tender lumplings everywhere

When I was a kid, my favorite holiday, aside from my birthday, was Hallowe'en. I would begin thinking about my costume somewhere around the time I came home from trick-or-treating that year. I would begin to give serious thought to my costume as summer came to a close and I prepared my return to school. As autumn approached, I would narrow my selection down to a few choices and by October 1st, I'd start to gather the needed elements to bring my costume to fruition. By the second week of October, I'd drag out the family's box of Hallowe'en decorations. I'd methodically tape each tattered and worn cardboard pumpkin cutout and jointed cardboard skeleton in the exact position in the exact window as previous years. Once the big night arrived, I'd hurry through dinner and jump into my costume. I'd grab an old pillowcase and set out for my annual candy shakedown of the neighborhood. Trick-or-treating in my densely populated community was an all-night ritual. This was the 1960s and distribution of full-size candy bars was not uncommon, so several stops back home to drop off a load of sweets too heavy to drag around the block was to be expected. Once, a fellow Hallowe'ener reported on a house that was handing out full packages of six Hershey bars. That house had a line that remained steady into the late evening. Of course, the after-Hallowe'en surplus of candy sometimes lasted until Thanksgiving, until the few stray Mary Janes and sour balls that dotted the bottom of my picked-through bag were finally tossed into the trash.

When I was a teenager, and became too old to go knocking door-to-door, I'd stay home to hand out candy. I also decorated my house to elicit maximum scares from unsuspecting beggars. Pulling out all stops, I'd spend hours preparing Styrofoam tombstones, eerie flashing lights, prop figures in weird masks and a soundtrack of creepy music blasting through hidden speakers. Naturally, I was decked out in full vampire costume and makeup. I didn't give out a whole lot of candy, as kids were too frightened by the display. They felt a measly piece of candy wasn't worth getting the shit scared out of them. That was okay because it meant more leftovers for me.

In high school, I attended many Hallowe'en parties. Over the years, I wore a variety of costumes — Frank N. Furter from Rocky Horror, The Hunchback of Notre Dame (I refused to take off my make-up for the entire night), and even Gene Simmons, accompanying some friends who dressed as the remaining members of KISS (including my friend Sam).

When I got married and became a father, Hallowe'en continued in full force at the Pincus household. We had more Hallowe'en decorations than most people have for Christmas. Our house was transformed into that house, you know, the one that everyone looks forward to visiting because of the awesome way they celebrate the holiday. We had lights and music and animated figures and tons of candy. I took my son out at two months old, attired in Superman pajamas (him, not me). After a brief introduction to the fine art of confectionery extortion, we easily slipped him into his crib, already prepared for sleeping. As he got older, I created original and unique costumes for my son, including homemade Boris Badenov and Sonic the Hedgehog attire. I taught him to say "Trick-or-treat" and "Nothing with coconut." (Not because of a dietary restriction, because I don't like coconut.)

As time marched on, something happened. My son — in high school, then college — made other plans for Hallowe'en. We received less and less visitors. With younger kids making their rounds in the safer, daylight hours, the festivities began to trail off by nightfall. We stopped dragging out the box of decorations and, eventually, my wife sold the vintage stuff on eBay.

In 2010, we traveled to Disneyland to rekindle our love of Hallowe'en. Like giddy, rejuvenated children, we attended Mickey's Hallowe'en Party, a separately-ticketed event that converts the Magic Kingdom into a (not-so-scary) Hallowe'en Wonderland. My wife, my son and myself — three adults — had a blast wandering the darkened trails, interacting with costumed characters and other guest and receiving a huge amount of candy. We enjoyed ourselves so much, we went back the following year.

But Hallowe'en at home sucked. Few houses decorate. Few kids trick-or-treat... and those that do, don't even have the courtesy to put on a costume. ("What are you supposed to be?" "I'm a kid that just got off the school bus. Give me a goddamn Reeses Cup.")

Last year, we locked the door, turned off the porch light and ate the candy we bought to give out. This year, we're going to Las Vegas and I'm putting a "Go Fuck Yourself" sign on my front door.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

Knotted, polka-dotted, twisted, beaded, braided

Sometime during the course of 2005, I decided to start coloring my hair. My natural medium brown was now giving way to some gray. And then some more gray. So, after a few threats, I went ahead and took the plunge. I dyed my hair jet black. I went to work the next day and, while dispensing a cup of coffee for myself in the company cafeteria, a co-worker sidled in close to me and asked: "Did you dye your hair?"

With the blankest of expressions on my face, I replied, "Um, yesterday my hair was brown. What do you think?"

