stand back stand back

As the days and weeks of quarantine bear down, people are trying to remain upbeat and optimistic, while coming to the realization that things will be different once the safety limitations are relaxed. Surrounded by the same four walls — day in and day out, thoughts turn to returning to the office, attending a concert or sporting event, even shopping in a store that's not a supermarket. These thoughts can sometimes do wonders to ease a cooped-up mind.

There is something I am looking forward to "on the other side," as they say. 

There are two people in the world — the entire world — that I feel comfortable hugging and kissing. Just two. Considering that the current population of the world is around seven and a half billion people, that is quite an exclusive club. Those two people are, of course, my wife and my son. I don't like to hug and kiss anyone who is not my wife and my son.

We know things will change and previously accepted behavior will be altered by what we are experiencing during our time of "social distancing." When health experts determined that maintaining a distance of at least six feet from another human was essential in keeping the coronavirus at bay, I was ecstatic. When the practice of wearing a face mask was introduced as an additional precaution, it was like a dream come true. I am secretly hoping it will become the new normal when this thing is over.

My wife is a friendly person when it comes to hugging and "cheek-kissing" family and friends and even friends of friends. However, I often find myself awkwardly shuffling my feet and averting my eyes when I know I am next in line after she has exchanged embraces with someone whom I obviously don't want to, which, as we now know, is pretty much everyone. I have hung back near a front door or in a parking lot next to our car, hoping desperately to be able to weasel out of a presumed obligatory hug with someone I don't want to hug. It has nothing to do with my level of like or dislike I have for a particular person. It just makes me uncomfortable. Very uncomfortable. There! I said it! It's not a personal thing. It's a human thing.

So here we are. Still stuck in our homes. Still under quarantine while a heretofore unknown threat ravages our planet. I just remain hopeful that soon — very soon — I will be able to emerge from seclusion, mingle with people and not hug them.

Oh, things will be better.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

behind the mask

I am writing this in the middle of my fifth week of "working from home" as a result of precautions being taken to "flatten the curve"* of the effects of the COVID-19 pandemic. Unfortunately, due to the hands-on nature of my job, there is not a lot of work for me to do at home. I have been on "stand-by" for five weeks. Two weeks ago, I did a reworking of a layout that took me all of an hour. Otherwise I have wandered around the confines of my home during most of this time, going downstairs to the kitchen. Upstairs to the den. Over to the bedroom. Back to the den. Back down to the kitchen. I'm starting to realize that my house isn't as big as I thought it was.

My only respite from "workday" boredom is an afternoon walk with my wife. Mrs. Pincus normally works from home, maintaining her eBay business from a home office on the third floor of our house. (Yeah, I go up there, too... sometimes.) Every afternoon, we set out for a stroll around the block for a little fresh air and exercise. We have been doing this for over a year. My previous job allowed me to be home by 4:30 in the afternoon, but circumstances of my current job — which is an hour's commute — leaves Mrs. P to traverse the sidewalks of Elkins Park alone. I have only been able to join her on weekends — until the majority of the nation's workforce was sent home in the middle of March. Now, I accompany her daily and will do so for as long as this home quarantine lasts.

Rules, suggestions, guidelines and mandates have changed regularly throughout the course of this decidedly uncertain situation. The governor of Pennsylvania, who, like a select number of other state governors, has assumed a position of reassuring authority and calm out of necessity. Regular briefings on current state policy are broadcast on local television and on the state's website offering pertinent information to help and guide the residents of my state through this mess. As would be expected, things change. What was once accepted policy could do a complete one-eighty a day later. Just last week, it was strongly recommended that face masks be worn by all Pennsylvania residents when leaving the house, after initially being told the contrary. Instructions on how to fashion a suitable face mask out of a bandanna are readily available all over the internet. My wife, who has been self-designated as the liaison to the outside world, does the shopping, prescription pick-ups, banking and running of small errands for me and her parents. She is the sole representative of the extended Pincus clan that leaves the house to venture further than the perimeter blocks. Before each trip, she puts a colorful bandanna in place, secured with elastic hair ties encircling each ear. When she returns home, she carefully removes the cloth and drops it in a laundry basket in the basement (yeah, I walk those steps sometimes, too) for later cleaning. Then she proceeds to thoroughly was her hands, humming "Happy Birthday" or what lyrics she can remember from the theme to "The Nanny" as presented in a recent YouTube video featuring Fran Drescher. When we go out walking, I wear one, too.

