I'm dreaming of a white christmas

"I'm dreaming of a white Christmas/Just like the ones I used to know"

Are you? Are you really? Before the early 1940s, nobody was really dreaming of a white Christmas. Sure, folks thought about Christmas and all the things that came along with the Christmas season. Presents, family gatherings, sending Christmas cards, a visit from St. Nicholas... well starting in 1823 when that poem was first published. But the concept of a "white Christmas" didn't become "a thing" until a Jewish immigrant named Irving Berlin wrote a song called "White Christmas." Before that, Christmas songs were mostly religious in nature. "White Christmas." made its public debut on Christmas Day 1941, just a few weeks after the infamous attack on Pearl Harbor. Popular singer Bing Crosby sang the song on his radio show. He recorded it the following May for inclusion on an album released ahead of the holiday-themed motion picture Holiday Inn, which debuted, inexplicably, on August 4, 1942. The song performed poorly in its initial release. Bing Crosby wasn't especially thrilled by the tune, commenting during the recording session: "I have no problems with that one." But as Christmas 1942 approached and Holiday Inn gained traction, it topped the charts and became an international hit. It went on to sell fifty million copies, becoming one of the best selling singles of all time.

But, how many folks in later generations, even know why they want a white Christmas? They certainly don't want a white Christmas in Australia, where it's summer in December. So, a white Christmas is purely a Northern Hemisphere thing. Before Irving Berlin penned that beloved Christmas song, the concept of a white Christmas was barely a thing. It was alluded to in Charles Dickens' classic novella A Christmas Carol. Snow and wintery weather was described, but it was not the main focus of the story. It merely offered a setting in which the action took place.

I used to work with a couple of women who were very nice, very sweet, but not too bright as far as where their holiday traditions originated. First of all, they marveled at the fact that I was Jewish. They had never known anyone — anyone! — who didn't celebrate Christmas. They questioned me about holidays that they had never heard of, as though I was the Jewish equivalent of the Pope. (By the way, there is no Jewish equivalent of the Pope and if there were, it sure wouldn't be me.) When Christmas time would roll around, the questions were brought up again. It became tradition. "You don't have a Christmas tree?," they'd ask, as though they were asking how I was able to breathe without lungs. I'd explain that, of course, I had a tree, but I just keep it in the backyard, growing in the ground with the other trees. Being the sarcastic jerk that I am, I would often return the questioning, with a little bit of Josh Pincus attitude. "Why do you want a 'White Christmas'?," I'd innocently ask. "There wasn't any snow in the desert when Jesus was born." The two women would exchange blank looks and then look at me. They'd frown and furrow their collective brows, hoping that would force a convincing answer the front of their brains. Finally, one of them replied. "Well, you know..... it's nice for the kids." 

What? What does that mean? How did that attempt to answer my question? How does that explain your tradition? Jeez! I went on and on and on about Judah Maccabee and his ragtag band of soldiers fighting off the Greco-Roman Assyrian army (or whoever they fought) and how the oil in the temple lasted for eight days instead of just one and why we eat fried food to commemorate the "oil" aspect of the Chanukah story. Okay, okay... I fudged on some of the details, but at least I was far more convincing than "It's nice for the kids." That made as much sense as yelling English into the face of someone who doesn't understand English to get them to understand.

I get frustrated by "traditions" that are blindly followed by people who don't even know the reason why they are doing what they are doing. There are so many Christmas "traditions" that are dragged out every year that have absolutely nothing to do with the birth of Jesus. A lot of them were borrowed from other cultures. There is nothing wrong with that. But if you don't understand why you are doing these things, you kind of look like a dope. Even an excuse of "Well, my parents did this, so I'm doing this" is better than "Uh... I don't know." I had another coworker at another job who would talk about all of her cherished family traditions as though these rituals were handed down from generation to generation... only to discover that her "traditions" were read about in a magazine during her train commute into work that day.

If you are "dreaming of a white Christmas," good for you. If you like snow, that's fine. If it's because a songwriter told you to over eight decades ago, that's fine. If it's because "Uh... I don't know." Well, as they say in the South: "Bless your heart."

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

don't talk to strangers

I'll never learn.

I have been working at my current job for a little over four and a half years. The job is fine, something I have been doing in one form or another for over forty years. Everyday, I arrive at work two hours before my scheduled shift time. I sit in an empty, quiet office — all alone — and I knock out a lot of work. Quickly. Efficiently. And — most importantly — uninterrupted by the banal, droning, meaningless, inane conversation carried on by my co-workers. When my co-workers arrive at work, I do not participate in any of their conversation. I work. I am very focused, mostly because my job requires me to be focused. I cannot understand how my co-workers can carry on lengthy conversations about reality shows and films in the Marvel Cinematic Universe and problems with various family members. One day recently, I overheard a particularly loud co-worer make multiple phone calls to line up a cleaning service for her mother's house. I heard every painful detail of the process loud and clear... and this person's desk isn't even in the same office as mine. She's down the hall, and yet, it was as clear as if she was sitting next to me.

My co-workers know very little about me. Some, I'm sure, don't even know my last name. I have had many, many jobs over the past forty years where I was personable, friendly and talkative with my co-workers. But now... at this point in my life... I just don't feel like it anymore. I don't need to feign interest in the lives of a bunch of people I merely work with. The extent of my conversation with my co-workers is limited to work-related subjects. Period. I don't want it to go any further than that. I'm not rude. I just don't initiate conversation and I don't care to "jump in" to an existing one. I just want to do my work, get paid and go home.

Unfortunately, I broke my own rule this week. I'm not sure why or what compelled me, but I did. And I learned why I should keep to myself.

There's a guy who comes into work at 3 o'clock, a scant 90 minutes before I am scheduled to leave for the day. I acknowledge his arrival with a nod or a quiet "hey" uttered under my breath. But that's it. It was almost a month until I found out his name is Tom. Tom sits at a computer at a desk about ten feet behind me. He sits and I sit and we tackle our respective work until 4:30 rolls around. Then I grab my water bottle, my cellphone that has been charging on a pad by my computer monitor and I leave. Sometimes, I raise a hand in parting salutation as I head for the office door.

