ain't that mr. mister

You know what I hate?

Okay. Okay. I know. I know. That list can get pretty long and I'd probably have you here all day. What I meant to say was: you know what occurred to me that I hate? Being called "Mister Josh." I actually don't care for "Mr. Pincus," but I understand that sometimes it's unavoidable, like when it's your turn at the doctor's office and the assistant sticks her head out into the waiting room and calls your name. Or when you're being addressed by an overly polite solicitor on the phone. Or — worse — when you think you're being cool and one of your son's friends says, "Good one, Mr. Pincus!" I usually tell them to call me "Josh," explaining that "Mr. Pincus" was my father. That's usually met with a forced chuckle and "Another good one, Mr. Pincus!" (I went to a concert to see a band with whom my son is pretty close. After the show, my boy introduced me to the band's guitarist. I congratulated him on the great performance and he shyly replied "Thank you, Mr. Pincus, " as though I just watched him in an eighth-grade Christmas pageant.)

A few years ago, a new co-worker was introduced to me on her first day. It was pretty obvious that this young lady was considerably younger than I am. I was probably old enough to be her father. Nevertheless, I smiled and shook her hand and she was escorted away to be presented to the next new colleague. Several days later, I had some interaction with my new co-worker. At the end of our work-related exchange, her parting words were: "Okay. Thanks, Mr. Josh." Those words shot up and down my spine like ice water. I quickly (and firmly... maybe too firmly) responded. "Please." I began, "You can just call me 'Josh.' Please don't call me 'Mr. Josh.' I'm not your mother's new boyfriend." She squirmed a little, returned an awkward grin and sort-of slunk away. Okay. Maybe that last part was uncalled for.

Remember those telephone solicitors I mentioned earlier? Well, they started calling me "Mr. Josh," too. I will sometimes answer my phone even though I don't recognize the suspicious number displayed on the caller ID. I offer a hesitant "hello?" into the receiver and am immediately greeted with a "Hello, Mr. Josh!" delivered in a vague, unidentifiable foreign accent. That makes me shudder. I have now decided that no matter what this guy is selling, proposing or pitching — I ain't interested. He turned me off within the first three words.

Recently, I went to the bank, something I have not done in years. Since I pay all of my bills online and my paychecks are automatically deposited electronically through my employer, I have no need to go to an actual bank. But, just this week, for reasons that are far too mundane to explain, I had to go to the bank. I had a day off from work and I was looking for something to do. At a little before 10 AM, I pulled into the parking lot and wandered in to an empty bank. Obviously, I'm not the only one who no longer goes to the bank. Two tellers were standing silently behind the high counter. As I approached, they both turned, smiled and asked, in unison, if they could help me. Being lazy, I chose the one closest to me. The further-away teller looked dejected as she turned her attention back to the busywork she was doing. I handed my check to be deposited to the young man on the other side of the counter. He confirmed that I was making a deposit. (I suppose the words "FOR DEPOSIT ONLY" in giant capital letters scrawled across the reverse of the check gave him his first clue.) I nodded in the affirmative. He tapped some buttons on some machinery that was out of my line of vision. I heard the whirrrrrr of a printer and the guy handed me a small receipt. Then, as I was folding the receipt into my wallet, he spoke. He spoke those words. Those jarring, cringe-inducing words.

"Anything else I can do for you, Mr. Josh?"

I glared at him and just said, "No." I should have said, "Yes. Don't call me 'Mr. Josh.' And tell everybody else in the world the same thing." But I suppose that would have been asking too much.

...or you can call me 'RJ' or
you can call me 'JJ'...