And so began a new era in sarcasm from ol' Josh Pincus.

On my next haircut appointment I made the decision to go red. Not just any red. A unique red. The most unnaturally fake red you've ever seen. This is special-order red that no one else requests, save for the occasional circus clown. A red that called for a distinctive set of comebacks to be dispersed whenever I was asked about the color of my hair. I created a mental inventory of sass with an internal filing system, triggered by key words used by the overly curious who don't know how to mind their own fucking business.

I color my hair to stand out; to give an impression and to be remembered. "Hey, y'know that guy with the red hair?" is quite common at my place of employment and everyone knows that the reference is to me. But, there are tactful ways of delivering an inquiry without stating the obvious ("Gee, your hair is really red!") or becoming insulting ("What's up with the hair, dude?"). This is where sarcasm becomes a faux ginger's secret weapon.

One of the first victims of my arsenal of snide retorts was actor Ernie Hudson. Among his many film roles, Ernie is best known as "Winston Zeddemore," the Ghostbuster who wasn't Bill Murray or Dan Aykroyd. Ernie was one of a few dozen celebrities signing autographs at a horror film convention that I attended. I stood in a fairly long line as Mr. Hudson, clad in his familiar tan ghostbusting jumpsuit, greeted fans and posed for pictures. Soon, I arrived at the front of the queue. I smiled and shook Ernie's hand and told him that I was a big fan of Ghostbusters. (I wasn't. I actually hate that movie.) Ernie studied my recently tinted coiffure and said, "Is that your real hair color?" Quickly, I looked Ernie straight in the eye and answered, "No, it's a side effect of chemotherapy." Ernie gulped and offered an apologetic smile coupled with a nervous laugh.

"Nah, I'm just fucking with you, Ernie.," I said, as I laughed right back at him. He looked relieved, shook my hand, and realized that he was just the victim of a gruesome joke. He posed for a photo and called me a jerk as we parted company. He was a good sport.

Recently, my wife and I ate at a local diner. After taking our order, the overly friendly waitress giggled and asked me, "Is that your natural hair color?"

"This?," I began, pointing to my head and gearing up to unleash a biting zinger, "This is no one's natural hair color." 

Caught off-guard, she stumbled over her next few sentences, trying to justify her question, but not making any sense at all. "Just bring me my pancakes, sister.," I thought to myself, "You're lucky I've retired the cancer remark."

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

turn the page

This afternoon, Mrs. Pincus and I went to the supermarket. It was not the market that we regularly go to, but it is in the neighborhood. The configuration of this particular market was not well thought out when it was in the planning stage. There is a narrower-than-usual buffer aisle that separates the checkout area from the rest of the store. For some reason, the store was very busy and the amount of customers wishing to check out caused a bottleneck in the buffer aisle. With full shopping carts pointed every which way, gridlock was occurring every few feet. No one wanted to give up an inch, in fear that their place in line would be compromised. The situation was not good. Not good at all.

Suddenly, a rather large man came barreling out of a grocery aisle. He was pushing a wheeled walker, the kind with a padded seat across the front. And he was pushing that thing faster than someone who requires a walker should have been. As he moved, his head was down and he repeatedly hollered "Excuse me!," although he was not allowing enough courtesy time for anyone to clear out of his way. He literally plowed through the crowd, bumping into and spinning shopping carts. Several shoppers were physically shoved aside by the man as he cut a path into the group.

My wife and I finally made our way to the self-checkout area, rang up and paid for our groceries and exited the store. Just outside, we saw the man sitting on the seat of his walker. He was enjoying a cigarette. I suppose he was just in a rush to contract cancer.

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they're feedin' our people that government cheese

Let me start out by saying I'm not going to vote, so fuck you.

But, if I were to vote, it would be for Barack Obama. Why? Not because of his political promises or his vision for the country or his plans for the economy. He's probably full of shit, just like every politician before him. (I think that's a prerequisite for becoming a politician.) But, I would vote for him simply because he seems like a nice guy. A real guy. Like a guy you'd like to be your neighbor. Running into him at the supermarket. Your kids playing with his kids. Out on a Saturday afternoon, mowing his lawn. Y'know... just a guy. I think the average American looks at Barack Obama and thinks, "Yeah, I can relate to him."

But, Mitt Romney?!? Jesus Christ Almighty! Who does he represent? Who can possibly relate to him? That asshole boss that fired you? That prick down at the bank that declined your loan application? The car salesman who smugly snickers when you are checking the stickers on a Mercedes, then gently steers you towards the Fords while he's rolling his eyes? You're damn right! That's who Mitt Romney is. He's that guy you innocently start chatting with at a cousin's wedding cocktail hour and find out that he's a filthy rich, out-of-touch, never-worked-a-day-in-his-life, patronizing, elitist little fuck who, when the band starts playing, dances like a stiff-jointed white guy.