Since this most recent mandate regarding the wearing of face masks, I am surprised by the amount of people we pass on our walks — from a socially acceptable distance of six feet — that are not wearing them. In reality, I see more people not wearing a mask or some sort of facial covering than those who are. I also see a lot of people not practicing "social distancing" (another of those phrases*), stopping to talk to a neighbor and standing close enough to grab an arm or touch a shoulder. We see folks walking dogs, passing other folks walking dogs, stopping to converse while their pets sniff each others asses — yep! their owners are that close. What is wrong with these people? Oh wait.... I know! We live in a time of "The rules don't apply to me." I know we all hear the same warnings, it's just some people think those warnings are for everyone else. Other people have to follow those rules. They can't possibly mean me! After all, I'm me! My wife tells me she sees the same thing in the supermarket. She has witnessed people closing up the temporary, but clearly-marked, six-foot delineations put on the floor. She has had people reach right across the bridge of her nose to get an item on a shelf. A guy even picked up a pair of sunglasses my wife had dropped, despite her loud pleas of "Please don't touch them," his ungloved hand continuing to wrap around the lenses. Oh, right!  Sorry! You can touch them! I didn't realize it was you!

Look, I don't know how long this pandemic will last and how long we will have to maintain this cautious existence. No one does. I just keep envisioning a post-apocalyptic world as depicted in so many movies. Sinewy hollow-faced men and women roaming the streets in ragged clothes with an appropriated rifle strapped to their backs, collecting scavenged scraps of survival from steaming, picked-over spoils, strewn across the decimated landscape. It's a worrisome image that I hope I never see.

But — goddammit! — those men and women better be wearing masks and keeping their distance.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

* If I may stray from my point for just a second (as I often do), there are certain words and phrases that I have come to loathe as specific hot-button topics trend in the news. Media outlets tend to stick these words and phrases into every report, no matter how applicable it is to the current hot story. Over the years, the constant repetition of words like "Iraqi" during the days of Operation: Desert Storm and "Lewinsky" during the infamous Clinton scandal drove me crazy! More recently, "quid pro quo" was quickly replaced by the current "flatten the curve" — a phrase that is slowly losing its meaning as it is repeated over and over again on a daily basis and repeated by people who just heard it repeated on a news broadcast. 

and I'm never going back to my old school

High school was not a pleasant experience for me. I hated every minute of it and anxiously awaited graduation, knowing I would never have to see those godforsaken hallways and classrooms again.

I got married five years after I graduated from high school, the first of my friends to do so. (Incidentally, I was pegged to be the last of my friends to get married.) A few months after my wedding, I received an invitation (at my parent's address) to my five-year high school reunion. Instead of tossing the invite to the trash, I — surprisingly — held on to it, actually considering attending. This was totally out of character. I hardly kept in touch with any of the few classmates that I considered "friends." But, the more I thought about it, the more I really wanted to go to this reunion. So, I replied in the affirmative and enclosed payment to cover my new bride and myself.

I should have skipped the reunion. I saw a bunch of people that — for four years — I hoped I would never have to see again. The ones who bragged about their accomplishments in high school now bragged (and likely exaggerated) about their accomplishments as members of the working world. C'mon now! Not everyone could possibly be an executive vice-president in charge of something-or-other, could they? My wife, who did not attend my high school, sat for most of the evening and talked to my friend Scott. Scott was an usher at my wedding and Mrs. Pincus had just seen him a few months earlier. I believe they talked about the wedding. At the end of the night, I swore — swore! — I would never go to another high school reunion again.

