ice ice baby

I have been to two professional hockey games in my life. The first one was in 1975. My father, who was (at the time) a main office executive for a chain of east coast of supermarkets, was given tickets to a Sunday afternoon Flyers game. In 1975, the Philadelphia Flyers were pretty hot stuff. They were the defending Stanley Cup Champions and they were the sworn enemy of every other team in the NHL. Tagged with the notorious (though fitting) moniker "Broad Street Bullies," the Flyers were a living punchline for the popular joke "I went to a fight the other day and a hockey game broke out." Because the Flyers were so popular, I watched with feigned interest when my brother would tune the game in at home. I had a Flyers T-shirt, but everyone in Philadelphia in 1975 had a Flyers T-shirt, too. But, I was not a sports fan by any stretch of the imagination, so I can't imagine why my father chose to take me instead of my more sports-leaning older brother, but he did and we went. I remember it was really, really cold inside the Spectrum, the one-time state-of-the-art multi-purpose venue where the Flyers played their home games. I had been to the Spectrum a handful of times prior to the Flyers game. I saw Alice Cooper's "Welcome to my Nightmare" concert a year earlier. I saw the folky pop group America play their greatest hits there and I saw Elton John give a high-energy performance... but I don't remember it being so cold at any of those events. Granted, there wasn't 17,000 square feet of ice at any of them, so that could have played into it. Watching the game, I remember being unable to keep track of the puck as it was fired all over the ice. I also remember having absolutely no idea what exactly was going on. I was there to see a fight. Just like everyone who goes to an air show doesn't really want to see planes fly. If they did, they would just go to the airport and sit all day. You go to an air show to see a crash... and, in 1975, you went to a hockey game to see a fight. On this particular Sunday, the Flyers did not disappoint. Somewhere during the first period, Dave Schultz, the Flyers' infamous left wing (nicknamed "The Hammer" and for good reason) got into a melee with Detroit Red Wings' center Dennis Polonich. After a few minutes of a stoppage of play to allow Schultz to pummel the living shit out of Polonich, the ice was cleared, Schultz entered the penalty box (a very familiar spot for him) and maintenance crews came out to scrape an amount of Polonich's blood off the ice. I don't remember the score, but I remember that.

This past Sunday, I went to my second professional hockey game,  putting a 48-year gap between the two games I attended. A lot had changed since I witnessed my first hockey game. First of all, the venue was the Wells Fargo Center, a new state-of-the art venue that is the current home to the Philadelphia Flyers. The Spectrum was demolished in 2011. The Flyers have retired the uniform numbers of several of the former players, some of whom I saw play in '75. Despite not being a hockey fan, I knew the names of every member of the 1975 team, as well as the coaching staff. Honestly, I couldn't name a single player on the current roster. Or any roster for the past ten years. (Okay, maybe Claude Giroux, who may or may not still be playing. Don't answer, because I don't care.) Why, you may ask, would I go to a hockey game? Well, I suppose, it's because my wife is a Dead Head.

While surfing around the internet, as one does, Mrs. Pincus discovered that the Philadelphia Flyers were having "Grateful Dead Night" at their game on January 8. We had attended a Phillies game last summer when they honored an upcoming concert by Dead and Company, the current incarnation of former members of the venerable 60s jam band still hanging on to a dream. Between innings, Grateful Dead songs were played over the stadium PA system... until they weren't (somewhere around the fourth inning).  Costumed characters of the iconic "Dancing Bears" frolicked with the Phillie Phanatic as sort of an afterthought. Mrs. P thought it would be fun to see what the Flyers would do "Grateful Dead-wise," so she bought tickets. A pre-game concert by local Dead cover band Splintered Sunlight was announced, as well as special "Dead" themed T-shirts for a limited number of special ticket holders. We bought those "special tickets" and they weren't cheap! A few days before the game, we got an email explaining that due to a pre-game conflict with the Philadelphia Eagles (who play right next door at Lincoln Financial Field and are playing much better than the Flyers are), the pre-game concert with Splintered Sunlight would be rescheduled for a Sunday in March. However, because the Flyers are playing so poorly this year and having difficulty getting people to fill the 20-thousand-plus seats in the Wells Fargo Center, we would be given (read: for free!) tickets to that game in March... in addition to the tickets we already held! 

