call me, call me any anytime

I hate talking on the phone. Hate it! That's why Caller ID is one of the greatest advancements in telephone technology since Alexander Graham Bell told Watson to "Come here! I need you!" Aside from my wife, my son and occasionally, my brother, I will rarely answer my cellphone. I especially will not answer when a strange number pops up on the screen. I will happily and defiantly "reject" that call and possibly be amused if the caller has left me a voicemail. This just happened a few days ago while I was at work. My phone rang. I didn't recognize the number, so I sent to call straight to voice mail. When I listened later, I heard what appeared to be a "live" voice (as opposed to an overly-rehearsed computer-synthesized voice) telling me that I still had options to pay and possibly reduce my student loan. Let me tell you.... I am 61 years old. I made my final student loan payment almost 30 years ago. When I was making student loan payments, my monthly payment was a few cents under 81 dollars. (My entire tuition for four years of art school was around 76 hundred dollars. Yep. That's all.) Believe me, when the first few payments came due, I struggled. I diligently looked for a job in my field while I worked in my father-in-law's hardware store and took freelance design jobs here and there. I finally landed my first real "art" job in 1985 and I just added another 81 bucks to my monthly financial obligations. Needless to say, I haven't written a check to the student loan payment center since the Clinton administration. Hell, my son's student loan payback period has already passed! So where do these people get their information? As scammers, they are doing a pretty lousy job. But, luckily, Caller ID saved me from listening to a bogus pitch from some dude posing as a financial expert.

When I got home from work, my house phone rang. Yeah, we still have a landline. It works in conjunction with our home security system. I rarely, if ever, answer our landline phone. The Caller ID appears on our television screen, as a perk from the good folks at Comcast, from whom we get our phone service. This time, the name "DYNA... something" showed up and, obviously not being in my right mind, I answered it. It was a pleasant-voiced woman assuring me that she would not be trying to sell me anything. Instead, she — on behalf of her employer — was gathering information regarding the upcoming elections in Philadelphia. I interrupted her as she was about to continue on with her next scripted statement. 

"We are not in Philadelphia.," I said

"Oh," she replied, sounding disappointed. "Is anyone there registered to vote in Philadelphia?" she continued with more of a hopeful tone in her voice.

"This house is not in Philadelphia." I said sternly.

"Oh," she lamented. "I will make a note of it. Thank you for your time."

Later the same evening, the words "DYNA... something" appeared on our TV screen during our regular viewing of Jeopardy! Thinking it was the same person calling me back after just a few hours, I foolishly answered the phone. It was a different person from the same organization. This time, they asked to speak to a female in the house who was registered to vote. At this point, I could hear Mrs. Pincus in the next room talking to someone on her cellphone.

"She is not available." I informed this new inquisitor.

"Oh," she replied, "Is there a better time to reach the female registered voter in your home?"

I sighed. Obviously, she was persistent and ending this was not going to be easy. "Tomorrow, I guess."

"What time tomorrow would be best?" She was not letting up.

I gave her the vaguest "I don't know" and she just said she'd make a note and try again tomorrow.

I swear... I am never answering the phone again. I don't even know why I started.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

pardon the interruption

My dad was a quirky guy. He liked things to be a certain way. He liked to sit in one particular chair in our house when he watched television. He fumed if he saw anyone sitting in his chair and, in a move reminiscent of his hero Archie Bunker, he had no qualms about telling the offending keister to vacate his chair immediately. He'd sit in that chair from the time he finished his dinner until the 11 o'clock news concluded, smoking approximately eleven thousand cigarettes.