Around 2005 or so, I received an email from a high-school friend, one whom had been to my wedding, but with whom I didn't stay in regular contact. She told me about this "thing" on the internet called "Facebook." She explained that it was sort of a social interaction website that allowed the exchange of messages and pictures among connections. This was at a time when MySpace was thriving and I was pretty active on MySpace. I didn't see the need to join another social website. I do recall briefly perusing some photos and names from my past and immediately thinking: "This is not for me." But, I must have been curious enough, because I signed up for a Facebook page, although absolutely do not remember doing so. I have a "fan page" on Facebook, to which I contribute regularly. Recently, I must have changed some hidden setting on my personal Facebook page, because I receive friend suggestions on a daily basis. I see names that I haven't thought about in years... decades! Just this week, I received a suggestion to join a Facebook group from my high school graduation class. Like a common stalker, I clicked on the link.

There they were. A collection of names and faces from my past. Representatives of a dark, cringe-inducing time, suddenly released as though I cracked the lid of Pandora's box. The familiar names were accompanied by photos of older, grayer versions of those snotty, loathsome members of my graduation class. The messages all began with: "Remember when we...." and "There was that one time..." There were recent comments about a reunion (the 40th!) that was held in November 2019. Most were shallow sentiments from people whose greatest lifetime experiences occurred between 1975 and 1979. There was even someone suggesting a reunion of those who attended my elementary school. The thought made my skin crawl. I closed that window on my web browser as quickly as I could. 

Look, I know that I am in the overwhelming minority. I know that most people love high school reunions and long to reminisce with classmates about the carefree times of long ago — a time when corporate deadlines and family obligations were non-existent. I know that a lot of people kept life-long friendships and feel very comfortable "living in the past" and lying about their present.

I don't.

I have moved on and don't like looking back. With few exceptions, those that I currently consider friends are folks I have met long after I was handed my high school diploma. High school is not a fond memory and I would rather not associate with a bunch of people who sing its praises with dewy eyes and secretly wish for a time machine.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

hold that tiger

I gave in. I usually don't, but this time I did. Eh... who am I kidding? I've given in before and I'll probably do it again.

A few years ago, the Netflix series Stranger Things had everyone buzzing. I heard about it from my co-workers, my son and, of course, it was all over the internet (where I seem to spend a lot of time). So, against my better judgement, I watched the first season. I watched it in one weekend, cramming the eight hour-long episodes into two days. When the dust cleared and I snapped off the television after the final episode, I decided I didn't like it. I knew I was in the overwhelming minority, but I just didn't like it. I didn't like the story or the characters or the overall tone of the series. I thought about it more, going over it in my mind, trying to see something that I may have missed. Nope. Nothing.

When Seasons Two and Three were released — yes! — I watched them, too. I don't know why, but I did. Surprise! I didn't like them either. I was hoping that something would click — some subtle something that I previously missed, but no. I was in the same place I was before, except now, I had watched seventeen additional episodes to get to the same conclusion.

So, once again, the internet is a-flurry with excitement and obsession over a new Netflix series. This one is a documentary about the seedy — heretofore unknown — world of big cat breeding. The show, Tiger King: Murder, Mayhem and Madness, centers on one Joseph Schreibvogel Maldonado-Passage who goes by the name "Joe Exotic." Joe owned the Greater Wynnewood Exotic Animal Park in Oklahoma, which was home to over two hundred big cats, including lions, tigers, pumas and ligers (the cross-bred feline that hasn't had this much publicity since the fleeting popularity of Napoleon Dynamite). Joe, however, is currently serving a 22-year sentence in a federal prison.

The limited series also features an assortment of colorful, albeit shady, characters that are involved and interconnected through the big cat trade. The story spans seven 45-or-so minute episodes. I watched the whole series in the period of two days.

And I didn't like a single minute of it.