To be honest, we were just looking for an excuse to see the inside of the Wells Fargo Center. Neither my wife nor I had been inside to see an event, except for a post-season sale of sports team merchandise held on the floor of the facility. We really had no intention of staying for the entire game. We are not hockey fans and don't expect to be hockey fans in the future. Our main goal was to check out the place, get something to eat and, possibly get a glimpse of Gritty, the most reviled mascot in the NHL and the second most popular mascot in the city. I had scanned the food offerings available at the Wells Fargo Center. Most were decidedly "meat-heavy." I am a vegetarian and my wife follows a strictly Kosher diet, so we had to look very closely at what was to be had for two people with specific dietary requirements. Surprisingly, there was quite a selection. Several concessions offered Beyond Burgers, the hit trend in meatless hamburgers. One stand had falafel (although it was closed for this particular game). A stand selling tacos and such had a mushroom and kale version that looked tempting but, we settled on something called a "Za’atar Cauliflower Cheesesteak." New this season, the Za’atar Cauliflower Cheesesteak was touted as a vegetarian-friendly alternative to the Philadelphia staple. Instead of thin strips of steak, a mixture of cauliflower and spices was the main ingredient, complimented by caramelized onions and harissa (a peppery condiment from the Middle East) Cheez Whiz. Now, before you stick your tongue out in disgust, remember, not everyone is you. Not everyone likes what you like. I happen to love cauliflower and I have actually had a similar sandwich at a little hole-in-the-wall steak and hoagie shop in Atlantic City.

We wended our way through a knot of typical Philadelphia traffic, parked and walked excitedly towards the Wells Fargo Center. Once inside, we passed through the obligatory metal detectors (where Mrs. P found a quarter on the floor!) and started our trek around the brightly lit concourse. Our seats were on the top level of the arena, but we were in no rush to get to them. We were having a better time seeing the sights, the excited fans and taking in the whole electric atmosphere. Near a free-standing souvenir stand (where Flyers sweatshirts were selling upward of a hundred bucks, a small table was set up with an array of Flyers logo items. My wife approached and asked the young man about the items. He smiled and began explaining all about purchasing Flyers season tickets. My wife politely listened to his pitch, nodding on and off as he ran down the various options and price points. I stood by silently. "Are you interested in purchasing season tickets?," he asked. My wife convincingly replied, "Sure!" She was not interested in purchasing season tickets. She was, however, interested in obtaining some of the Flyers promotional items displayed on the tabletop. As Mrs. P filled out an electronic form on an iPad, the young man turned to me and asked where our seats were tonight. I just pointed skyward. "Top section," I said with a sheepish frown. He dug into the pocket of his sport jacket and said, "How'd you like to sit closer?" He handed me two tickets for seats just behind the goal, in, what we would soon discover, one of the coldest sections in the place. Now, upgraded, we were off to find that faux steak sandwich.

Actual.

We located First Line Steaks behind Section 110, just a section over from our new, upgraded seats. We approached the counter and ordered two Za’atar Cauliflower Cheesesteaks and two bottles of water. I was not convinced that the fellow behind the counter actually worked there. He stared at us expressionless as we ordered. We had to repeat our order several times before he fully grasped what we wanted, my wife confirming, "That's cauliflower, right? No meat." He did not acknowledge. He asked if we wanted onions, to which we both replied in the affirmative. He returned from the order pick-up counter with two cheesesteaks. Two of meatiest meat-filled cheesesteaks I have ever seen. It may have even still been "moo-ing." We looked suspiciously at the sandwiches. 

"These are cauliflower?," we asked in unison. 

He stared at us and said, "Cheesesteaks." 

"Yes," Mrs. P continued, "I understand. We wanted the cauliflower sandwiches."

I examined the sandwiches a bit closer and determined that they were filled with meat, with not a trace of cauliflower anywhere. "This is meat." I said, coming to an informed conclusion and pointing to the evidence.

"Huh?," shrugged the fellow behind the counter.

"Meat!," I repeated, slightly raising my voice. Mrs. Pincus, a bit calmer, added, "We wanted the cauliflower sandwich." She pointed to the illuminated menu above our heads, but I don't believe this guy could read. He went back to the pick-up window and had a few words with the man at the preparation area. He nodded towards us and may have even given us a confident wink. He scooped a big serving of what was definitely cauliflower into a long roll. With a shiny pair of tongs, he added long strips of browned onions and topped it all off with a ladle full of orange cheese sauce from a different dispenser than the other guys were using. The fellow behind the counter took the two original meat cheesesteaks and deposited them in a nearby trash can. 

"Oh!," sighed Mrs. Pincus, "That's a shame."

"Huh?," shrugged the fellow behind the counter.

Cauliflower.