One question should be asked at the Presidential Debate and you'd make up your mind in fifteen seconds. Get the two candidates up on the stage and ask just one question — "You're at work and your wife calls and asks you to pick up a loaf of bread on your way home. How much is that gonna cost you?" I will bet that Mitt Romney hasn't a clue how much a loaf of bread costs. Barack Obama? The guy went to a PETCO with his dog! His wife shops for laundry detergent at Target, for crissakes! He goes on vacation and takes his daughters out for ice cream. Mitt Romney probably sends some domestic out to buy ice cream and says, "Here's seven hundred dollars. That should cover it, right? Make sure you get vanilla."

So, all you people who, after the debacle that was the 2000 Presidential election, still think your vote determines who becomes president — good for you. I think that's adorable. I don't really care who becomes president, but I do hope he's not an embarrassment.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com 

the party's just begun, we'll let you in

Aunt Nancy is awesome! In the thirty years since I was introduced to her, I have known her to be devoted to her friends and family (even family-by-marriage). She is a hard worker, reliable and dedicated to her employer. She is quiet and reserved. And, she is one of the nicest, sweetest, even-tempered people I have ever met. I don't think I have ever witnessed Aunt Nancy raise her voice. She has always greeted me with a smile and always seems to be happy. On the rare occasion that she has uttered a cross word, it was in reference to a rude store clerk or a bad driver.

One by one, Aunt Nancy's three children grew up and moved out of the house, into lives of their own. Nancy's youngest daughter married and made her a first-time grandmother. Nancy's eldest daughter will marry this weekend. Sadly, Aunt Nancy's beloved husband of many years passed away in 2008. But despite that and a few health issues, Nancy has remained strong and determined and has maintained her cheerful demeanor. And I recently discovered the source of Aunt Nancy's strength. Aunt Nancy loves her some KISS.

Last year, at a family dinner at my in-law's house, Aunt Nancy revealed her affinity for the pop-metal masters of makeup and mayhem. She told us, with the bubbly giddiness of a teenager, of her experience at a KISS show that she attended. We were dumbfounded yet amused. My wife and I tried to imagine the usually-reserved Aunt Nancy thrashing about, arms extended above her head, fingers bent into rock and roll "devil horns," squealing with delight as bassist Gene Simmons — "The Demon" — exhaled fire and spewed blood over the frenzied rabid throng. Aunt Nancy! In that crowd! Unimaginable! Still, Aunt Nancy enthusiastically related every detail of the concert, from the dazzling pyrotechnics to the spectacular lasers to the special stage-side section reserved for Rascal scooters (the demographics of the KISS fan base have skewed considerably over the course of their five-decade career).

We have since learned that Aunt Nancy has notched another decidedly unNancy-like concert under her belt — Aerosmith. Although she dismissed the warm-up band as "a bunch of loud no talents I never heard of" (it was Cheap Trick), she was delighted by the geriatric version of Boston's one-time rock darlings. Aunt Nancy passionately described the stage antics of sinewy vocalist Steven Tyler, fresh off his stint as judge on.... whatever that show he was a judge on.

But, it's KISS that is the true apple of Aunt Nancy's eye and the best was yet to come for her.

Last Friday, the leather-clad painted purveyors of lightweight heavy metal brought their "The Tour" Tour to Camden's Susquehanna Bank Center (or whatever they're calling it this week). Susquehanna Bank Center (or SBC, as it wants to be known) is one of the most poorly laid-out concert venues I've ever seen. Built primarily for summer festivals and hosting big name draws in months when the weather is nice, SBC is comprised of a semi-circular building ("It looks like a big Bose radio.," observed my wife) that houses the large performance stage, which is easily viewed by those lucky enough to have purchased tickets for actual seats. Those opting for other viewing alternatives are relegated to the massive sloped lawn situated behind the building. The stage is (barely) visible through large square openings at the rear of the building and via dim images projected on off-white brick inlays just below the main building's roof (once the sun goes down, that is). Adding to the displeasure, the lawn is accessible by a network of steep, narrow, winding staircases, each landing lined with ridiculously overpriced concession stands. But, Aunt Nancy would have none of the "concert-going-for-the-masses" nonsense. No, no, no. An ecstatic Aunt Nancy had pre-purchased her exclusive "VIP Meet & Greet" experience tickets and arrived at the venue ready to meet up with her on-site VIP host. The VIP Super Deluxe Once-in-a-Lifetime Soundcheck and Meet & Greet Experience Package includes: One reserved ticket located in the first 10 rows of the stage, Exclusive Meet & Greet with KISS, Personal Photograph with KISS, Autograph Session with KISS, Exclusive access to KISS's preshow Soundcheck, Specially Designed KISS Tour Shirt, Custom Designed 18k gold plated KISS Ring, a set of Official KISS Guitar Picks (with custom case), Official Meet & Greet Laminate, Commemorative VIP Ticket, Crowd- free merchandise shopping and the aforementioned host— all at a cost of a mere $1250. No, I didn't forget a decimal point. I'll spell it out, so there's no mistake — one thousand two-hundred and fifty George Washington dollars. I think that was the amount of the last installment of my son's monthly college tuition payment. Maybe a little less. But, it was worth every last penny to Aunt Nancy and, Goddamnit!, she deserved it.