But this week, a conversation... sort of..... erupted. I still don't remember what prompted it, but I think he brought up the subject of — of all things — "collecting autographed photos." A nerve was struck! Until recently, I collected autographed photos starting way, way back at a time when my son was still in a stroller. (He's now 38 and — SURPRISE! — no longer requires a stroller for getting around.) I have over a hundred photos, all proudly displayed on the walls of my basement. Tom (my late-in-the-day co-worker... remember?) mentioned that he, too, collected autographed photos. We exchanged a few brief anecdotes about obtaining said photos, all the while I kept thinking to myself "Why am I having this conversation?" I glanced at the office clock and quickly ended the conversation and quicklier made my exit.

The next day, Tom lumbered in to work as usual at 3 o'clock. I was busy doing last-minute corrections to an ad that was due to print at day's end. Tom took his usual place behind his computer monitor. But, then, he loudly cleared his throat in a very obvious attempt to get my attention. I turned around to see Tom produce a large photo album from a cloth tote bag he had carried in with him. "I brought this in to show you," he proudly announced as he placed the album on a communal work table and spun it around to allow me easy access to open and peruse its contents.

I opened the book and turned each page. Tom had accumulated quite an impressive collection of autographed photos. The overarching theme was old Westerns. Shows like The Virginian and a number of John Wayne feature films were represented with color and monochrome glossies personally inscribed by the hands of James Drury, Clu Gualger, L.Q. Jones and other "stars' of the same "mid-fame" stature. There were a few I did not recognize and their illegible signatures didn't add any help. However, there they were, perched on a horse alongside the Duke himself, although Mr. Wayne's signature was conspicuously absent from any photo in which he appeared. There were photos of Ernest Borgnine, Ben Johnson and more recent names like Tom Selleck. There were non-Western stars like Mel Brooks and Don Rickles. Towards the back of the volume, cleaved as if in some sort of invisible separation, were a succession of female stars, including Raquel Welch, Debra Paget, Angie Dickinson, early television staple and future game show hostess Ruta Lee, horror icon Caroline Munro, Debbie Reynolds, Adrienne Barbeau and — my favorite — Doris Day. The book ended with a photo of President George W. Bush, who Tom sheepishly admitted was probably inscribed with an Autopen. I nodded approvingly as I closed the book. "This is great, Tom.," I said as I returned to my desk for the final hour of my workday.

There's another guy at work. He's a tall man with white hair and a perpetually confused expression on his face. I don't know exactly what his position is, but he does have his own private office and he often wanders the hallways loudly singing the wrong lyrics to classic rock songs. Just before I got ready to leave for the day, the tall white-haired man walked into the office which I sometimes share with Tom.

"I hear you brought in pictures of naked broads!," he bellowed through the smirk on his face. Tom explained that he brought in his collection of autographed photos as a follow-up to a conversation we had the previous day. The tall white-haired man hefted the book into his large hands and began to page through it. "Where are the chicks?," he demanded, as he turned each page after disappointing page. He commented on a few of the photos of men until — midway through the tome — he arrived at the first female image. "Woah! Ho! Ho!," he exclaimed as he closely examined a photo of Doris Day, bringing the book right up to his face. "She's got a fuckin' great body!," he stated as he gave the black & white image the ol' "once over." From then, he gave his un-asked for impression and assessment of every single photo of a woman included in Tom's collection, punctuating each lascivious comment with words like "boobs," "hooters," "knockers" and "chest." He even threw in a stray "sweater meat." He went off on a detailed commentary of Adrienne Barbeau when he reached her photo, injecting his already creepy remarks with uncomfortable analysis of her ample endowments. "Wow!," the tall white-haired man continued, as he poked an exploratory finger at the decidedly not provocative photo of Debbie Reynolds, "Talk about a fuckin' hot body!" Tom and I said nothing. We were both taken by such surprise by these uncalled for assertions that we were rendered speechless — simultaneously! The tall white-haired man finally put the book down, leered for a moment at the closed volume and left the office. I gathered up my stuff and said goodbye to Tom.

And THIS, my friends, is why I don't talk to my co-workers.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

even in the quietest moments

I started my current job almost four years ago. This is — I believe — my billionth job since I graduated from art school forty years ago and entered the wonderful world of graphic design (although, forty years ago, that term did not exist. It was called "commercial art" back then.)

At my current job — one that I hope will be my last — I have an attitude that differs from every previous job I have had. I go in. I do my job. I go home. I am not there to socialize. I am not there to chit-chat. I am not there to make friends. I am there to work. And work I do. Until I leave for the day. I have little to no interaction with my co-workers. When I do, the topic of conversation is always — always — work-related. I don't know any personal details about my co-workers and I don't want to. Similarly, my co-workers know nothing about me. Some of them, I'm fairly sure, don't even know my last name.  And that's fine.

I layout and maintain advertising circulars for supermarkets, some comprised of multiple versions with slight price changes and product substitutions across various geographic markets. In order to maintain a handle on subtle changes on a piece that pretty much looks the same week after week, a certain amount of concentration and focus is required. In addition, the pace is quick and deadlines are almost immediate. I have been doing jobs like this for four decades and, while it is tedious work, I have managed to keep the rhythm that it requires to produce (mostly) accurate end results.

I have gotten into the habit of arriving at work early, long before any of my co-workers show up. I like sitting in a quiet office and doing my work undisturbed and without extraneous distraction. Each morning, I get approximately 90 minutes alone to work in silence before my first co-worker breaches the door to my department. The first one in, thankfully, works in a small office down the hall from me and she is very quiet. It isn't until 9:00 that the department fills up with.... well... co-workers that don't shut up.