I remember seeing Joe Exotic on an October 2016 segment on HBO's Last Week Tonight, a humorous look at the news hosted by comedian John Oliver. (A clip of Oliver's commentary is featured in episode 5 of Tiger King.) Although I found the short segment and Oliver's jokes funny, I found Tiger King tedious to watch.

The series seemed very "thrown together" and not fully thought out. It focused on parallel plot lines in a very disjointed fashion, introducing irrelevant characters only because they had some connection to the big cat trade. It couldn't decide what story it wanted to tell. Was it the story of big cat breeding? Was it the story of how different breeders handle the same situations differently? Was it a story of blackmail and intrigue and treachery? Was it just a venal look at the underbelly of a particular faction of society? Who knows, because each of these were only briefly touched on before jumping to another, unrelated story line. It was poorly edited, poorly written and poorly executed. Unless this was done purposely, there ain't a single likable character in the entire seven episodes. Tiger King blatantly exploits its misfit cast with the same malevolent goal as a circus sideshow. Its production and mood is very reminiscent of The Anna Nicole Smith Show that ran on for a year on the E Network.

I really wanted to like it, just like I really wanted to like Stranger Things. But, alas, when it was over, I was relived that I didn't have to watch any more episodes. I have no desire to re-watch any episodes, hoping for a new perspective. I don't care what happens to any of the major and minor characters. I found them all repulsive, repugnant, unsavory and any one of a number of other synonyms. I think I have made my point.

But, I probably haven't learned my lesson.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

stand and deliver

Mrs. Pincus and I have been eating the same thing for dinner — nearly every night — for over a year... and we love it! We actually look forward to it. No, it isn't anything exotic or that can be considered "gourmet." In fact, it's fairly simple with minimal preparation. We eat salad. A big salad... with all kinds of stuff on it. Although I have been a vegetarian for almost fifteen years, I eat a surprisingly limited amount of vegetables, the majority of which are commonly classified as "salad" ingredients. I pass on tomatoes, cucumbers and celery. I will, however, include generous amounts of green peppers, radishes, artichokes and pickles. Yes, pickles! I love pickles on salad. Curiously, my wife likes the vegetables that I don't like, so our refrigerator is still stocked with celery stalks and a container or two of little grape tomatoes. Our salads are usually topped with a five ounce can each of salmon. Then we garnish our big salads with a sprinkling of crispy French fried onions and a smattering of "bacon bits," those tiny morsels of unknown origin that have never been anywhere near actual bacon. The kosher certification emblazoned on the label — to this day — cracks me up.

We try to keep all of these ingredients on hand at all times. Since most of these items are straight from the fresh produce section of our local supermarket, we find ourselves having to restock and replenish the vegetable drawer of our refrigerator a few times a week. And now that we are forced to stay in our homes due to the threat of the spreading COVID-19 pandemic, even sporadic visits to the supermarket can be somewhat dicey. Not to mention the fact that some supermarkets are having a difficult time keeping some items on their shelves. Mrs. P has still been venturing out to a nearby produce store, in an effort to stop her 80+ year-old parents from going out into the risky world. For other, shelf-stable items, we have taken (like most people) to having groceries delivered. During Week 1 of our government-mandated quarantine, we placed an order with mighty retailer Walmart. I love and hate Walmart. Their prices are ridiculously cheap, but as an entity, they are the bane of my existence.... but their prices are so low! Through their website, Mrs. Pincus placed an order for the following items: nine 6 ounce foil packages of French fried onions (we had been out of these for at least a week and our salads lacked that familiar "crunch"); a 13 ounce container of imitation bacon bits (again, the last of our fake bacon bits were shaken out weeks ago); and two 21 ounce bottles of teriyaki sauce (I love steamed broccoli dipped in teriyaki sauce. Maybe I like the taste or maybe this is the only way you can get me to eat broccoli. Who really knows?). That's it. That was the order. Within a day or so, allowing for the sudden rush of online orders, Mrs. Pincus received an email stating that our order would arrive on Saturday.