Aunt Nancy began making her way to the designated meeting area to be ushered in for her great KISS encounter. Due to recent surgery, Aunt Nancy uses a cane when walking. As she negotiated an uneven walkway, Aunt Nancy tripped on an errant rental chair and fell flat on her face. Her glasses were smashed and pushed into her forehead where they tore a large gash. Attentive medical staff arrived at the scene quickly. They began to wipe away debris and clean up the blood now flowing profusely from the wound. The EMTs insisted on taking Nancy to a facility better equipped to handle such a serious injury, but she would hear nothing of it.

"I have to meet my group for the Meet & Greet!," Aunt Nancy protested, "I am not going to miss it!"

The workers managed to clean and dress the injury, instructing Aunt Nancy to apply pressure with the wet cloth they supplied. After the briefest of recovery time, Nancy got back on her feet and the medical crew carefully led her to the Meet & Greet entrance.

"No!," Nancy asserted, "Not here! This is the Motley Crüe line! I paid to see KISS!"

The startled workers guided Aunt Nancy over to the correct entrance. By this time, the small exclusive group had filed in to the meeting area. Aunt Nancy took the one seat that was available, right next to the imposing Gene Simmons. Gene's attention was instantly drawn to poor Aunt Nancy, a coldpak pressed to her bandaged head.

"Oh my God!," the bassist gasped, "What happened to you?" His concern seemed genuine.

Aunt Nancy explained the details of her mishap, trying her best to remain serious, but was losing out to her excitement. She had dreamed of this moment, but not exactly in this way.

As part of the VIP experiences, attendees were permitted to bring two items to have personally autographed by the band. (The 2012 version of KISS includes original members Gene Simmons, rhythm guitarist Paul Stanley and two other guys who replaced founding members Peter Criss and Ace Frehley some time ago. But, under a thick layer of theatrical makeup, what difference does it make?) Aunt Nancy happily presented her aluminum cane to the band for an inscription. Gone are the glory days of nubile, young ladies pulling down the skimpy necklines of their tops for a signature scribbled across their breasts. A smiling 60-year-old with a piece of orthopedic equipment is the best the band can hope for at this point in their career. Aunt Nancy was reminded that she was entitled to another autograph. She rummaged through her purse and produced a blank letterhead from her current place of employment — a Jewish elementary school (where, years ago, she was the assistant in my son's classroom). The letterhead, emblazoned with a logo proudly proclaiming the school's Jewish heritage, was examined by Mr. Simmons, after which he turned to Aunt Nancy and, noting the appropriate time of year, wished her a solemn "L'Shana Tovah!," the traditional salutation for Rosh Hashana, the Jewish New Year. (Gene Simmons was born Chaim Weitz in Haifa, Israel. His mother, Florence, is a Holocaust survivor.) Gene turned to a KISS crew member and explained "I just wished her 'Happy Jewish New Year'", then whispered confidentially to Aunt Nancy, "They don't know! They're goyim." (A playfully derogatory term that Jews call non-Jews.) Then, Aunt Nancy posed for a picture with the band. The grin on her face is so wide, she looks as though she will burst!

Aunt Nancy dutifully reported to work on Monday. She stood at the front of the classroom of youngsters, as she had done thousands of Mondays before. To them, she is "Mrs. K.," but, how many of those kids know how cool Aunt Nancy really is?

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

brother, can you spare a dime?

Today, on my way to the train station, I saw a homeless guy, sitting on the sidewalk, leaning against a newspaper box. He was eating something out of a Starbucks take-out bag.