My day liked — no, make that expected! — to have his dinner ready and served within minutes of arriving home from — as he often phrased it — "a hard day at work." As much as he complained about it, my father liked to work. In his mind, it showed his family (and the world) that he was responsible for their luxurious [insert sarcastic eyeroll here] way of life (again, from his POV). My dad would wake up at the crack of dawn to go to work, no matter what the job. He was a butcher, by trade, but over the years he worked his way up through the ranks to department manager, then supermarket manager and later, corporate office executive... and eventually back down the employment ladder to working butcher near the end of his life. Still, he never seemed to have two nickels to rub together and always struggled to pay bills. My dad did not live an extravagant life. We rarely took family vacations aside from the occasional overnight trip to Atlantic City (which he hated). One weekend every March, my mom and dad would go to a resort in the Catskills, where my father would actually display the characteristics of someone experiencing a good time. They'd return on Monday morning and things went right back to normal — work, home, dinner, TV, cigarettes, bed.

Without a scowl 

My father's dinnertime ritual was just as regimented and predictable as the other things in his life. When he sat down to eat, there better be some kind of red beefy meat that was once part of a cow, a vegetable of some sort, potatoes prepared either mashed or baked and bread somewhere on the table. And, most importantly, the avocado green telephone that hung on our kitchen wall just above the clothes dryer better not ring. My father hated when the phone rang in our house. Hated it! He hated anytime it rang, but especially during dinner. When the phone would ring outside of the Pincus dinner hour, my father would grumble: "Who the hell is that?" If it was answered by my mom, my brother or me, he would glare at the answerer for a few seconds before returning to his cigarettes and television. If — God forbid! — he had to get up and answer it himself — holy shit! — you'd think he had just been asked to help his kids with homework, mow the lawn and fold laundry (three things he did not do). He'd angrily extract himself from his chair, shuffle to the phone and snatch the receiver from its cradle. "HELLO!," he would bellow. If it was anyone but his mother on the calling end, he'd bark out the person's name and slam the receiver down on top of the dryer. Pick it up yourself, he'd think, I'm not your goddamn secretary, too! If, by chance, it was my grandmother, he'd change his tune. He'd offer a rundown of the day's events to her and — believe me — she didn't give a rat's ass about his day. 

However, if that phone rang during our precious dinnertime.... Oh boy! Watch out! My dad would furrow his brow, turn an infuriated shade of scarlet and seethe through gritted teeth: "Who is calling NOW? Doesn't anyone eat their goddamn dinner?" My designated chair at the dinner table was closest to the phone, so, invariably, it was my responsibility to field and screen dinnertime phone calls. The rule was if it wasn't a close family member gasping for their final breath or calling from a burning building, it could wait. I was instructed to take a message and the call would be returned when we finished our evening meal. No exceptions! And this little exchange was to be kept as brief as possible.("Close family member" was the defining criteria, as determined by my father. If, for example, it was my Aunt Clara — my mom's sister — well, she could wait... from my father's perspective. She could for-fucking-ever!) Conversely, it was drilled into our heads, by my father, that no outgoing phone calls were to be made from the Pincus household between 5 PM and 7 PM... got it? Good! He was respectful of other families dinnertime.  And as long as we are making rule about telephone usage, positively no phone calls — incoming or outgoing — after 10 PM. Period!

I got married in 1984 and my wife and I, like most households, had our own set of rules. No longer were we required to follow the same rules laid down by our parents. None of that "as long as you live under my roof" bullshit. No sir! We would make and receive phone calls when ever we darned pleased. Hell, we could talk on the phone during dinner, if we so chose.

As I grow closer to the age that my father passed way, I find myself growing less patient and more "rule aware".... just like the Mr. Pincus senior. And, to tell you the truth, its pretty unnerving. I find myself silently stewing when one of our cellphones (something my father never had to deal with) rings during the time my wife and I are eating dinner. (Honestly, it's rarely my phone. I don't get a lot of phone calls... and that's just the way I like it. Ooooh.... did my father just write that sentence?) My wife will happily engage with anyone who calls her on the phone, sometimes putting her dinner "on pause" until her conversation has concluded. Me? I will rudely continue eating, trying to chase my father's voice out of my head. Who the hell is calling NOW?

