you ain't no friend of mine

Boy, I sure had this uncanny knack for choosing jerks to be my friend. Not all of them, of course. I had some pretty good friends when I was a kid. But there were certainly some people I numbered among my friends that — today — makes me question my choices.

Just after I finished elementary school, there was a shuffle among the next stop in the path of higher learning. The high school had eliminated seventh grade in an effort to alleviate the problem of overcrowding. My brother — four years my senior — had gone right from elementary school to high school when his time came. Me? Well, the School District of Philadelphia had to scramble to find a place to put my entire graduating class, as well as our counterparts from at least three more elementary schools. The School District was in the process of building something called "a middle school," that would offer Grades 6 through 8. But, construction was slow and the building wasn't ready for the new school year. So, for seventh grade, my classmates and I were sent to a new school for one year, where we were mixed with other students who would be experiencing the same School Board miscalculation. We were sent to a school well out of our comfort zone that may have been in another country, as far as we were concerned. (In reality, it was just twenty minutes from our elementary school.) 

At the completion of seventh grade, the new school opened its doors and I was thrust into a classroom with another new bunch of kids from other schools. These strangers would be my eighth grade classmates, whether I liked it or not. One of the students was Aaron Goldman. Aaron was a jerk. I still — to this day — can't figure out why I hung out with him. We had relatively nothing in common. He lived far from my house. My other, long-time friends didn't like him. He seemed to go out of his way to toy with trouble. He smoked in eighth grade, purely to appear "cool." (It didn't work.) He always had some kind of "school contraband" hidden in the deep pockets of his faded US Army jacket (Something else he sported in an effort to appear "cool." That, too, failed.) One day, he'd produce a switchblade from his jacket pocket. Another day, it would be firecrackers. Always something he knew he shouldn't have... but, of course, that's why he had it. 

In April 1975, shock-rocker Alice Cooper was bringing his Welcome to My Nightmare Tour to the Philadelphia Spectrum to promote his current namesake album. I loved Alice Cooper and I owned a few of his albums including the malevolent concept story of "Steven," the main character in the songs on Welcome to My Nightmare. A few of my friends had already attended concerts. My brother, at 18, was a veteran of many Spectrum shows. I asked my mom if I could go to see Alice Cooper. My mom — a cool mom before such a thing was acknowledged — agreed, on the condition that I could purchase my ticket with my own money. It took some scraping, as $6.50 wasn't easy to come by for a 14 year-old. My mom was gracious enough to provide a ride to the South Philadelphia venue on the night of the show. She would even give dinner to my fellow concert-going friends.

I went to see Alice Cooper with three companions, one of whom was Aaron Goldman. On the night of the show, parents dropped their sons at my house a little before dinner time. My fellow 14 year-olds filed in and took a place at the Pincus kitchen table. My mom doled out huge helpings of spaghetti, generously covered in her homemade spaghetti sauce. My mom loved to make her own spaghetti sauce and it was one of my families favorite dishes. For my brother's Bar Mitzvah, my mom asked her brother to address the invitations, as he had beautiful, swirly, calligraphic handwriting. Her brother agreed, and requested a meal featuring my mom's spaghetti sauce as fair compensation.

My friends dug right in. My mom supplemented the meal with a big loaf of crusty Italian bread from a local bakery. Midway through the course of dinner, my mom asked each of my guests how everything was.

"Great, Mrs. Pincus" was the reply from my first two friends. I, of course reiterated the sentiment, as I had dome many times before when my mom served her "famous" spaghetti sauce. When it came to Aaron's turn, my mom repeated the question: "How is everything?," she asked.

Silence.

Aaron didn't even look up from his plate, He continued to shovel gobs of spaghetti into his sauce-stained maw. "Eh... I've tasted better.," he said. He actually said that — out loud — to my mom. My other two friends — my actual friends — froze. The room was silent. My mom frowned at me and said nothing. As a matter of fact, nothing was said from that point on. We got into the car in silence. We drove to the Spectrum in silence, When we arrived at the Spectrum, my mom briefly instructed us where to meet at the show's conclusion. 

And my mom drove away.

After eighth grade, I sort of lost touch with Aaron in high school. I saw him in the crowded hallways, but he had a new set of friends — ones that smoked and wore Army jackets and carried concealed switchblades and tried to be cool.

Years later, when my wife and I needed some small home repairs, someone recommended Aaron. He was now in the handyman business. Our phone number was forwarded to him and he called. He left a voicemail outlining his services, but explaining that he really wanted to do home inspections. (We didn't need a home inspection.) He ended his recorded message by saying: "I bet your daughter is growing up real fast. Hope to hear from you soon."