There used to be a comedian named Billy Saluga. He was popular in the 70s for a character that he created — a cigar-smoking, zoot suit-wearing, loud-mouthed gentleman called "Raymond J. Johnson, Jr." Saluga appeared on a lot of talk and variety shows doing his "Raymond J. Johnson, Jr." shtick. If you are not familiar with (or are too young to remember) his act, it went like this. He would introduce himself with his full name and someone would call him "Mr. Johnson." He would get flustered and explain "You can call me 'Ray' or you can call me 'Jay' or you can call me 'Johnny' or you can call me 'Sonny.' He would proceed to delineate every possible configuration of his lengthy moniker, ultimate ending with: "But ya doesn't hasta call me 'Johnson.' "

I laughed at Saluga's antics back then, but, after all these years, I finally understand his pain.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

people gonna talk

Well, it's December and winter has hit the Philadelphia area. On most mornings, I will wait for my train out on the open-air platform. On days that begin with temperatures in the low 20s, I reluctantly opt for the warmth that the small ticket office offers. I say "reluctantly" because I really have to weigh the situation. Sure, I don't want to stand out in the cold and freeze my ass off, but do I really want to subject myself to what goes on inside the ticket office?

The office (which is only open Monday through Friday from 5:45 a.m. until 11:45 a.m. — and not a minute past!), is tiny, cramped and in desperate need of a good refurbishing. It is a sad, nondescript room with high ceilings, dated, cracked linoleum floor tiles and dingy cream-colored walls. Two adjacent walls have wooden, slat-backed benches that can accommodate three people, if they are courteous enough to occupy their allotted space. Otherwise, those taking refuge in the ticket office are relegated to standing around, scattered haphazardly like prisoners in the exercise yard. The ticket agent — a gray-haired woman in a heavy fleece pullover (no matter what the weather) — sits in a separate little area behind a half-wall of glass. Small as it is, it seems to have been outfitted with all the comforts of home — a microwave and toaster oven, a radio, a small television, three wall calendars, two clocks that display different times and a plethora of snacks all neatly stacked on top of a filing cabinet that looks as though it has not been opened in decades. On cold weather days, such as today, the waiting area inside the ticket office can get pretty crowded, putting standing space at a premium. Most people wait quietly, rubbing their gloved hands together to generate heat. Others, though, choose to loudly engage their fellow commuters in some inane chit-chatty conversation.

Conversation one:

Commuter 1: It sure is cold this morning.
Commuter 2: Yeah, it sure is.
Commuter 1: My office at work is always cold, too. Summer. Winter It's always cold.
Commuter 2: Mine is always hot. All the time.
Commuter 1: Yeah. I guess it's always one or the other.

Conversation two:

Commuter 3: Oh! So, how are you?
Commuter 4: I'm good. How is Jacob?
Commuter 3: Jacob is at college in New York. How is Jacob?
Commuter 4: Jacob is good. Jacob has a new job.

Conversation three:

Commuter 5: Did you park your car in the lot?
Commuter 6: No, they're vicious in that lot. If you have a new car, it will get scratched in that lot.
Commuter 5: I don't have a new car.

Conversation four:

Commuter 7: Is the next train to Jefferson Station on time?
Ticket Agent: I think so. I'm not sure.
Commuter 7: Well, is it reported late?
Ticket Agent: I'm not sure.
Commuter 7: Don't you get some kind of report or notice?
Ticket Agent: No, not really.
Commuter 7: Aren't you in contact with someone somewhere?
Ticket Agent: Not really.
Commuter 7: So, you don't know when the train is coming?
Ticket Agent: Well, you can check the schedule.

Since the trains are usually late (my train has not been on time in ten years), the amount of time spent standing that close to this mindless, thoughtless, nonsensical rambling can wear on one's nerves. So, I have to decide which is worse: listening to this relentless blather or risk frostbite before the train arrives.

After a few minutes, I always make the same decision. I weave my way through the close crowd and brave the cold.

***** ***** ***** ***** *****

My annual Christmas music compilation is available as a 
FREE DOWNLOAD 
at ge.tt or jumpshare.com for a limited time.

This year, it’s a whopping 71 minutes worth of Christmas cacophony that’s sure to ruin your holiday celebration within seconds. You get two dozen eclectic Christmas selections plus a custom full-color cover with track listings – all for you and all for FREE! (That’s right! FREE!) 

   

(Please contact me if you have trouble with the download.)

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

gotta serve somebody

Mrs. Pincus came across two Macy's gift cards in her wallet. My first reaction to this discovery was: "Who the fuck still shops at Macy's?" (I sort of answered this question around this time last year.) Well, we were about to find out, because after dinner last night, we decided to take a quick run up to the Macy's at Willow Grove Mall to use them.