I share an office with a guy that, while he doesn't speak that much, giggles. Loudly. And often. On a regular basis, this guy snorts and titters at something. I assume it isn't the ad on which he should be working. I surmise it is something that he is covertly watching on the internet. Then, another co-worker enters our shared workspace to use the communal microwave that rests on a nearby table. After he activates that microwave, he has a lengthy conversation with "the Giggler" about the latest movie in the Marvel Cinematic Universe or last night's football game. The conversation is annoyingly punctuated by a lot of "y'know"s and "yeah, I hear ya"s and lasts way too long.

Then there's Theresa. Remember Theresa? She's been working for my employer for twenty or more years. She is loud and brash and pushy and irritating. Once, I was asked to give her assistance with an ad that I had never worked on before. She rushed through a disjointed explanation of what I was to do, then criticized my work when I didn't correctly complete what she poorly explained. Later, Theresa criticized a new co-worker that I was training. Her complaint? This new girl is quiet and doesn't even say "hello" to her. (You can read about that HERE.) 

Theresa's desk is in a separate office within my department. It is down and across a short hallway. In normal terms, she should be out of earshot. But, alas, she is not. Every morning — every fucking morning — she talks and talks and talks and talks. Loudly. Very loudly. About nothing. I can't really make out the actual words she says. I can only hear the tone of her voice. And it drones on and on. Like a mechanized "hum" you'd hear in a powerplant or manufacturing facility. It kind of sounds like the indistinguishable babble spoken by the unseen adults in the "Charlie Brown" cartoons. That fact that I can hear her, considering how far my desk is from hers, is a testament to how loud she is speaking.

Most mornings she goes on for fifteen or twenty minutes at a time. Sometimes longer. I believe she is speaking to another co-worker with whom she shares an office. I never hear the other woman speak, just Theresa. The afternoon usually brings another round of nondescript yammering. This is an every day occurrence. Every. Single. Day. Except for the days when Theresa has a scheduled day off. Otherwise..... talk talk talk talk talk.

I can't understand how she gets any work done. Sometimes, I can't understand how I get any work done.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

while a dark-eyed girl sang and played the guitar

I have been going to concerts for over fifty years. The concert experience has changed considerably in that time. My early concerts were at one of two venues in the Philadelphia area — The Spectrum and The Tower Theater. The Spectrum was originally built as the home of the Philadelphia Flyers. Someone had the bright idea to use the facility for concerts during the four months when no hockey games were played, along with the time that the Flyers were playing as the visitors in another venue. This left the Spectrum empty for a good portion of the year. In order to keep the revenue flowing, the Spectrum was used for other, non-hockey events, like the circus, the Ice Capades and concerts. Events like the circus and Ice Capades were fine because they were suited to the vastness of the open venue. However, each concert presented at the Spectrum further proved that the Spectrum was not made for concerts. The acoustics were terrible. Most of the permanent seats did not present ideal views of a stage that was set up at one end of the oval-shaped floor. The rest of the floor was filled in with uncomfortable folding chairs that were laid out on one level. Any seat beyond the first few rows from the stage offered a view of the evening's performance equal to that of watching a concert on a crowded bus.

As time went on and my musical tastes changed, I began to see shows at smaller, more intimate venues. I suppose I began to be more interested in bands who couldn't possibly dream of filling a venue the size of the Spectrum. A room that held just a hundred or so fans was more suited to the singers I gravitated towards as I got older. Luckily, Philadelphia was filled with smaller venues that offered a performance space for those acts that were just beginning to gain a following or to those who once experienced huge fame but were now on their way down the "popularity" ladder. 

I liked the smaller venues. They gave fans a close-up show as opposed to watching a tiny speck of a band on a huge stage that you were sitting a zillion feet from. The problem with a smaller venue is people. That seems to be the root problem of a lot of things. People don't know how to behave. They are selfish. They don't consider the feelings of those around them — those who also paid for a ticket. People talk with a loud voice. People sing along — loudly — with the performer. For non-seated shows, people push and shove and lean over other folks who got to the venue early to stake out a good spot for the show. "People" who arrive a minute before showtime want the same accommodations without the logistics or situational planning. The worst offense committed by "people" is shouting out requests and trying to engage the performer in one-on-one conversation, as though they are a traveling minstrel and you are royalty.

Years ago, my son and I saw Inara George at a small (now defunct) venue called The Tin Angel. The Tin Angel was on the second floor of a popular restaurant. The place was accessed from a narrow staircase that led to a seating area that was roughly laid out like a bowling alley. It was long and narrow with a full bar along the rear wall. On the opposite end of the room was the tiny stage, barely large enough to comfortably accommodate a solo performer or, possibly, a duo, A three or four piece band found themselves jockeying for position, especially if one of the band members was accustomed to playing a full drum kit. Between the bar and the stage was a bunch of tables and chairs, all closely-placed so as to ignite instant friendships among the evening's audience. In an effort to fit as many people into a performance, there was a single line of chairs pushed up against the wall next to the stage, leaving a very narrow walkway to the restrooms and backstage area. Anyone wishing to answer the "call of nature" would have to deftly avoid elbowing a performer or stepping on the feet of a seated audience member. When my son and I saw Inara George, we occupied two of those stage-side seats. Before the show started, the seat next to me was taken by a sort-of disheveled man about my age who didn't take off his ratty coat or threadbare hat for the entire night.

Inara George is a very talented singer-songwriter. Her music can only only be described as "indescribable." She crosses genres from folk to electronic and a variety of others in between. She has released a number of solo albums and has been a member of several bands, including The Bird and The Bee with Grammy-winning producer Greg Kurstin. Inara is an engaging performer whose stage shows are filled with conceptual presentation. I've seen Inara George a few times and her shows are always delightful and always surprising. Plus, she's very friendly and very personable. She makes it a point to maintain her own merchandise table and greet each fan after the show. Inara is the daughter of the late Lowell George. Lowell was the founder of the pioneering rock band Little Feat, who were an early entry into the "alt-country" genre before it had a name. Lowell dabbled in country, folk, jazz, fusion and was a early purveyor of the "jam band" genre, often lumped into the psychedelia of The Graceful Dead and New Riders of the Purple Sage. As influential as Lowell George was, Inara George's musical output sounds nothing — nothing! —like that of her father.