Well, Saturday rolled around. Another email arrives informing us that our delivery had arrived. I looked out the window of our front door and, except for the things that are usually on our front porch, it was empty. No box from Walmart... no matter what Federal Express claimed. I went outside and surveyed the area around our porch, expanding my search to include our front lawn, the front walkway and even the shrubs and flower beds that surround our porch. You never know the thought pattern and camouflage methods employed by a Fed Ex driver. I checked everywhere and concluded there was no delivery. My mind began to wander. In the current climate of panic and uncertainty, did some desperate scavenger sneak out of his claustrophobic self-quarantine, take a box from our front porch and spirit it away to a make-shift shelter to revel in his spoils. Did he think they had absconded with untold riches (from Walmart, no less!)? Was he hoping for something he could use as bartering leverage on the Black Market? I would love to been a fly on the wall when this motherfucker split the security tape on the box to reveal fried onions, fake bacon bits and teriyaki sauce! Serves 'im right! Bastard!

I posted an account of our Saturday morning "possible" burglary episode on Twitter (as I am want to do) while the more reasonable Mrs. P contacted some of our neighbors to see if our delivery was accidentally waylayed to one of their homes at the hands of a dyslexic Fed Ex driver. After getting negative replies for our contacted neighbors (my wife actually talks to our neighbors), she called Walmart customer service. The service rep said that we would be refunded for the order and, if we still wanted the items, we would have to reorder them. Well, of course we wanted the items, so Mrs. P recreated the order.

Three days later, on Tuesday, a plain brown box arrived on our front porch. Aside from the reordered Walmart items, we were not expecting anything. I brought the box in, examining the unusual way the address label was affixed. I realized that it had been cut from another box and carelessly taped to this new box. The blue remnants of a Walmart box were still attached to the label, clearly visible through the transparent packing tape. I opened the box. It contained a translucent plastic bag, its contents obscured. I undid the knot at the top of the bag with Mrs. P witnessing my untying ability. To our surprise, the bag contained nine bags of French fried onions and a large plastic container of imitation bacon bits. Conspicuously missing were the two bottles of teriyaki sauce. Or were they.....? Upon closer tactile examination, each foil bag of fried onions was coated with a thin layer of teriyaki sauce, as was the container of bacon bits. Actually, in some spots, the dried sauce was clumpier, a light brown in color with visible congregations of sesame seeds. And each bag smelled like a Benihana's.

I tossed the bags — one by one — into the kitchen sink, where Mrs. Pincus gingerly wiped them down with a wet paper towel. Then, we further inspected each bag, checking for a complete state of unstickiness. Several bags required additional wiping, especially in the folds and creases of their undersides. Mrs. P cleaned the bacon bits container. We placed everything on a dish towel to dry. A little later, we found room for everything in our cabinets along the stockpiles of our favorite salad dressings. (When did we become food hoarders?) We are still short the two bottles of teriyaki sauce.

So, now we wait for the replacement order. After it arrives (if it arrives), we will have eighteen bags of friend onions, another giant container of imitation bacon bits and — hopefully — those two bottles of teriyaki sauce.

Then, we'll be all set for the next pandemic.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

splendid isolation

This is weird. Very weird.

Like many people worldwide, I am working from home... except I am working from home for the first time in my 30+ tenure in the workforce. Honestly, it is very disorienting, but I am slowly getting used to the situation. For twelve years, I worked in the marketing department of a law firm. When I would arrange and take time off for a vacation, my supervisor would throw herself into a panic in the weeks and days before my scheduled time off. I argued that the graphic designer couldn't possibly hold this much importance in a law firm. Often I would ask if I could work from home, something I felt was totally feasible with an internet connection. I was regularly told that it was impossible and my request was denied. I don't work there anymore.

Well, here I am... two weeks into a mandatory "work from home" situation set in place by local jurisdictions to combat the potential spread of the volatile COVID-19 pandemic. Although my current job is very "hands-on," I am working from home.