Despite its close proximity to our house and the frequency in which I find myself in the surrounding area, I have not been inside Willow Grove Mall in years. Now considering it is eighteen days before Christmas, we easily found a parking space in the multi-level parking structure. We drove through level after empty level until we had our pick of spots near the Macy's entrance. Macy's was packed with merchandise, but not so much with shoppers. We headed straight for the kitchenware department, where Mrs. P could pick up a few small items to use as gifts or to possibly make a quick turnaround on eBay. The escalator, which cuts vertically right through the center of the store gave us a panoramic view of all three floors... and there were maybe a dozen potential customers roaming aimlessly around the aisles. Maybe less.

Mrs. P perused the shelves of the kitchen department and settled in front of a display of mini waffle irons. Mrs. P calculated the value of the gift cards and piled my open arms high with twelve little boxes, selecting different colors where available. I carefully balanced the boxes and made it to the cashier without dropping a single one.

Somewhere along the way, though, we must have entered into The Twilight Zone.

Troublemaker.

The large cashier desk was staffed by two older women each standing behind a small computer monitor. One woman, Marie, was helping a young lady who was arranging and rearranging a stack of toddler outfits on the counter. I swear Marie was moving in slow motion. She picked up each item, examining and admiring it before scanning the price tag. Janine, the other cashier, was resting her chin in her hand. Her elbow propped against the top of her monitor. Her eyes were half shut. I approached Janine. "Hi.," I said as I plopped my collection of boxed waffle irons on the counter. Janine did not return my greeting. In slow motion, she began to stack the boxes in a different arrangement. My wife told her that she had a gift card. Janine offered no acknowledgement. She didn't care. She scanned the first box at a painfully slow speed. If she was any slower, she would not have been moving at all. If they would have brought a mannequin over to process this sale, it would have been quicker. After Janine scanned three of the twelve boxes, she fumbled around under the counter and eventually came up with a large plastic bag. She meticulously placed two boxes in the bag and it ripped right down a seam. Janine emitted a disgusted sigh and muttered something that sounded like a complaint. She slowly removed the two boxes from the torn bag. She gathered up the defective bag into a large balled and searched for a trash can. She discarded the bag, reached for a fresh one and started the whole tedious process over again... and she still had nine more boxes to ring up. Midway through the remaining boxes, Janine stopped to have a brief conversation with another sales associate who walked past the cashier desk on the opposite side from where we stood. She also stopped to to comment on the toddler outfits that were still being rung up my Marie. Marie, of course, chuckled and commented as well. Mrs. P and I covertly exchanged glances. Was this really happening? Were we both asleep and having the same surreal dream?

Finally — finally — we were finished. The waffle irons were rung up, bagged and now, I was carrying them away from the cashier. As we walked away, we heard Janine engaging a co-worker in conversation while another customer stood waiting to make a purchase.

My issue with Macy's, when I ranted in last year's post, was the fact that merchandise was so expensive. Comparable items could be purchased at any number of stores for far less than Macy's was asking. Now that we found merchandise at a reasonable price, the sales clerks could not possibly have been less interested in interacting with customers. As a matter of fact, they behaved as though they would rather have been any where else in the world than working at Macy's. I can't figure out why Macy's even bothers with brick and mortar stores. They could very easily take their business to a fully-online entity. They would only have to maintain warehouses and stock help and not be bothered with sales associates who obviously don't want to be bothered themselves.

***** ***** ***** ***** *****

My annual Christmas music compilation is available as a 
FREE DOWNLOAD 
at ge.tt or jumpshare.com for a limited time.

This year, it’s a whopping 71 minutes worth of Christmas cacophony that’s sure to ruin your holiday celebration within seconds. You get two dozen eclectic Christmas selections plus a custom full-color cover with track listings – all for you and all for FREE! (That’s right! FREE!) 

   

(Please contact me if you have trouble with the download.)

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

freeze frame

There are two things I love: concerts and technology.