I have a son and Aaron didn't hear from me... soon or otherwise.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

best thing I never had

According to the signs posted outside of Joe Italiano's Maplewood Inn, you are looking at a plate of the "World's Best Spaghetti." Think about that for a minute. The world's best spaghetti. The best spaghetti in the entire world — out of all of the restaurants on this planet that offer spaghetti as an entrée on their menu. This is the best! Stare at it. Bask in its glory. The. Best. Spaghetti. In The. World.

My wife and I have been traveling to Atlantic City for a good portion of our lives. First as children, chauffeured by our parents on family vacations to the famous New Jersey shore destination. Then as adults with our son to create our own beloved memories of the storied seaside burg known as "America's Playground."

In more recent years, Mrs. Pincus and I would drive from our suburban Philadelphia home to Atlantic City to... enjoy?.... encounter?.... experience all that the Harrah's Casino Resort has to offer. For a time, Mrs. P was a favored patron in the eyes of Harrah's. She was showered with gifts and trips and free rooms and complimentary meals, as well as literally hundreds of dollars in "free play" for use in their casino slot machines. We traveled to Atlantic City several times a week to take advantage of all of the perks that came our way... until it ended, of course. Yep, one day, the marketing algorithms caught up and Mrs. P was cut free. Until, of course, it picked up again. In hopes of recouping some lost income due to closures during the COVID-19 pandemic, Harrah's apparently dug deep into their mailing list and suddenly Mrs. Pincus was back in their good graces. She began receiving offers to come down and collect a modest gift card or household appliance of some sort. These offers were made to encourage folks to gamble a bit while they were there to get their free gift. But they don't know my wife very well. We took the ninety-minute trip, Mrs. P ran in (properly masked and gloved while I — also masked — waited outside), got her gift and we left. We spent approximately fifteen minutes at Harrah's including the walk from the parking garage. Mrs. P didn't drop a single nickel in a slot machine. Oh, they'll cut her off soon. Don't you worry.

So, while we are still on Harrah's "good list," we have found ourselves Atlantic City bound on that two-lane blacktop road that bisects the rural-looking communities of South Jersey more often than we ever figured. Considering how often we traverse Route 30, colloquially known as "The White Horse Pike," I still marvel at how it still seems unfamiliar and its landmarks very forgettable. The landscape is dotted with a smattering of weather-worn, single-story houses that — I am convinced — all have one of those brick-walled dry wells in the basement, like Buffalo Bill's house in Silence of the Lambs. I'm also sure that they each contain a senator's daughter pleading for her life. Oh, there are a small amount of recognizable businesses along the way, too — like local supermarket chains and big-box stores like Wal-Mart. (I think we pass three.) But, for the most part, it is a repetitive tableau, like the one Fred and Barney pass as they tool through Bedrock. There are dozens of car repair places, their yards piled high with rusted husks of years-old vehicles in various stages of disassembly. There are numerous strip centers with empty stores. There are a number of restaurants, some looking closed at the dinner hour, some lit up with no customers. But among those restaurants, shining like a beacon, its parking lot jammed with cars, is Joe Italianio's Maplewood Inn.

An otherwise nondescript building situated in a cleared lot along an unremarkable stretch of the White Horse Pike in Hammonton, Joe Italianio's Maplewood Inn has something its competitors (if any) are lacking. Joe Italianio's Maplewood Inn has the world's best spaghetti. They even have two signs proclaiming the title. The most noticeable is perched on the roof of the building, backlit at night, reinforcing what the world (in the aggregate mind of Joe Italianio's Maplewood Inn) already knows. If you are in search of the best spaghetti in the entire world, search no more. Within this unadorned brick structure, your quest has come to an end. The great pasta salons of Rome, Venice and Bologna have resigned themselves to the fact that despite centuries-old recipes and preparation processes, a little red masonry structure in the tiny hamlet of Hammonton, New Jersey has bested them all. The best! In the world! Wow! Just wow! They don't have enough room on their signs to spell out Joe's first name in its entirety, but — damn! — they need the space to alert the 14,000 residents of Hammonton and beyond that within these walls the best spaghetti in the world can be found. There are highly regarded restaurants and establishments boasting the coveted third star from the revered Michelin Guide. They are concocting delicate gourmet recipes from exotic ingredients to tantalize the discerning palate. But, when it comes to spaghetti — forget it! They hang their collective heads. Because, as we know now, none of them serve the world's best spaghetti. That, of course, can only be gotten from the kitchen of Joe Italianio's Maplewood Inn. 

During the pandemic, Mrs. Pincus and I are being very cautious in our actions. Yes, I know. Going into a casino seems like the last place we should be going. But, Mrs. P is diligent in her precautionary measures... and when my wife is diligent about something, watch out. In the meantime, we are eating all of our meals at home and we have not ordered from a restaurant in eight months. When the time comes when we feel it is safe for us to venture out and re-enter the world of "dining out" again, will we make a beeline to Joe Italianio's Maplewood Inn for a sampling of the world's best spaghetti?

Nah.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com