Unfortunately, there is very little work. My employer is very reliant on the trade show industry and since trade shows (and other public gatherings) are being canceled left and right... well, there is very little to do. At the end of the work day on March 12, 2020, an ominous office-wide email went out, the contents of which gave instructions to all employees to take their computers home with them. "Work from Home" would begin the next morning... like it or not.

To maintain as much "normalcy" as possible, I still wake up at 5:30 in the morning, like I always do. I wake up so early because I work approximately forty miles away. My commute, depending on traffic, is a little over an hour on some mornings. However, now that I'm working from home, my commute is about thirty seconds, or as long as it takes me to walk downstairs to my dining room table. But still, I wake up when I am used to waking up and I get dressed like I'm going to work.

I get a cup of coffee and a bowl of cereal and I watch a few episodes of The Andy Griffith Show — as is my usual morning ritual. Now, because the traffic is much lighter, I can watch My Three Sons, The Beverly Hillbillies and an episode of Leave It to Beaver and still be on time for work. At 8:30, I send an email to my boss, letting him know that I am ready and anxious to tackle any work that may come our way. Almost immediately, I receive a reply from my boss to say: "Thanks." Then I don't hear from him again until 5:30 when his email wishes me a "good evening," echoing our daily parting words when we are at our office. We had one meeting via Microsoft Teams that was awkward. Our weekly, 30-minute production meeting, conducted as one big conference call, lasted about four minutes.

My "work day" now is taken up with more television watching. I have seen every episode of Friends, Family Affair, Petticoat Junction and Father Knows Best. Some of them multiple times. I have scrolled through countless posts on Instagram and Twitter, adding mindless silly comments where I probably would have been better off keeping my thoughts to myself. I have drawn pictures of dead celebrities that I will add to my illustration blog in the coming weeks. I have watched several concerts on my phone. Performances by artists confined to their own homes, trying to release pent-up energy squashed by canceled tours. In the late afternoon, I take a daily walk with my wife. We respect the new normal of "social distancing" from our neighbors, but, as the days go on, there are fewer and fewer people from which to "social distance."

This time at home has a melancholy feel to it. I hate being non-productive. Sure, the are some Saturdays where I don't change out of my pajamas for the entire day. But that's what Saturdays are for. I don't like sitting day after day and doing almost nothing... especially when I am used to doing something. It reminds me of, a few years ago, when I lost my job. Every morning, after scouring and applying to every relevant job posting on the internet, I sat on my sofa and watched television. I rarely paid attention to what I was watching. And I hated it.

So, now I have a new job and some disease is disrupting my daily routine with no ending point in sight. We are trying to stay optimistic. We are trying to look forward to the day when we can go back to work and we are trying to brush away visions of Will Smith walking through a deserted city in I Am Legend.

At least I'm trying.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

that's what keeps us going on and on and on and on

Today is the fifth consecutive day that I have been working from home. My office closed last Friday, along with thousands of other businesses, due to concerns regarding the unprecedented spread of the virus known as COVID-19. Just a few days prior, every staff member was warned of a possible — no, pending — closure. On Thursday, every one received an email informing us that the office would be closing indefinitely as of Friday morning.

So, here I am. Working from home for the first time in 30+ years of being a part of the work force. After I check in with my supervisor around 8:30 in the morning, I have had, pretty much, nothing to do. To maintain a sense of normalcy, I have been waking up at my usual "get ready to go to work" time. I posted my usual celebrity death anniversaries on Facebook. I drew some pictures. I watched a lot of television. I further wound my way around the internet, including posting a more-than-normal group of pictures on Instagram — both freeze-frames from television shows and screenshots from things I found on various websites.