I have been going to concerts since I was a teenager, that means, for those of you keeping score, over forty years. I lost count how many shows I've been to. Unlike many of my contemporaries, I do not have every single ticket stub carefully preserved and filed in an intricate, cross-referenced filing system. I just have to rely on my memory and, so far, it has not failed me yet.

I remember taking a Kodak disposable camera to a Queen concert in 1978. In the glow of the stage lighting and from seventeen rows back, I snapped shot after shot of Freddie Mercury, pirouetting like a choreographed top across the stage. When I had the photos developed, I was disappointed in my photography skills when I viewed a stack of out-of-focus figures in washed out browns, reds and greens.

Years later, as technology advanced and improved, cameras got smaller and better. Now, I had a camera that was lightweight and could take thousands of pictures on a tiny storage disk. Plus, I was now able to shoot video, so I could watch my favorite bands perform my favorite songs over and over again. Thanks to the miracle of the internet, I could share my pictures and videos with the entire world. Of course, everyone in the world wanted to — no, needed to — see my pictures!

The last picture I took at a concert
and the band wasn't even on stage yet.

Now, I was going to concerts and staking out a prime spot stage side so I could record live versions of my favorite songs. I watched bands — bands I really wanted to see live — perform through a three inch by two inch screen. Then, when I got home, I watched my grainy video on my computer screen. Just hours earlier, I could have seen the actual band if I had just lowered my stupid camera. Soon, I wasn't even watching the videos anymore. It took me a while — too long of a while — to really get the absurdity of this situation.

I have since given up recording songs at concerts, Although the videos still remain on the internet, I removed the YouTube link from my website because I'm not posting anything new. Now, I just take one or two pictures on my cellphone during the first song and put my phone in my pocket for the rest of the show. I am enjoying concerts once again  — the way I used to.

If only I could get other people to put their phones away, too. They'd see what they are missing.

***** ***** ***** ***** *****

My annual Christmas music compilation is available as a 
FREE DOWNLOAD
at ge.tt or jumpshare.com for a limited time.

This year, it’s a whopping 71 minutes worth of Christmas cacophony that’s sure to ruin your holiday celebration within seconds. You get two dozen eclectic Christmas selections plus a custom full-color cover with track listings – all for you and all for FREE! (That’s right! FREE!) 

  

(Please contact me if you have trouble with the download.)

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

life's no fun without a good scare

I have always been a horror fan. The problem with the current trend in horror is it's too stupid and formulaic. What happened to good writing and clever plot twists? Now it's all jump scares and gory images for the sake of exhibiting someone's special effects skills. Where is the stylized framing of Silence of the Lambs? Where is the suspenseful storytelling of Psycho? Even the original slasher films like Halloween, A Nightmare on Elm Street and even Friday the 13th had well-conceived back stories before they were milked dry by four hundred inane sequels.

Submitted for your approval.

Since movies were disappointing, I turned to television and there was plenty of promise. When I was in elementary school, I was permitted to stay up to watch the NBC horror anthology Night Gallery hosted by Rod Serling. It was my favorite show (at the time) offering short vignettes featuring a roster of popular television actors in roles outside of their comfort level. Then I discovered reruns of Rod's earlier show, the venerable Twilight Zone. I also watched The Outer Limits, Alfred Hitchcock Presents and Thriller. All of these pretty much followed the same formula — some better some worse — but all satisfied my horror cravings... for the most part. I even enjoyed the 80s revival of The Twilight Zone as well as the theatrical film.

More recently, my television series watching habits have been limited to the unlikely pairing of HBO's brutal and gritty gangster saga Boardwalk Empire and the mindless teen fluff of Nickelodeon's iCarly. Now that both of those series are out of production, I watch whatever is on, rarely going out of my way to catch a "must-see" program.

I saw early ads for a new series on Fox's cutting edge FX network called American Horror Story. It presented a clever concept for an anthology — a core group of performers and a single story per season, with the same group taking on different roles in a different story in subsequent seasons. The initial reception was positive and the show proved popular... no thanks to me, as I never watched. It wasn't until season four that I decided to give it a shot.

May I take this opportunity to acknowledge that I'm in the minority, but, give me my two minutes to bitch.