Before the show began, I chatted with my son. I could sense that the disheveled guy next to me was not-too-stealthily listening in on our conversation. During a pause in my conversation with my son, the disheveled guy tapped me on the shoulder to inform me that Inara George was the daughter of Little Feat founder Lowell George. I looked at him and nodded, replying, "I know." I would say that, judging from the average age of the audience, most of the people at tonight's performance were aware of the disheveled guy's "insider information."

The show began. Inara danced around the stage with a couple of back-up dancers, all were wearing matching  diaphanous tops and were carefully aware of their footing to avoid tumbling off the stage. In between songs, Inara spoke to the audience, relating a story about how a particular song came to fruition or a humorous anecdote about touring the country.

Or, so I assumed.

Despite my close proximity to the stage, I had a hard time hearing everything Inara was saying. The reason was that the disheveled guy was screaming — screaming! — titles of Little Feat songs at the very top of his voice during every break in the music. Inara and her accompanists would sing a few songs in a row, then stop to introduce the next number. The disheveled guy would lean forward and shriek "FAT MAN IN THE BATHTUB" or "SAILING SHOES" or any number of other Little Feat compositions written and sung by Inara's father. During every single break in the music, my immediate air space was peppered with a running repertoire of Little Feat songs, as though the disheveled guy was reading the track listing from the back of the Waiting for Columbus album.

At the show's conclusion, Inara and company thanked the crowd and exited the stage. The approving applause didn't let up, in hopes that it would convince the band to return for an encore. The disheveled guy joined in, punctuating his applause with more, previously unmentioned Lowell George songs. (He did release a solo album just prior to his untimely death in 1979.) Inara et al  returned to the stage and — Surprise! Surprise! — her encore did not include a single Lowell George song.

I've been to other shows where audience members screamed at the performer, either a song request or some undiscernible string of words. The performer usually ignores such outbursts, either out of politeness of seeing there is just no point to acknowledgement. Every so often, a performer will berate such an audience member on behalf of the entire audience. 

I suppose Inara George was just being polite. After all, she does sing this...

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

poor unfortunate souls

My family has been fans of Disney for a long time. We have taken many, many trips to both US Disney resorts. We love the sights, the sounds, the overall experience. of just being there. This has prompted people — friends, family members, co-workers — to say: "Boy, I'd love to go to a Disney theme park with you guys!" Leading us to reply: "We are the last people you want to go to a Disney theme park with."

Aside from the rides, shows and other attractions, one of our favorite things to do at a Disney theme park is watch the other people. It's always a kick to see a family trudging through the park's walkways — a harried mom trying to wrangle an array of sugar-high children running in six different directions at once, while dad looks dour, figuring in his head how much this whole trip is costing him. We love to see folks who have no idea why they are there, aside from the fact that their neighbors came on a trip last summer and we can't have anyone outdo us! They misidentify characters. They ask directions to rides that are located at rival Universal Studios and they secretly discuss how their neighbors could possibly stand this place.

Then there are the "Disney Experts."These are my favorite group of Disney visitors. They are all decked out in their Disney finest — six lanyards, heavy with ready-to-trade enamel pins; a t-shirt emblazoned with the latest Disney character or some obscure Disney character long forgotten by the public; plenty of Disney themed accoutrements like socks, sneakers and, of course, those iconic mouse ears that you wouldn't be caught dead in anywhere else. These special Disney fans lead the uninitiated of their party through the parks, spewing all sorts of "inside" information and Disney trivia — most of which is slightly incorrect or blatantly wrong. To those unfamiliar, the majority of this information goes unquestioned, because — honestly — not a lot of people care enough to question. My family, however, enjoys hearing these self-proclaimed "experts" go off about locations of "hidden Mickeys" (look it up), tidbits about the construction of the park or little known facts about Walt Disney that they read on the ol' reliable internet. I have overheard everything from "Disney has snipers camouflaged in tree tops on the property, in the event of a serious security situation." to "Walt Disney is cryogenically frozen and his icy corpse rests beneath "The Pirates of the Caribbean" in a secure vault" to "The entire Haunted Mansion in Disneyland burned to the ground in the early 1970s." We've witnessed parents instructing their little ones to run up and give "Daffy Duck" a hug, while other groups of guests ask a Disney employee where "Harry Potter World" is. Once, in Florida, we were aboard one of the ferry boats that transports guests from the parking lot of the Magic Kingdom to the front entrance. As we made our way, another ferry was approaching from the opposite direction across man-made Bay Lake. The two vessels came precariously close to each other, prompting the ship's crew to scramble and sound alarms. During this incident, a particularly confident (and vocal) "expert" stated: "This is on a track. They can't hit each other." They are not and they could. We even made up a little song about the "Disney experts" that we covertly sang to each other when we encountered such a guest. We sang it often. It was very amusing. 

My wife and I have not been to a Disney theme park since 2017. My son, however, has taken two solo trips to Disneyland more recently. He reported that things have not changed and guests are just as misinformed as ever.

2023 marks the one hundredth anniversary of the Walt Disney Company. Aside from lengthy celebrations at their theme parks worldwide, a traveling exhibit will be making its way across the country, chock full of props and drawings and film clips and multimedia presentations honoring all things Disney. The exhibit makes its first stop in my home town of Philadelphia and last weekend — opening weekend! — my family and I attended. So did a bunch of "experts."

At the entrance to the exhibit, which snakes though a number of haphazardly-themed areas vaguely chronicling the history of the Disney Company, is a continuous film featuring Mickey Mouse (in a 1950s version of his Sorcerer's Apprentice garb) and a somewhat creepy Walt Disney, looking as though someone requested an AI generator to make a Walt Disney. The result is a little weird and sort of life-like, although they didn't get the hair quite right. Walt takes a minute or so to explain how his enterprise began and to never lose sight of the fact that "It was all started by a mouse." We know this because the queue line moved so slowly into the cramped, narrow first room of the exhibit, we got to see Walt and his rodent friend deliver their welcome message four or five times. (This little demonstration of technology has caused quite a stir on various social media outlets, with people voicing their "inside knowledge" about "how Walt would feel about this." Disney fans like to speak on behalf of the long-dead Walt Disney, confident that they knew him well enough to be qualified to express his personal sentiment... sort of the way Brian May speaks as though he is in regular contact with Freddie Mercury or how Republicans speak on behalf of Jesus.)

