking. The puny cupful of fries next to my burger? Damn! I could down them in one, fairly effortless gulp. Between bites of my burger (which, I will admit, was pretty good) I finished my fries. I looked around the bustling eatery for our server, but he was nowhere to be found. (In all fairness, the servers — with their gelled-up hair and shirt collars standing at attention — all resembled one another.) I finally picked out our guy (Chip or Dave or Bruce or something) and requested another round of fries. Chip (or whoever) winked and shot me a "thumbs up" sign, then disappeared into the crowd. A few minutes went by. Then a few more. Then a few more. I slurped at my water glass and poked around at the crumbs and sauce remnants on my mostly-empty plate. Juniper and Mrs. P, both normal-paced eaters (I am a particularly fast eater), were still enjoying their dinner. Each still had plenty of fries left in their initial order. I was craning my neck and diligently scanning the place for a sign of our server and my second round of supposedly "bottomless" fries. More and more time passed before Chip finally arrived to place a plate of fries before me. There were approximately twice the amount of my first order, this time arranged on a plate instead of in a little cup. I tried my very best to leisurely devour the fries, but I could not. My lightning-fast eating habits, coupled with my lack of patience, had me wolfing down this supplemental portion in record time. Of course, I wanted more. After all, they — not me — made the "bottomless" offer first. But, now I was wise to their game. They were a bunch of "fry-teasers," weren't they?!? Those potato-tempting bastards! They were worse than drug dealers! They get you hooked, then they take their sweet time bringing out more, forcing you to be too embarrassed to order a third round, daring you to risk eating them while the custodial staff is mopping the floor and stacking the chairs on the tables.

I reminded my wife of the time we went to an all-you-can eat Dim Sum night at a Philadelphia Chinese restaurant. We ordered the special and our waiter brought out a considerable selection of vegetarian dim sum (traditional Chinese food served in bite-size portions). We ate the first round and ordered more. Round number two was equally as tasty, but half the amount was offered. The third round was brought to us on two small saucers, a size usually reserved for a tea cup or after-dinner mints. The fourth round was the check. It was determined for us that we had had all we could eat. It seems that Red Robin (yummmmm!) had taken a page from that Chinese restaurant's playbook.

I don't think I will go out of my way to find a Red Robin (yummmmm!) closer to home. The bottomless fries may not have a bottom, but they sure have a catch.

(yummmmm!)

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

drinking wine spodee-odee

I don't drink alcohol. It's not that I have any moral conviction or I'm some latent temperance advocate. I just don't. I don't like the taste of it and I don't handle alcohol consumption well. As a teenager, I drank. When I was 18, the legal drinking age in New Jersey was 18. Lucky for my friends and me (or maybe unlucky), the Pennsylvania-New Jersey border was a mere twenty minute drive and a ten-cent bridge toll away. Back then, we drank cheap beer by the pitcher and drove home drunk in the middle of the night. I know. I know. Dumb. Really dumb. It's a part of my life of which I am not especially proud,

As the years went on, my drinking tapered off to nearly non-existent. I remember on a family vacation to Cooperstown, New York, our then-young son marveled as my wife and I each downed a bottle of the newly-introduced Mike's Hard Lemonade at a small café. We were within walking distance of our weekend accommodations and, as we strolled the main street, my worried son repeatedly asked, "Are you drunk?" When my wife and I celebrated our 25th wedding anniversary in Las Vegas, our son (at this point, of legal drinking age) watched his otherwise tea-totaling parents share one of those alcoholic "slushies" that are so popular on The Strip. (Ours was from a little stand outside of the Paris resort and the container was shaped like the Eiffel Tower... filled with frozen booze.) This time, he didn't have to ask his question, as our state of sobriety was quite apparent. (Re: we were shitfaced.)

Last weekend, Mrs. Pincus and I drove down the eastern seaboard to visit Cousin Juniper in Virginia Beach. Our plan was to visit a few wineries in the Virginia Beach-Norfolk-Williamsburg vicinity. I have been to the area a few times. I've actually seen the beach once. I've seen Historic Williamsburg twice — but neither time was it during a visit with my wife's family. But, I was up for a little road trip.

The roads and scenery in the geographic designation called "Hampton Roads" all look the same. It's one twisting, turning cement highway after another, accented by one nondescript strip mall after another. Every intersection looks identical with each of the four corners sporting a supermarket, a gas station, a convenience store (either 7-11, Wawa or a local version of those two) and several outlets of the many fast-food operations that blanket the southeast Virginia landscape. I'm glad Juniper knew the route, because the surroundings are bland enough to confuse a GPS.

Our first stop was Saude Creek Vineyards, located... um... somewhere in a wooded area in Virginia (I'm sure that's on some map). We drove along a narrow gravel road to a small parking lot flanked on one side by a barren field filled with the trellised remnants of skeletal grapevines and, on the other, a dark wood chalet-like building perched atop a grassy hill. We parked and climbed the winding stairs to the building. Patios and porches jutted out from the structure at different levels, making for a interesting example of Southeastern Virginia architecture... I suppose. We found what seemed to be an entrance and we let ourselves in.