I settled in on that early October evening in 2014 to see for myself what all the buzz was about. As the opening scenes of American Horror Story: Freak Show began, I waited to be impressed... and to experience the thrill of being scared. A little over an hour later, I was bored, disappointed and a little annoyed. I found that the show relied too much on "looking cool," with its atmospheric shots, grainy filters and stark, creepy-on-purpose sets, and not enough time was devoted to story development. I thought the acting was stilted and not at all compelling. Even multi-award-winning actress Jessica Lange could hold my interest, especially when she delivered a cover of the 1971 Bowie classic "Life on Mars," as the anachronistic episode finale of a story set in 1952. I snapped off the TV and vowed never to watch this mess again.

Well, after skipping an entire season, I decided to give American Horror Story another chance. My son came over and we binge-watched the first two episodes of season six. The series had abandoned its standard TV drama format in favor of the premise of a reality show, complete with in-studio, after-the-fact interviews and reenactments. It was sort of a show within a show within a show with actors playing actors playing real people. I was interested. I found myself enjoying the tale as it unfolded. It was a unique take on the storytelling. I was hooked. Reluctant, but hooked just the same. I watched the next episode in its regular time slot. Three episodes in and I was still enjoying it. My son, however, warned me. He told me that series creator Ryan Murphy has this uncanny knack for losing interest in his shows as they progress. He tends to go in several different directions, never fully resolving all aspects of all storylines.

Sure enough, that observation was spot on

In the following weeks, American Horror Story: Roanoke became a veritable shit show. But I watched. I was committed. I was going to see this fiasco out until the bitter end. Characters were introduced and killed. Characters were introduced and forgotten. And the characters that we got to see on every episode were cartoonish, one-dimensional sketches only serving as a bag full of theatrical blood, ready to explode when the time was right... or not right... or whenever. The series morphed into a shrill, sprawling, mindless, contradicting, aimless mish-mash that I wanted to end. And soon. By episode eight (of a ten episode series), I just wanted it to be done. It became a chore to watch. I counted the minutes until it was over, like I was taking a test in high school. I began recording the episodes, so I could fast-forward through commercials, shortening my time spent watching this shambles. At last, the final episode was broadcast. I watched, emotionless. Numbed. Disinterested. And 41 minutes later, thanks to 4x fast-forward, it was done. I didn't care what happened to any of the characters  — which ones were alive, which were dead, which were in purgatory, which were.... whatever.

This time, I swear, I will never watch that series again.

Now, I'm sure there's a Twilight Zone rerun that needs watching.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

everybody's a good dog

I knew Shaun Fleming before I actually knew Shaun Fleming.

Jim and Tim (or is it Tim and Jim?)

When my son was younger, we loved watching cartoons together. I remember, three days before his fourth birthday, we planted ourselves in front of the television to watch the first glimpses of what would blossom into the phenomenon called "Nicktoons" on the hip kid-oriented Nickelodeon Network. My long-time love of animated entertainment was rubbing off on my boy and I couldn't have been happier. I introduced him to some of my childhood favorites, like Underdog and Hoppity Hooper. Together, we watched some of the newer offerings, like Doug, Rugrats and, much to my wife's chagrin, Ren and Stimpy. Nick's cross-cable rivals, The Disney Channel, wanted in on this animation thing. Sure, they are the undeniable leaders in the animation field, but breaking into the weekly cartoon thing was new territory. They tested the waters with The Proud Family, the first foray into animation produced specifically for The Disney Channel. They followed that with the action-adventure series Kim Possible. My son and I watched Kim Possible, with its cool, angular styles and pun-infused character names (Ron Stoppable, Will Du and of course, the title heroine herself). Among the many characters introduced during its four-season run were Kim's younger twin brothers, Jim and Tim Possible. The pair, while typical annoying siblings, were brilliant and often helpful in their sister's attempts to overcome evil Dr. Drakken, her nemesis bent on world domination. Jim and Tim were voiced, for most of the series's run, by teenage Shaun Fleming. Shaun had previously given voice to young "Tarzan" in the Disney series based on the full-length animated feature, Goofy's son "Max" in the Mickey's Once Upon a Christmas featurette and "Leonard," the owner of an unusual dog in the Disney/Gary Baseman cartoon Teacher's Pet.