After the initial display depicting the early days of Walt Disney's little animation studio, the exhibit thankfully opened up into wider accommodations, allowing guests to wander around an open area and view the various artifacts safely presented behind glass. It was here I began to overhear the "experts" in full force. "Oh, that's 'Will Turner' from The Pirates of the Caribbean movie," one fellow announced, pointing to the costume actor Geoffrey Rush wore in his portrayal of the villainous 'Barbarossa.' Another articulated a long and convoluted explanation about how Walt Disney drew Oswald the Lucky Rabbit (a character that predates Mickey Mouse.) While the gist of his story was fine, he included details that he either made up or repeated what someone else made up.

Along the exhibit's route, there was a large window behind which a pair of beige pants are displayed on the bottom portion of a mannequin. A nearby placard explains that these trousers were worn by Walt Disney himself on an expedition to South America to gather information about the 1942 feature Saludos Amigos. A woman sporting glittery mouse ears and a large Mickey Mouse face splashed across her chest, proclaimed these to be the disembodied pants from the less-than-celebrated Pixar film Onward. No one in her travelling group objected, countered nor cared. They nodded and proceeded to the next item for perusal. My favorite comment of the evening from an "expert" was a young man, who had been spouting his Disney knowledge to no one in particular,  pointed to a display case and announced: "Oh my God! It's what's-his-face!"

There is a lot to see at this exhibit... and there is also a lot to read. The problem is, I don't believe a lot of the people visiting on this particular day had the patience nor ability to read every single supplied placard. Sure there are a lot of cool, instantly recognizable items on display. The glass slipper from the 2015 live-action retelling of Cinderella really needs no additional identification. Jimmie Dodd's, the host of the original Mickey Mouse Club, "Mousegetar" is neat to see, but I'd be surprised if the under-thirty crowd touring the exhibit knew what they were looking at. Other items were rather nondescript — a desk, a typewritten sheet in a frame, a drawing of a duck — without reading a paragraph describing why this is important. (A similar situation exists at the National Baseball Hall of Fame in Cooperstown, New York. Without consulting a nearby plaque, that place is just room after room of old baseball equipment.)

At the end of the first half of the exhibit (yeah, it's big), there is a large wall decorated with the covers of albums from the archives of Disney's recording studios. One has the ability to call up timeless Disney music. This interactive presentation attracted those anxious to hear their favorite songs from High School Musical or Frozen II or the soundtrack of The Mandalorian, leaving tunes from Annette Funicello's stellar career and those from long-defunct Disneyland rides to go unplayed. 

The exhibit, in keeping to the code of Disney, ends at a gift shop. Visitors milled around the make-shift store, picking up Mickey Mouse this and Star Wars that. As a one-time collector of Disney memorabilia, nothing really appealed to me. Even here, the steadfast Disney "experts" misidentified characters, many of which they just spent the last ninety minutes learning about.

While I do not make recommendations, I will say that that I enjoyed the Disney 100 exhibit. I saw what I wanted to see, read what I wanted to read and overheard an evening's worth of unexpected entertainment. And once again, the Pincuses are the last people you want to attend such an exhibit with.

It runs through the end of August 2023 at the Franklin Institute in Philadelphia.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

the future's so bright, i gotta wear shades

There's a scene in the 1957 film 12 Angry Men, where studious Juror 4 (as played by E.G. Marshall), weary from a day-long jury room debate, removes his wireframe glasses and rubs the bridge of his nose. The little indentations on either side of the bridge of his nose are noticed. Someone remembered that the key witness had those same marks on her nose, even though she was not wearing glasses. Suddenly, the accuracy of the witness's eyesight was brought into question. The room erupts in another heated debate. Lee J. Cobb yells at Henry Fonda, Jack Warden throws a crumpled piece of paper at an imaginary basketball hoop and Martin Balsam rubs his own nose and mutters: "Yeah, she had those marks! Whaddaya call 'em?"

"Nose pads," Martin. You call them "nose pads."

I was sitting at my desk at work when I felt something drop and ricochet off the top of my hand as it was poised above my keyboard. I looked around and discovered a small, yellowed piece of flexible plastic that, as a long-time glasses wearer, I identified immediately as a nose pad. If you have ever worn glasses fitted with these little doo-dads, you know that normally, you never give them a second thought. But, if one becomes misaligned or — even worse — breaks.... well your glasses are uncomfortable until it is replaced. Glasses sit funny on the bridge of your nose, affecting your ability to focus. If your prescription is for bifocals, it can be very disorienting. I know from past experience that getting one of these things replaced can be a breeze or it can be a long, drawn out, dreadful hassle. It was in the hands of fate now.

First of all, the place where I got my glasses is out of business. I got my glasses at the small optical concession at a nearby CVS Pharmacy. On a recent visit to this particular CVS, I was surprised to find the little area where my eyes were poked and prodded and put through a regimen of tests and, later, a technician adjusted the temple pieces on my new pair of glasses, was now filled with colorful racks of greeting cards for all occasions. It was as though the optical department had never existed. I had to ponder my next move. I could innocently wander into another local optical store like America's Best or Lens Crafters (if there is still such a place) and try to convince them to fit my glasses — that I did not purchase there — with a new nose pad. Or I could see if the Walgreen's near my house carried this item alongside the small assortment of non-prescription reading glasses that occupy a endcap of the first aisle near the antacids. Coincidentally, Mrs. Pincus and I had appointments at Walgreen's to get our eighth or ninth COVID booster shot early on Saturday morning. On the off chance that they didn't carry them, I would reluctantly employ my original plan of hitting up a mall optician.