The room was wide with a soaring ceiling and a stone hearth containing a roaring fire to the far right. There were a few high tables and low-slung sofas, all occupied by warmly-dressed patrons, busily talking and stuffing themselves with cheese and fruit and selections from the barbecue restaurant that had a concession set up in the far corner near the three-sided bar. The air smelled simultaneously of burning hickory and burning porcine. Mrs. P, Juniper and I took a spot at the bar, our backs to the vessels of cooking flesh, and ordered up a tasting session for each of us. A nice woman placed a wine glass before each of us and a small bowl of oyster crackers was set within reach. It was explained that the crackers were to cleanse our palates between each new wine flavor, of which (we were informed) there would be seven. The woman produced a dark bottle of wine from below the bar and poured a splash into our glasses. She expounded the history of the wine or the grapes or something as we politely sipped our samples. Actually, Juniper and my wife politely sipped. I downed it in one quick shot, a move I learned from the drinking scene in Raiders of the Lost Ark. The next six samples followed a similar pattern — a splash of wine and a brief informative spiel about the wine-making process, My cohorts listened attentively. I, on the other hand, slammed back each tiny liquid portion, along with a handful of crackers as a chaser.  At this point, I had not let alcohol pass my lips in nearly eight years. And, I was never much of a drinker anyway. I felt myself getting light-headed. I continued to make smart-ass comments about the wine. Our hostess was cordial, but I could tell that she had just about enough of my stupid jokes and snarky asides. She also seemed a bit irked when we all waved off her attempt to give us a souffle cup of pulled pork as a "nice pairing" with wine number three (or maybe it was four?). I tried to explain that I am a vegetarian and I don't drink, so I wasn't sure what I was doing here in the first place. She managed to turn one corner of her mouth into a half-smile of understanding, but it was a poor attempt. After the tasting, I followed my companions to the door, my gait a little swervy and unsteady. We piled into Juniper's car and headed to winery number two, a newer place called Gauthier Vineyards. Once back on the narrow road out, we passed this scene from, what appeared to be, a holiday version of The Blair Witch Project.

I'm not sure how far Gauthier Vineyards is from Saude Creek Vineyards because the seven wine samples put me in a fog. The last thing I needed right now was seven more samples of wine. We arrived at Gauthier Vineyard and entered the small, plain white building. It looked more like a roadside store than the majestic and welcoming building at Saude Creek. The single room was small and sparsely furnished, with just a few tables and chairs haphazardly placed. We took a spot at the bar and were obligingly greeted by an older man who addressed us as though he had better things to do. Again, we asked for the wine tasting experience (two of us more enthusiastic than the third — I'll let you guess). The man set up three glasses and poured a smattering of wine into each one. It smelled like something you'd find in your medicine cabinet to brush on a skin abrasion before applying a Band-Aid. By sample number three, I was finished. I waved off the next four pours and stuffed my face with crackers until Mrs. P and Juniper were done. The man's explanations of his various wines were short and vague and, a few times, contradictory of the nice woman at Saude Creek. We concluded our session, paid and found an empty table upon which we spread our afternoon snack of fruit, brie, crackers and crudités that we brought with us. The man at the bar was less than thrilled with our monopolizing a table without purchasing a full bottle of wine (the purpose of the tasting). He strolled past our table a few times and shot us a scowl with each pass.

Once I had some solid food in me, the murky feeling in my head subsided. The cheese and broccoli and carrots canceled the taste of the medicinal-tasting wine. We finished up our lunch and dutifully cleaned up after ourselves, the man keeping an eye on our every move and casually inspecting our janitorial efforts. Much to his delight, we left.

Back in the car, Juniper asked if I was up for another tasting at another nearby winery.

I didn't answer.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

on the road again

I used to make these things called "mixtapes." You know what they are. In the early days of transportable music, when the cassette was king, I would meticulously select ninety minutes of music as the soundtrack my travels. Whether it was my brief commute to work or a lengthy drive to the shore, the music was just as important as a packed lunch or even a change of clothes.

Making a mixtape was no simple task. It was more that just a bunch of songs crammed into two sides of a cassette. It was pacing. It was choosing the overall tone or theme of the tape. Which song would kick the whole thing off? Would I include more than one song by the same artist? Would I be listening to it alone? These were important decisions, along with determining the flow of the entire compilation. Proper timing was essential, as well. I had one tape that cut off The Clash's Magnificent Seven just after Joe Strummer delivered the line "Vacuum cleaner sucks up budgie." Unfortunately, every time I hear that song, I expect the same thing to happen and am surprised when the song continues. Then, of course, there was the actual recording process. Coordination of hitting the "record" button while trying to cue up the desired track on an album was a delicate ballet, both physical and aural.

I would make special mixtapes for long trips, like regular family journeys to Florida. Knowing my wife would be in the car changed the contents of mixtapes. With her unusual combined adoration for The Grateful Dead and 60s bubblegum pop, I would always take care to include a few extended hippie jams and at least one appearance of either Hitchin' a Ride or Oh Babe, What Would You Say. I was careful to avoid fast-forward bait like Led Zeppelin or David Bowie (except for Under Pressure, the Thin White Duke's collaboration with Queen. Curiously, Mrs. P disliked and rejected the majority of Queen's own catalog. Go figure?).