When did this happen? Am I slowly taking on my father's undesirable traits? I get an uneasy feeling when I catch myself channeling my father's decidedly weird behavior. I try to make a conscious effort to combat any of my father's quirks when I see them appear in my speech or actions. I should probably talk to someone about it.

Just not during dinner.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

don't leave me hanging on the telephone

I often wondered if faithful lab assistant Thomas A. Watson rolled his eyes and pretended not to hear when Alexander Graham Bell's voice crackled over his new invention, ordering: "Mr. Watson – Come here – I want you," "What!?!," I imagine Mr. Watson bellyaching while throwing his hands in the air and stomping his feet. I can picture him groaning at being interrupted — unnecessarily — by his boss Bell for some stupid task that Bell could no doubt perform for himself.

When I was young, my dad would get furious when the phone rang in our house. Not just during mealtime or TV watching time or sleeping time but anytime. Granted my dad would get annoyed by a lot of things (snow, rain, Democrats, minorities on television, minorities not on television, Philadelphia sports teams, teams opposing Philadelphia sports teams), but a ringing telephone would set him off every time without fail. Midway through the first RRRIIIING!, my father would growl, "Who the hell is calling?" Even if he was expecting a call, my dad would greet that initial telephone ring with the same contempt. If it was one of my friends or one of my brother's, my dad would mockingly mutter the friend's name under his breath for the duration of our conversation. I sometimes wondered why we even had a telephone. Why was my father paying a monthly fee to have this constant source of irritation in his house?

Something in my father's make-up must have rubbed off on me. While I don't get annoyed when the phone rings in our house (well, not nearly as annoyed as he did), I will admit, I do hate talking on the phone. I can't quite put my finger on what it is about talking on the telephone I don't like... but I don't like it. I can make it through a few informative seconds on the phone, like a call from my wife if I ran to the supermarket and she realized that eggs were not included on the shopping list. But, if the conversation extends past the instruction to get eggs, I bristle. "We can talk when I get home," I'll gently explain, trying to put an end to a lengthy discussion yet not wanting to appear rude — but usually failing miserably in the process.

I rarely — if ever — answer the phone in my house. It's never for me. If I do answer, it will most likely be someone who wants to speak to Mrs. Pincus. Or it'll be a solicitor with a brief survey that usually ends when question number three is: "Does anyone it your family work for a radio station?' and I answer "yes." Or it's some malicious scammer telling me that they have been receiving messages from my Windows computer. Or it's just a plain old wrong number. But, I can be assured that it's not for me.

So, wouldn't you know.... I started a new job earlier this year that requires me to speak on the phone more than all of my previous jobs put together. It's very strange, but over the last few months I've gotten used to it. Some of my new co-workers have even complemented me on my phone manner, citing me as both professional and pleasant. I have even surprised myself with my patience and courtesy. Some of the folks I speak to on the phone are decidedly harried, curt, unreasonable and downright rude. But I have uncharacteristically maintained a cool head and affable demeanor. I never knew I had it in me. I still don't like talking on the phone, but sometimes you gotta do what you gotta do.

Now, you'll have to excuse me. The phone is ringing..... and I'm not gonna answer it.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

a tick, a tick, a tick, good timin'

I have a friend who is a criminal defense lawyer in the Philadelphia area. I see her on the train every so often and we have a short conversation until we get to my stop which is a mere twenty minutes from the downtown station where we board. It's not nearly enough time to cover everything since the last time we saw each other.

The last time I saw her (which I believe was at the end of last summer), she told me a funny little anecdote that I will share with you now.

Since she practices law by herself, she rents a single office in a suite belonging to another law firm in a building in Philadelphia. One afternoon, the other law firm had a conference involving several attorneys from various other law firms. During a break in the discussion, one of the visiting attorneys — a man named Robin — received a call on his cell phone. He glanced up from the lighted screen of his mobile device and caught the attention of the hosting attorney.

"Is there somewhere that I can take this call in private?," he asked.

"Sure.," the host replied and he directed his office guest down a hallway to an empty conference room on the left. 