That evening, after dinner, I logged onto an online eyeglasses website. I joined the ranks of thousands of other folks and made my first ever purchase of glasses via the internet. Sure, I'm late to the party, but when you're used to buying things one way, trying a different method can be daunting. This was not. It was easy and cheap and.... did I mention "cheap?" I ended up getting two pairs — a pair of sunglasses to supplement my new pair of internet-bought glasses. I may never set foot in a brick-and-mortar optician store again. Or so I thought..

On Saturday morning, the weather was nice, so Mrs. P and I walked to Walgreen's. While we waited for the slow-as-molasses pharmacy staff at the nearly empty Walgreen's to call our names for our shot, I perused the glasses rack. Nothing. Aside from a single repair kit hanging on a lonely hook, the display was filled with a selection of magnifying reading glasses in variety of frames. But, no replacement nose pads. I was disappointed but not exactly surprised. We got our shots and left the store. I was still wearing my glasses, even though they rested cock-eyed on the bridge of my nose. I remembered that in the small, never-busy shopping center across from Walgreen's there was an independent optical store — one I had passed by, but ever entered. We walked over and Mrs. P waited outside, allowing me to try this on my own. Usually, she is much better and way more persuasive than I am. I thought: "I'll just ask. The worst they could say was 'no' and tell me to get out of the store."

The store barely looked open. It was kind of dark and I didn't see anyone inside. I entered anyway, half expecting the door to be locked. It wasn't. There was a long glass display case that formed a sales counter. The walls were lined with Lucite displays of sample frames and huge photos of sophisticated-looking models looking at me from over the tops of their shiny designer frames. At the far end of the sales counter, an older man (I'm 61 and he was definitely older than I am) was seated at a computer. When I tapped on the counter, he eased himself out of his chair and  asked in a monotone: "Can I help you?" There were no other customers in the store. It looked as though there hadn't been a customer in this store for days or maybe months. I removed my glasses and explained my dilemma, pointing to the empty spot on my glasses where the missing nose pad once resided. The man took my glasses from my hand and shuffled to a work area beyond his computer. He began rifling through some boxes and drawers, but his back was to me... and I was without my glasses, so I couldn't tell exactly what was going on. So, I just stood and waited patiently. Suddenly, I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned and squinted. Although blurry, I recognized my wife. She asked in a low voice what was going on. I pointed in the direction of the "back room work area" and shrugged.

Within a few minutes, the man returned with my glasses. He said nothing as he handed them back to me. They sported a brand new clear silicone nose pad, proudly fitted into the tiny metal socket opposite the original yellowed and dirty nose pad that had been there since Day One. I slid them on and they felt like they did before this whole episode began. I asked the man how much I owed him for his services. He waved me off and grumbled "no charge" under his breath. I thanked him and I thanked him again. My wife spoke up, offering to pick up a cup of coffee for his trouble and generosity. Again, he waved his open hand and said "no... no thank you" in the same low voice. I said a few more "thank you"s as we made our way towards the front door.

While I was genuinely appreciate of this guy's kindness, I have never been in his store before and, in realty, I have no plans of ever going into his store again. Honestly, I wouldn't be surprised if he has closed up shop the next time I pass by, due to competition from bigger stores at the mall or unbeatable deals available on the internet. I wish he would have accepted a buck or two as payment to alleviate my guilt.

My new glasses arrive on Friday.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

let's call this song exactly what it is

Four jobs ago, I used to ride the train every day to downtown Philadelphia. I'd see a lot of the same people at the train station (which is just a few feet from my suburban Philadelphia home). Of course, I didn't know any of these people. They were just commuters, like me, on their way to work. In my mind, I'd make up little stories about them to amuse myself while I waited for the train to arrive. I had a lot of time to let my imagination wander, as the train was rarely on time. 

There was one guy who I saw on an almost daily basis. I don't like to pass judgement on people (who am I kidding? yes I do!) whom I don't know. But, as human nature would have it, I formed an instant opinion about this guy from the moment I saw him... and I didn't like him. He always sported a smirk on his face and swung his large briefcase nervously as he expounded some long-winded explanation to a small group of similarly-dressed men in way-too-loud a voice.

The job to which I referred — the one that was the destination of my train ride — was working at a mid-sized law firm. While my position didn't require me to interact with lawyers regularly, I did have several encounters with attorneys over the course of the dozen years I worked there. Some of them — not all — were arrogant and nasty. The ones that fit into that category all exhibited the same hubris in their conversation, demands and actions. Sure, there were plenty of lawyers who were nice and personable, but still, there was this over-arching air of "I am better than you" that one could feel hanging heavy in the course of any verbal exchange — no matter how brief or lengthy. In my personal experience, I concluded that those who attended law school were convinced that the certificate they received upon graduation assured expertise in the field of law — as well as every other profession. Even ones in which their course of study did not cover. I don't remotely profess to know anything about the legalities of anything, but I have had attorneys point out all the things I was doing wrong in graphic design.

The guy at the train station, I discovered via a long-time friend and travelling companion, was a lawyer. I revealed my instant, though admittedly baseless, dislike of this guy to my friend. My friend vehemently dismissed my assessment of the guy, telling me, "No! You've got him all wrong! He's a sweetheart!" Granted, my friend is an eternal optimist, always seeing the sunny side of pretty much everything. She likes everyone. I can't understand how we've been friends for so long.

Sometime after my friend's reprimanding of me, I overheard the train station guy again. It was tough not to overhear him, as he spoke loudly. Very loudly. Way too loudly for the other person in his conversation. He spoke as though he was addressing the entire train station assembly. Perhaps he was. All he was missing was a podium. He spoke of how he was running for a position on the local school board and talked about all of the plans he had once elected. 