As technology progressed, the once-mighty cassette was soon unseated by the compact disc. Although the term "mixtape" stuck, there was no longer any actual tape involved and making them became a whole lot easier. Songs could be collected from any number of sources — your own CD library or a host of websites offering music files to downloaded — legal or otherwise. In the days of Limewire and Napster, music was available everywhere — quickly, conveniently and, best of all, it was free. I had thousands and thousands of songs in the digital mp3 format. I would make CD mixtapes nearly everyday, arranging and rearranging songs in a process that was as easy as dragging and dropping file names into a window on my computer. The CD program even told me how much time remained on my proposed collection, thus eliminating a repeat of the Magnificent Seven incident. I still come across these CDs in my car, usually stuffed under my seat. Every once in while, I'll pop one in to my dashboard CD player. It's like a time capsule of songs that were experiencing popularity for a fleeting period, now quaint and nearly forgotten. It's interesting to trace the progression of my musical tastes. Run-DMC, who made many appearances on early mixtapes, were entirely absent from later volumes abundant with Lyle Lovett and Brian Setzer. Squeeze and Elvis Costello gave way to Wilco and Beck.

My son, a music aficionado from the time he was a pre-teen, eventually took over duties of programming the family's in-car listening experience. His CD mixtapes were the precursor to his chosen profession. He is now a DJ on a Philadelphia radio station. It's cool to know that he honed his skills while hunched over the laptop in his bedroom.

Another victim of advancing technology, the CD has found itself falling out of favor, replaced by the purely electronic medium of the iPod. The "mixtape" was no longer confined to a ninety minute run time. Oh, and the "mixtape" had found itself with a new name — the "playlist." On a recent trip to Florida with my wife, my son and his girlfriend, our music was supplied by merely plugging my son's iPod into an adapter that, in turn, plugged into our 2003 Toyota's cassette deck. Although our car is a lagging a bit in the technology department, the irony is still apparent.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

and they call it puppy love

Remember a couple of years ago when I went to Virginia Beach for a family wedding? Well, after countless threats invitations, I finally went back for a visit. My wife visits regularly and I stay home in Philadelphia, so I suppose it was a surprise for my wife's Virginia Beach family to hear that I would be coming for the long Martin Luther King Day weekend. I was warned, however, that Mrs. P's cousin Juniper (with whom we would be staying) owns a dog. As previously mentioned on this blog many, many, many times — I don't particularly care for dogs.

Mrs. P and I gathered up our belongings — suitcases, jackets and a bag of road-trip snacks — and carried them across the parking lot of Juniper's condominium development. The door of one of the units opened up and we were greeted by a smiling, excited Juniper. However, Doggie was less than pleased to have me as a multi-day visitor. After saying "Hello" to Juniper and dropping our luggage on the floor, I was met with a cautious, low, throaty growl from Doggie. He eyed me up and down with contempt. I had not spoken a word nor made a gesture towards him. He just knew.

Juniper lightly reprimanded him. He whimpered and retreated behind her legs. We tossed our coats over the backs of the dining room chairs and plopped ourselves down on the sofas  — me and the missus on one, Juniper and Doggie on the other one perpendicular to our's. A coffee table served as a buffer between us. As we talked, Doggie kept a dead stare in my direction. A few times, he bravely approached Mrs. P,  offering a curious snout for her to pet. But, if I opened my mouth or moved my hand, Doggie made a hasty withdrawal to the protection of Juniper. He jumped up a few times to play with a ball or a toy, only to freeze in his tracks when he realized he was dangerously close to me.

We all went out for the evening and when we returned, Doggie met us at the door. When I filed in, he exhibited a "you're still here?" look on his face and delivered another series of low grumbles. At too late an hour, we all retired to our respective bedrooms  — the Pincuses in the first-floor corner with the door shut and Doggie taking his regular spot in Juniper's second-floor boudoir.

I'm watching you, Pincus.

The next morning, my cereal and coffee were served with a side of growls. With each spoonful of Honey Nut Cheerios I shoveled into my mouth, Doggie bared his teeth and chewed on a hunk of rawhide upon which his canine imagination superimposed my face. In the afternoon, we drove over to Juniper's mother's house to drop Doggie off for a little puppy playtime with some of his own species. Unfortunately, Doggie had to ride in the back seat of Juniper's car with me. I shoved myself into one corner of the back seat and Doggie did the same in the opposite corner. We took the fifteen minute trip in silence, never letting our gaze stray from each other. When we arrived at our destination, Doggie bounded out of the car, anxious to play and equally as anxious to leave my company.

Finally, the long weekend drew to a close. I loaded up our car with our bags and stuff. We thanked Juniper for her gracious hospitality and we said our goodbyes. As we crossed the parking lot one last time, I'm pretty sure I heard Doggie utter a sigh of relief.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com