Robin smiled and thanked him as he toddled off down the hall. However, when he reached the end of the hall, he stopped and looked at his options. On the left was the conference room to which he had been offered and directed. On the right, was the unoccupied office of a law partner who had gone out to grab some lunch to bring back. The office looked way more inviting with its dark wood shelves filled with endless bound volumes of law books, its large polished wood desk, its surface arranged with neat piles of papers and folders corralled within two gold-trimmed trays. Behind the desk was a big chair, upholstered in leather the color of chocolate and trimmed with brass nailheads displaying an antiqued patina. Robin assessed the two rooms and, defying earlier instruction, turned right, taking a seat in the chair behind the desk. He continued on his call, even elevating his feet to the desk top and leaning back to test the support of the chair.

Be with you in a minute.

The partner returned to the office with his bagged midday meal. He acknowledged a few co-workers before setting out down the hall with plans of eating his lunch while he did some work at his desk. When he got to the doorway of his office, he was startled. After all, there was a strange man in his chair, the soles of his shoes exposed on top of his desk he was sitting behind. The partner was rendered speechless, but within a moment or two, he gathered his composure and opened his mouth, about to release a barrage of questions to the intruder.

He was halted though, as Robin, barely looking up from his call, extended his arm and popped his index finger up in the universally-understood gesture of "just a minute."

The partner was dumbfounded. He was being stifled by some guy parked at his desk in his office. Some guy! But the phone call ended abruptly. Robin sprang to his feet and grunted a nearly-inaudible "thanks" as he squeezed by the partner and bopped down the hall to rejoin his conference.

So, that's the story. I was just as dumbfounded as the partner. Maybe because I know Robin and his behavior wasn't surprising.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

your circuit's dead, there's something wrong

Sometimes, I catch myself acting like a real idiot. Just this week, as a matter of fact, I behaved like an idiot of the highest (or lowest, depending on your gauge) order.

For years now, Mrs. Pincus and I have gotten into the habit of falling asleep with the television on... and leaving it on all night. At one time, we had one of the first televisions with a sleep timer. That was great. We'd watch TV. I'd set the timer on the remote to shut off in ninety minutes and everything was fine. After a while, I'd forget to set the timer. Then, the timer button on our remote stopped working altogether. Then.. ah, screw it! We just left the TV on all night. Surprisingly, it didn't bother us. We kept the volume low. The light from the television was better — and certainly more entertaining — than any nightlight. It got so we couldn't get to sleep if the television wasn't on all night. We didn't limit this ritual to our home either. We'd leave the television on all night in hotel rooms while on vacation. When we visited my wife's cousin Juniper in Virginia Beach, she graciously offered us accommodations in a spare bedroom in her apartment. While the room was equipped with a queen-size bed, alas, it was without a television. Talk about roughing it. It was like camping.

Earlier this year, we were introduced to Comcast's (or Xfinity or whatever they're calling themselves these days) fabulous and innovative X-1 platform, the greatest thing to happen to television since Morton Downey Jr. died. We bought a 32" flat-screen, high-definition television to replace the big, square dinosaur that previously was perched upon the high bureau in our bedroom. Now, my wife and I are gently lulled to sleep by the soft, panoramic glow of our Samsung Model UN32J4000AFXZA. Every so often, I wake up in the middle of the night and I'll switch the channel from the harsh reality of CNN to the friendlier tones of a fifty-year-old rerun of I've Got a Secret on BUZZR. Then, I'll just fall back asleep. 

Sometimes, I am awakened by the lack of sound. Startled, I lift my head from my pillow and, not wishing to feel around for my glasses squint at the silent television. I can barely make out a message on the screen instructing me to restart the cable box for a software update. I force myself out of bed, careful not to wake my sleeping missus. I unplug and immediately re-plug the power cord from the back of the box and, after a series of messages chronicling the status of service, my television comes back to life and I go back to sleep. This happened a few nights ago... with much different, much scarier results.