This morning, I came across a story about former (or current... depending on how you look at it) Queen guitarist Brian May. As a longtime fan of the theatrical British rockers, I have had an on-going beef with May, ever since he began opening his previously-closed mouth in the days, weeks and years since the passing of iconic lead singer Freddie Mercury. I loved — and I mean loved — Queen. After a brief hiatus in the wake of Mercury's death, May, along with drummer Roger Taylor, assembled a few different incarnations of Queen. He took these cobbled together bands on the road, first with former Bad Company vocalist Paul Rodgers and more recently, American Idol eighth season runner-up Adam Lambert. (Former Queen bassist John Deacon retired from the music business, citing the death of band mate and close friend Mercury as the reason.) I do not begrudge Brian May or Roger Taylor for their desire to make music. Their contemporaries have continued, even as their advancing age brings them ever closer to irrelevance. I don't care that they continue to perform Queen songs, despite being only fifty percent of the band. (I cite The Who, ELO and even Paul McCartney as other examples.) What I do object to, is Brian May's self-appointed position as Freddie Mercury's mouthpiece, as well as official band historian. On many occasions, May has been quote as saying "Freddie would have liked this." or "This is what Freddie would have wanted." Referencing online apps testing your vocal range versus Freddie Mercury's vocal range, May puffed "Freddie would have loved this." May asserted Freddie Mercury's approval for licensing Queen songs in commercials for dog food and potato chips. Brian had final say over script and production of Bohemian Rhapsody, the Oscar-winning bio pic of the origins of Queen. While I will happily praise the performance of Rami Malek for his uncanny portrayal of Mercury, the rest of the film was a total fabrication, fraught with inaccuracies, anachronisms and plain old made up stuff. In promotional interviews, May admitted to the falsehoods in the film, but brushed them off as "poetic license." This is my gripe with Brian May.

So, today, I found a story explaining that Brian May fears that the current incarnation of his Queen will no longer be able to tour in the uncertain aftermath of the coronavirus. I screenshot the headline and posted on Instagram with the caption: "Coronavirus may stop Brian May's efforts to shit all over Freddie Mercury's legacy." This, I would soon find out, would not sit well with some other folks who were killing time on the internet while they, too, were working from home. Soon after this post (which I simultaneously posted to my Twitter account), I received a response from  one "❤️Anna 15 days until 🎂❤️" — yes, that's the name. My comment apparently offended Miss Heart Birthday Cake Heart, and she let me know just how much.

I guess she saw an earlier post of mine, berating Brian May for arrogantly referring to himself as "your friendly neighbourhood rock star."  Nevertheless, this began a vicious back and forth between Anna and her emojis and ol' JPiC.

I replied: "I'll stop when he stops"

❤️Anna 15 days until 🎂❤️: "And how exactly is Brain May shitting on Freddie's legacy?"

I sent her a link to one of several blog posts (on this blog, as a matter of fact) in which I expressed my feelings about Mr. (oops, I mean Doctor) May's behavior. She was not convinced. Or perhaps she just didn't fully read my post. Or maybe "comprehension" just isn't her thing.

❤️Anna 15 days until 🎂❤️: "But they are not shitting on Freddie’s legacy. They are just keeping Queen’s music alive. There is nothing wrong with that. They are still Queen no matter what." I'm thinking that she didn't read my post. I don't blame her. I do have a tendency to get long-winded when making a point. Look at the size of this post, for goodness sake!

Not one to give up so easily, I replied: "They are not Queen. They are Brian May and Roger Taylor and a singer from American Idol. I have no problem with them continuing to make music. I don't like Brian May becoming the self-appointed spokesperson for Freddie Mercury and whitewashing Queen's history. My opinion."

Anna came back hard and fast... and insulting. ❤️Anna 15 days until 🎂❤️: "Bit of a dumb opinion if I do say so myself."

JPiC:"You are not the first person to call me dumb. Not even today. I'm sure I'm not the first person to call you narrow-minded."

❤️Anna 15 days until 🎂❤️: "Actually, you are the first person to call me Narrow minded today"

JPiC: "It's early."

Anna's final response was priceless.

I love the internet and this "working from home" deal is starting to grow on me.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com