Shaun plants one on E.

My son and I also loved to listen to music together. I would play my old favorites for him and, as the years went on, he would expose me to some of the music that he had discovered. (Coincidentally, he stumbled across Queen, my favorite band in my high school days, without any prompting from me.) At a rapid pace, he immersed himself into all things music, seeking out new and unusual bands, and giving close attention to the most obscure of genres. Eventually, he would take his love for music to career level, landing a dream job as a DJ on a local Philadelphia radio station. Through his connections, in 2014, he met a band called Diane Coffee who had come to the station to promote their new album release Everybody's A Good Dog. E., my son, recognized the exuberant lead singer as the drummer for the indie rock band Foxygen. His name was Shaun Fleming. Yep, that Shaun Fleming.  E. sent me the Diane Coffee album and — without sounding too cliche — I was blown away. I had grown up listening to — and loving — a 70s music genre known as "glam rock." This was the collective label applied to a wide range of artists like T. Rex and, more famously, David Bowie. Diane Coffee was an updated homage to all things glam. Plus, peppered throughout the album's tracks were soulful grooves, torchy vocals and funky horns  — all coming together to form a totally unique, yet totally familiar, sound.

It wasn't until almost a year later that I was able to witness Diane Coffee live and in-person. In the tiny Kung Fu Necktie, a club located under the elevated subway in Philadelphia's revitalized Fishtown neighborhood, Shaun and his band Diane Coffee took the compact stage and gave the crowd a show that was jarring, electrifying and totally captivating. Shaun, his face streaked with glittery, 70s style rock & roll makeup, mugged for the crowd and delivered a multi-faceted performance in a multitude of styles and voices. He poured his soul into his every movement and exuded a joy that was palpable. It is a barometer of a show's success when you can see how much fun the band is having on stage. And Diane Coffee was having a whole lot of fun.

When the set was over, a very sweaty Shaun marched right over to my son and gave him a hug. My boy introduced me to Shaun. As he extended a hand, I gushed like a teenager, telling him what a big fan I was of the new album. He smiled. Then, surprisingly, a look of concern took over his face and he asked me, "Were we okay?" and he gestured towards the stage. "Oh my gosh!," I exclaimed, "You were incredible! How could you doubt your performance?" I was absolutely taken by his earnest and his self-doubt, considering what I had just witnessed. He thanked us for coming and then I got a hug, too.

In the weeks following that show, Shaun and I exchanged pleasantries via Twitter until I got to see the band again when they played the WXPN summer music festival. This time, in the festival atmosphere, he played to an audience unfamiliar with his band. Seeing the name "Diane Coffee," they may have been expecting a small girl in a peasant skirt with braided hair and and an oversize acoustic guitar. Instead they got the second coming of The Sweet (of "Ballroom Blitz" and "Fox on the Run" fame) in all their glam-rock glory. At one o'clock on a sunny Sunday afternoon, Shaun and his bandmates captivated the crowd and, as they say, blew them away. The set, which Shaun and his mates started in faux navy uniforms, quickly morphed, after a surprise costume change, into a full-on spectacle. Once again, after his set, Shaun was gracious and appreciative and just a regular guy.

E. and I got to see Diane Coffee just last week, as their cross-country tour brought them to Philadelphia for a weeknight show. Once again, the place was packed with anxious fans. Just before the band took the stage, my son snaked his way through the dense crowd to say "Hello" to Shaun, who he spotted standing at the side of the stage. When Shaun saw E., he threw his arms around him in, what we have come to know as his standard, warm greeting. Over the ambient crowd noise, I saw E. mouth "There's my Dad" to Shaun and point in my direction. A broad smile reached across Shaun's face and he waved wildly at me. We saw the first five or so songs of Diane Coffee's set (which were terrific), but, due to unforeseen circumstances, were unable to stay until the show's completion. The next day, I saw a tweet from Shaun, thanking his fan base for a wonderful, if lengthy, tour. I replied to Shaun and this was our exchange:

Not yet familiar with Shaun Fleming and Diane Coffee? Well, I can tell you this... he's a really nice guy. 