(Get ready for another opinion)

I have lived in my house for 35 years. I love this neighborhood, but there is a very elitist attitude among some of the more  — shall we say  — "affluent" citizens. Their houses are bigger than mine. Those big houses sit on more property than I own. And their "say" in local matters is more influential than mine. This little coterie likes to serve on committees and tell other people what to do. Makes 'em feel important and a contributor to "the greater good" — their own personal "greater good." The train station guy is one of those "I like to serve on committees" people. He won a spot on the school board and, subsequently, became the head of the school board of my district.

I don't take the train to that job anymore. As I mentioned, I have had three jobs since then, so I don't see the train station guy anymore. Until this week.

It's graduation time and, as head of the local school district, the train station guy offered some words of inspiration to the high school graduating class of 2021. Clad in an honorary cap and gown, a pair of comically-large glasses perched on the bridge of his nose, the train station guy delivered a speech in which he quoted — although misinterpreted — from a blog post by an acknowledged hero of his, Professor Heather Cox Richardson, a professor of American History at Boston College. The train station guy related anecdotes about abolitionist Frederick Douglass, saying that Douglass had a "pretty good position" relative to other black slaves.  He also said that his escape to freedom in 1838 was — and I quote — "ridiculously easy." The majority of the student body of the high school is African-American. Murmurs rumbled through the audience and graduates as the words echoed through the public address system. The train station guy is just another white guy in a long line of white guys who don't know when to shut up about things they don't know about. Oh... wait.... there isn't any subject they don't know about.

A very short time after his speech, an official announcement from the school board was released. It explained that the train station guy was stepping down from his position as school board head. It also related an apology for his insensitive expression and inappropriate use of the forum. The story made local, national and international news. A YouTube video of the commencement ceremony was edited and carried a newly-inserted disclaimer at the beginning.

I can't understand how the speech got as far as being actually spoken. Didn't the train station guy run it by a few close friends or family members or colleagues or anyone who isn't white before saying "Yeah, this sounds right. This is what I'll go with."? In all of the wisdom which he flaunted at the train station, couldn't he see the insensitive and hurtful nature of the words he deemed appropriate for a high school graduation speech? I suppose not.

But it looks like my first impression of him was spot on after all.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

I wanna be a boss

Between my current job and the one that I thought would be the last job of my career, I worked at one of the shittiest jobs I ever had. It was a job that I took because, at the time, no one was exactly breaking down my door to hire me. I was 57 years old and, after being out of the job market loop for over a decade, I ran into a phenomenon that I never considered even existed — ageism. I was very discouraged and began to worry that I was, for lack of better word, "un-hire-able." 

Then, I got a call in response one of the hundreds of jobs to which I applied. I scheduled an interview and accepted a supervisory position at a small printing company that produced take-out menus. My official title was "design coordinator." I oversaw the design department, working closely with three graphic designers. One was a very talented, yet decidedly quirky, guy who sat in a darkened office just across the hall from me. The other two lived and worked in Ukraine and all of my communication with them was via Skype. The owner of the company was a slimy, deceitful man with no background in the printing business whatsoever. Within just a few days, it became apparent that his main business goal was to deceive and lie to his customers as much and as often as he could. Right before my eyes, I watched as he committed fraud on a daily basis. But, his business practice didn't really affect me. I got paid and I continued to do my job, adhering to the same work ethic that I maintained for thirty-plus years.

There was a staff of salespeople at this job. A bunch of commission-based morons who spoke to potential customers as though they had never used a telephone in their lives. This motley crew was guided by a sales director named Slick. Slick was a young man in his early 30s. He had a large ego and very little intelligence. He was what the kids call "a douchebag." He was obsessed with designer clothing, designer watches and designer cologne. He knew the best places to eat, the best places to shop and the best places to go on vacation. He spoke like an expert on all topics, although it was very obvious that he only had a feeble grasp of his subject and was just a spewing fountain of misinformation. Kind of like Wikipedia.

Do you know us?

Slick was convinced that he knew everything there was to know about everything. When he discovered new information (like something he just read on the internet), he proudly announced it, as though he was the first one to find out. One day, I heard him, in his office, listening to a number of Beatles songs in succession. After A few minutes, he popped into my office and asked me if I ever heard of the Beatles. I stopped what I was doing and looked up at him. I couldn't tell if he was joking or if he actually thought I had never heard of the Beatles. "Yes." I replied, "They're the band that Paul McCartney was in before Wings." My sarcasm flew right over his head. I realized that he had no idea who Paul McCartney was or what "Wings" was. He cocked his head and said, "Well, they got some pretty good songs." Then, he returned to his office.

Slick would often tell me that he regularly turns down job offers because he feels bad for the owner of the company for whom we worked. Slick was afraid if he left, the company would fold without him and he didn't want his coworkers to lose their jobs. He told me that he was planning to start a rival menu-printing company and would hire me to run his design department. I would do my work and let him talk, rarely interacting and just nodding my head every so often until he left my office.

The company was eventually bought out by a large printing company. Suddenly, my shitty job became a pretty good job. Our offices moved to a larger location at the new company. My boss was rarely in the office and Slick and his staff were moved to another part of the building where I was out of earshot of his inane observations. Alas, after a mere four months, the new company wasn't making the profit that they had hoped for and they had to make some staff cuts. My boss was tasked with laying me off. On a Tuesday.

This time around, the job search was much more encouraging. In just a few weeks, I secured a position at a very large company with a great group of coworkers. Just before I started my new job, I received a text message from Slick. He said that he believed it was a mistake to have let me go. He went on to say that he is fighting to get me back as soon as possible. Slick was in absolutely no position to "get me back." He had absolutely no connection to the hiring of any employee. I read over the text a few more times and replied that I had taken a job elsewhere.

And then I blocked Slick's number.

That chapter of my life is now behind me.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

thinking about things I don't understand

I have been at my new job (since I unceremoniously lost my last job) for almost a year now. Without going into too much detail about what my new job entails, let's just say that it requires me to remain extremely focused, as I must keep track of many things that occur simultaneously. I don't have any issue with being focused. However, there are certain extraneous factors that serve as regular distractions in an attempt to break my necessary concentration.