Willkommen! Bienvenue! Welcome!

In my sleep, I could sense an eerie quiet in our bedroom. There was the low, white noise hum emanating from the small fan on my wife's dresser. The television screen was bright but silent, an image of a local weather forecaster frozen in mid-point filled its oblong surface. I got out of bed and shuffled to the TV. I fumbled around for the connection at the back off the small cable box and yanked the cord out. The room was plunged into darkness. Again, I felt around and plugged the cord back in. The blue light on the front of the box blinked in an irregular pattern and the familiar and comforting "Welcome" message  appeared on the screen, as it had numerous times before after performing this simple procedure. I slogged back to bed and lay with my eyes closed, waiting for the sound of the television which should be arriving... any... second.

Nothing. A few minutes went by. Long minutes.

Still nothing.

Instead of the usual "Connecting to the X1 Platform" message that appears within a few minutes of powering up, my poor television had this splashed across it:

Did it, did it and did it.

Eeech! I don't want to see this. Instantly, I thought of a trip to the local Xfinity office to exchange my (possibly) faulty cable box. Would they be open when I got home from work? Would Mrs. Pincus have to interrupt her day to return the box? Ugh! I hate to be inconvenienced. I turned the TV off in disgust.

At this point, my alarm went off and I had to get up for work. I went into the den and hit the remote to turn the TV on. The screen flashed to life, displaying a frozen image of a CNN anchor, poised mid-read, her lips locked in an unnatural curl, her right eye slightly closed. I unplugged the cable box and exercised the same procedure on this cable connection as well. 

As part of my usual morning routine, I went to the third floor of my house, to our computers, to post the daily celebrity death anniversaries on Facebook. (Give a "like" to my Facebook page so you don't miss out.) With a touch of the mouse, my sleeping computer awakened to tell me there was no internet service available. I glanced over at the router/modem combination (a "gateway" is was XFinity calls it) and saw that the "online" light was out. Only the "power" light was lazily blinking at the top of the stack of indicator lights. No cable service at all? I panicked. I mean real cold sweat, throbbing temples, can't-think-straight, end-of-the-world panic! (Okay. I might be exaggerating, but not as bad as Ryan Lochte, but, I was really panicked!) I looked at the display screen on the nearby telephone and saw the "No Service" message. (We have the Xfinity "Triple Play" package and are forced to maintain a land line, otherwise our cable bill will skyrocket higher than the ridiculously high cost we are already charged.) No TV. No internet. No telephone. Oh my God! I was stuck on Gilligan's Island except there was no Professor to fix the problem with coconut shells and salt water!

I scrambled downstairs and checked the Xfinity website on my phone, reluctantly eating up precious data units on the 4G network since my WiFi was out. After logging into my account, I was told there was a full service outage in my area. The anticipated restoration of service was in the 10 o'clock hour. 10 o'clock? That was four hours from now. I ran up and down the stairs checking and rechecking all of my many cable connections. And then I checked them again.

I finally went downstairs and poured myself a cup of coffee and fixed a bowl of cereal. I carried my breakfast up to the den and sat in front of the giant screen of my cable-less television, staring at my own sad reflection in the black glass. The only sound I could hear was the crunching of Cheerios in my mouth and the occasional sipping of coffee. No local news. No Today Show. No iCarly. No television entertainment of any type. Time dragged. I sulked. It was pathetic.

Suddenly, the clock on the cable box activated on its own, displaying the correct time. I grabbed the remote and hit the power button. The huge television screen brightened and — oh yeah! — I was connected! Connected to the wonderful world of mindless visual stimulation! My cable was back!

I thought about this little episode and my ridiculous behavior. I played it over again in my head. Disconnecting the cable boxes. Running up and down the steps like my house was on fire. Checking all of the connections like I suffered from an advanced case of obsessive/compulsive disorder.  If I was being watched, I'm sure I would have come across as looking like an idiot.

Well, I may be an idiot, but, I'm an idiot with cable.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com