And a good dog.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

ten, twenty, thirty million dollars ready to be spent

In 1987, The Walt Disney Company began to, literally, print its own currency. For nearly twenty years, various designs and denominations of Disney Dollars have been available for patrons on an "even exchange" basis. In May 2016, Disney announced that they would cease production on Disney Dollars, although they would continue to accept them at their theme parks, hotels and select Disney Stores (meaning not the one you go to). With the convenience of gift cards, the idea of Disney Dollars had run its course. 

However, I maintain, that Disney has been printing their own money for years. Maybe not physically, but figuratively. Their combination of shrewd marketing, exploitation and branding coupled with the captive audience and tourist mentality, has made Disney a veritable money-generating machine.

They are the kings of selling you things you do not need. They excel in convincing you that the prices they place on merchandise and food is reasonable. Granted, most people on vacation (especially the people that Walt Disney World draws) pay very little attention to how much they are spending on a meal, so they will happily for fork over $12 for a hot dog topped with chili. (A chili dog at Sonic costs $1.99, just for comparison). One of my favorite restaurants in a Disney theme park is Redd Rocket's Pizza Port, tucked in a back corner of Tomorrowland in Disneyland. A slice of typical, no-frills, fast-food, no-toppings pizza costs $6.99. I can get an entire pie at a Little Caesar's five minutes from my house for five bucks. A whole pizza at Redd Rocket's is — brace yourself — thirty-three dollars. Go to any of these Disney eateries at dinner time, though. You'll see the lines are long and the place is packed.

Souvenirs is another area where Disney knows just how wide they can open a customer's guest's wallet. My first visit to Walt Disney World was in 1980. I was 19. I purchased a few mementos of my trip — a Mickey Mouse t-shirt, a few pinback buttons. Knowing my limited funds back then, I'm sure I was very careful not to overspend on souvenirs. Of course, in later years, when I was supporting the Disneyana monkey on my back (this one, I mean), I spent money in the gift shops like a drunken pirate on Caribbean shore leave. However, my selections were measured and I was very particular about what was added to my collection. But, Disney was counting on other tourists to spend blindly and without restraint. The fact that no one bats an eye at a $24.99 price tag on a giant faux-velvet Sorcerer Mickey hat shows the effectiveness of Disney's marketing power. After all, there's only one place and one place only you can wear a tall, blue, pointed hat adorned with two enormous mouse ears and not get strange looks. And you're never gonna wear it anywhere else. Ever. When you get home to your normal life and one day it's raining, you're not saying to yourself: "I better grab a hat." and then reach for the two-foot tall, fuzzy, star-spangled head covering to shield you from the downpour. And Disney knows it.

On a summer trip my wife made with her family to Walt Disney World, she bought two water-filled spray bottles, each topped with a small battery-powered fan and embellished with Disney characters, for her nieces, to keep them hydrated during the blistering Florida heat. Those things, available in a non-Disney version for a few dollars, cost $18.00 each. My brother-in-law, fully aware of their price tag (because he wouldn't spring for them for his kids), would not allow his daughters to bring the bottles into the park, for fear they would get lost or damaged. The bottles remained safely in a bag in their hotel room and never saw the light of day since the time of their purchase. As a matter of fact, they haven't been seen since 2012. But, Disney! Disney had a gain of thirty-six dollars for an item that, based on volume, probably cost mere pennies to manufacture.

Look, this is certainly not a knock against Disney. I am a huge fan of the media giant. I admire their creativity, their cleverness and especially their marketing prowess. I marvel at the people who whine and complain about how expensive it is to swing a vacation to Walt Disney World, and then, once they get there, hand over their hard-earned cash with nary a thought. Disney is doing their job and that's answering to their stockholders. It is possible to have fun on a Disney vacation and not come home ready for the poor house. You just have to put a little thought into your planning, stick to a budget, consider purchases with: "Do I really need this?" If you're still moaning about the high prices of admission, food, lodging, and souvenirs... nobody is forcing you to go. Not even Disney. You may think they are, but that's called "marketing."

www.joshpincusiscrying.com