My workplace is arranged as an open work space. That means no individual offices. My desk is pushed against a wall. Other employees desks are pushed against other walls. Since the entire place is so small, we are all in very, very close proximity to one another. This is not helpful in maintaining the attention to detail required for me to do my job. I do my best to tune out the superfluous conversation from my co-workers (and I use the term "co-workers" very, very loosely), until is it just a bunch of indiscernible white noise. but sometimes I cannot help but hear the inane exchanges.

A mere six or so feet away from me is a bank of half cubicles. Seated at these mini-desks are four salesmen whose sole job is to make cold calls and sell product. I have been a productive part of the working world for 35 years and, in that time, I have never met four dumber human beings. I mean seriously dumb. Stupid. Moronic. Sure, we have all called someone "dumb" at one point in our lives and meant it as a quick insult, not really as its true definition. But, my saying that these guys are dumb couldn't be a more suitable description. No exaggeration. I swear. I honestly can't understand how these guys function. I find it difficult to believe that they don't ask for directions to work every day and then ask for directions back to their homes at the end of the day... if they even have homes. For guys whose job is to talk on the phone, they speak as though they have never addressed another person in their lives and as though they didn't just deliver the exact same sales pitch two minutes earlier.

But it's the between-sales-calls conversation that I find most maddening and most puzzling.

The amount of "down-time" these guys seem to have is astounding, considering they work purely on commission. And that "down-time" is filled with some of the most nonsensical drivel I have ever heard. During football season, the conversation was a riveting, in-depth discussion and analyzation of every single play of every single game that transpired over the past day. However, to hear the conversation, you would suspect that none of these guys had ever watched a football game before. I am not a football fan — hell, I have only watched one football game in my life — but I knew more about what they were confused by. Every week, from August thru the first week of February, I heard the same thing. I heard more speculation and repeated cliches about Nick Foles and Carson Wentz (two Philadelphia Eagles quarterbacks) than I heard on the evening news. Once football season ended, I assumed the football talk would end, too. It didn't. Old conversations were rehashed with the same uninformed tone as previous.

Sometimes, non-football talk takes over the conversation. Just this week, there was a heated debate about The Three Stooges, including a sub-discussion about which Stooge was which. They actually went on for ten minutes trying to recall the member of the slapstick trio with "the curly red hair and the bald spot on top."

They have discussed music, movies and television, stores that are no longer in business, stores that may go out of business, current events and things they "sort of" remember from their childhoods — all with the intellectual grasp of a small, overripe turnip. They get names wrong. They get titles wrong. They get simple details wrong. Anything that can be gotten wrong, they get wrong. They are collectively uninformed and collectively misinformed.

At first it was entertaining. But now it is infuriating. It impedes on my work and that is not acceptable. Granted, I have a shitty job and I work for a shitty company, but I still take pride in my work output. I always have and I always will until I am scraped off the floor at my final place of employment.

I just hope the floor of this snake pit isn't the one from which I am scraped.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

are you ready for some football

I find myself eavesdropping on the various people who, like me, are waiting for the train to arrive and take us to work. I stand on the platform and watch the same faces I see every morning walk across the wooden planks — some clutching briefcases under their arms, some dragging large, wheeled cases behind them — and take the same relative waiting positions they take every morning (myself included). I don't eavesdrop on purpose. I am not particularly interested in the random, nonsensical chit-chat I hear. Some of my fellow commuters just talk so goddamn loud, that I can't help but hear every detail of their usually inane conversations. I often find it maddening, but I guess I also find it amusing — otherwise I wouldn't write about it so often. Or maybe I don't want to feel alone in my torture. Why should you miss out?

Yesterday was Monday, the day after Super Bowl 51, in which the mighty New England Patriots captured another record-breaking victory. I believe, if my knowledge of football is what I think it is, they have won every Super Bowl that has ever been played. I don't know. I could be wrong, but actually, I don't give a shit. I have never watched a complete football game in my life. Growing up, my father and my brother watched every sports contest that flashed across our television. Football, baseball, basketball. (My brother watched hockey alone because my father said it moved too goddamn fast for him.) Not me! I never watched any of it. I had no interest. Later in my life, I became an avid baseball fan, but that wasn't until the late 90s when my wife and I purchased Phillies season tickets so we could go to the All-Star Game in our hometown. We kept those tickets for eighteen seasons. But before that, I couldn't tell a home run from a field goal — and I didn't care.

I am not afraid to admit that I am not a sports fan. I have other interests to occupy my time. I know plenty of sports fans, some of whom can't understand how I don't care about three-pointers and clipping. They marvel at my belief that "foul" refers to my preference of language and "icing" is something that decorates a birthday cake. I am offended when some "dude" asks me if I know the score of a particular game just because I'm a guy and all guys follow sports and know all scores. Or when I tell someone I'm from Philadelphia, they immediately pummel me with questions about the Eagles. (Y'know, we have the Liberty Bell, too!) I don't pretend to know about sports and I certainly don't jump on the "fan bandwagon" if my city's team is doing well or during any sport's playoff time.

So, around 7:45 a.m. the day after the Super Bowl, I see some woman sit down on a bench at the train station and start a loud conversation about the game.

First Woman: Did you watch the Super Bowl? 

Second Woman: Well, we're not really much of a football family. Actually, we're not a football family at all. We watched the Super Bowl, 'cause... y'know. Jacob doesn't like football, but he's a Steelers fan and, evidently, if you like the Steelers, then you can't like the Patriots. They're like cross-division adversaries or something. So, we're not supposed to like the Patriots. But, I didn't even watch the whole game. I watched the first half and then I went upstairs and — y'know — did my own thing. I did some baking, too, because we all like to get together for Tu B'Shevat*.

By the time the train arrived, my head had exploded all over the platform.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

* Tu B'Shevat, or "Tubishvat" as the guttural pronunciation goes, marks the season in which the earliest-blooming trees in the Land of Israel emerge from their winter sleep and begin a new fruit-bearing cycle. It's essentially Jewish Arbor Day, and possibly, worth a day off from work.