While I consider myself a charitable person, as a rule, I don't give money to people on the street. I can't afford to support their Starbucks habit.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

I don't care if I never get back

Mrs. Pincus and I have been Phillies season ticket owners for seventeen seasons. We love baseball. We have attended games at many ballparks across the country. We've marveled at the artifacts and memorabilia at the Baseball Hall of Fame in Cooperstown, NY. We've even visited the graves of baseball greats Babe Ruth and Lou Gehrig, as well as beloved Phillies broadcasters Richie Ashburn and Harry Kalas.

As I write this, the post-season fate of the Philadelphia Phillies hangs in the balance. Devoted Phillies fans have become spoiled over the past five seasons, as we have enjoyed watching "The Fightin's" repeatedly compete in the elusive playoff series. This year, however, is a different story. Plagued by injuries, lost opportunities and just poor performance, the final week of the regular season sees the Phils teetering on the edge between glory and being an also-ran. The team's on-field antics have been difficult to watch as they blew early leads and committed error after costly error. While a trip to the ballpark on a beautiful summer afternoon is refreshing and relaxing, witnessing shitty baseball is a real buzz-kill. Mrs. P's buzz-kill happened sometime in June.

Our seats are fifteen rows from the field, situated on the "foul side" of the foul pole that rises out of the left-field corner of beautiful Citizens Bank Park, in a section comprised mostly of other season ticket holders. We are in seat numbers 5 and 6. Seats 1 through 4, we have come to understand, belong to some corporate entity that offers the tickets to various people — employees, customers, employees' families, customer's families — throughout the season. I can't remember the same group occupying those seats for two consecutive weeks. For some games, they aren't occupied at all.

So, last Sunday, we found ourselves at our last home game of the 2012 season. It was a lovely pre-autumn day and we were prepared to see the Phillies take one last stab at the Atlanta Braves as they limped their way towards a potential victory that seemed much more than nine innings away. My wife had lost interest. She had already written this year off and looked to the clean slate of Opening Day 2013, when all teams are in first place. At this point, the 2012 season had become a social event for her. She eagerly awaited the conversation she shared with the wives in the two couples who sit in the row directly behind us — couples we have known since our seats were located in the now-demolished Veterans Stadium, the former home of the Phillies. The three ladies' conversation touches on issues about family, vacations, restaurants and other decidedly unbaseball topics. 

On this partciular day, Seats 3 and 4 in our row were taken by an older couple who we had never seen before. They were dressed as though they had just stepped off the set of The Philadelphia Story, a 1940s comedic romp through stuffy high society. I've seen a lot of unusual get-ups at baseball games (fright wigs, face painters, this guy), but argyle sweaters and Katherine Hepburn-style headwraps are more often seen on the campus of Swarthmore College than in the company of shin guards and rosin bags.

Cliff Lee took to the mound and, with the delivery of the first pitch, the game was on. And the conversation began. My wife rotated slightly in her seat and the three women chatted about baking, delving deeply and thoroughly into individual ingredients and their possible substitutions in various recipes. They discussed theories of royal icing and fondant, debated various refinements of confectioner's sugar and weighed the pros and cons of buttercream. The gentleman seated to my wife's immediate right was fuming. He glared repeatedly in her direction, silently expressing his annoyance with facial contortions. He was not pleased with this non-baseball discussion. Not one bit. Sporadically, he would clap his hands with exaggerated enthusiasm and whistle, then sit quietly and stew. He would try to break up the talk with yells of "Way to go, Jimmy!" or "Yeah, Cliff!", usually during field activity in which shortstop Jimmy Rollins and pitcher Cliff Lee were not involved. The conversation lasted until the fifth inning of an extremely lackluster game. It was then Mrs. P decided to check out the offerings at the temporary merchandise tent set up on the other side of the ballpark. (With the season winding down and the prospects of post-season slipping away, The Phillies were unloading logoed items at discount prices.) If there's one thing my spouse enjoys more than a boring baseball game, it's shopping. So, off she went — to the obvious delight of the occupant of Row 15, Seat 4.

In the eighth inning, my wife returned to our seats. She excused herself past the annoyed fan in our row and began to tell of the treasure trove of Phillies novelties that she purchased. As the reigning "nicest person on the face of the earth," she bought sparkly, official Phillies-emblazoned flip-flops for the two women behind us. They thanked her and the conversation picked up where it had left off. Agitated that his three innings of uninterrupted baseball enjoyment had ended, the argyled and bespectacled gentlemen grabbed his wife's arm and made a hurried and exasperated exit.

Oh, and the Phillies lost 2-1.

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