My wife pointed in the direction of the now-discarded steak sandwiches. "What a shame you had to throw those away.," she clarified

"Oh," shrugged the fellow behind the counter. (This fellow shrugged a lot!) He pushed our two cauliflower sandwiches towards us and plopped two $5.25 bottles of water right behind them. We found our way to our seats and I passed out the fistful of napkins I grabbed, as I knew this would be a messy undertaking. I was right, but — boy! — was it good. Yes, my friends, it was actually very good. 

Soon the lights dimmed and starting players were announced. Gritty made his first appearance to a mixture of cheers and boos. The players skated around the ice. The Zambonis smoothed out the playing surface while two scantily-clad young ladies — wielding snow shovels — scooped up loose ice crystals, mostly for show. A horn blew and the game began.

And, within seconds, I lost interest. I didn't recognize a single name on either team's roster. The action moved way too fast for me to keep tack of who had control of the puck. I don't know anything about hockey, but I could tell — I just had a feeling — that the poor Flyers were definitely being out-played. Gritty came to visit our section, messing with some fans, relaxing in an empty seat (there were a lot to choose from) and posing for pictures. But, it wasn't enough to keep us there for the whole game. We left midway through the last inning..... I mean period. And not a single mention of the Grateful Dead was made by anyone in an official Flyers capacity.

We have one more game to go.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

what's the story, morning glory?

Would you ask this guy a question? Does this guy look like he wants to answer your questions? Does this guy look like he wants to engage in nonsensical chit-chat with someone he does not know? Does this guy appear to be in any mood to listen to your inane inquiry about something he is purchasing that is none of your goddamn business? Know your audience, my friends. Read the room.

My wife, who has been in the retail business for many years, has this uncanny ability to spot an item that she knows she can turn into quick cash. From a mile away, her senses will draw her to something that, with a little examination and quick calculations, she knows is a good item to sell. Aside from her regular suppliers, Mrs. P often seeks out after-holiday sales, clearance events, as well as the random going-out-of-business sale to buy items that others couldn't sell. She will also do the "leg work" and track down rare and hard-to-get items (limited editions and regional issue stuff) as sort of a service for her loyal customers. And when she buys, she buys big, sometimes filling up several shopping carts with merchandise. Stores are happy to get rid of the stuff, to make room for more stuff that they will price too high and start the cycle all over again. Other customers, who don't buy nearly in the quantities that Mrs. Pincus does, are fascinated to watch someone stock up in the clearance aisle. And, even though it is none of their goddamn business, feel it is perfectly within their rights to ask my wife what she intends to do with all this stuff. Mrs. Pincus — who I maintain is the nicest person on the planet — answers these questions cheerfully, happily and with such utter bullshit that her fellow shoppers are satisfied. They will smile, shake their heads, click their tongues and move on — totally forgetting what they were just told because... honestly.... how is their life affected by what my wife — or anyone else, for that matter — is buying.

I have accompanied my wife on "buying trips" on several occasions. I must physically bite my lip when someone asks (and someone always does): "Oh! So much stuff! What are you going to do with all of this stuff?" And most of the time, each word in this question is dragged out to way more syllables than they normally contain. Mrs. Pincus will reply with a story of a youth group or a kindergarten class or early stocking stuffers (no matter what time of year it is). I, on the other hand, must wander off to another aisle, otherwise I will give a patented Josh Pincus-style smart-ass explanation, resulting in a sneer from the questioner or my wife or (often) both. 

Home of (National League) Champions

Today, Mrs. Pincus was otherwise occupied with a more pressing responsibility and her plans to visit the Team Store at Citizens Bank Park were sidelined. Citizens Bank Park is the home of the 2022 National League Champion Philadelphia Phillies. And, although they didn't win the World Series, an awful lot of merchandise was produced for Major League baseball's beloved Fall Classic. A good portion of these time-sensitive items are taking up precious selling space in the souvenir store and, come spring, anything related to World Series 2022 is as dated as the Revolutionary War. However, not everybody feels that way... and Mrs. Pincus knows it. There are specific items that appeal to specific collectors and those collectors don't always have access to the items they seek. So, not wishing to miss out on a good deal on stuff she can sell, Mrs. P sent me to the ballpark store as her "buying agent." I was instructed as to what merchandise to buy and in what quantities to buy them. I followed the directions I was given, although, left on my own, I would answer any extraneous questions in the manner in which I saw fit. Oh.... there would be questions. There always are.

At the store, I filled up a plastic shopping basket with a large quantity of different designs of baseballs, all emblazoned with the logo of the most recent World Series, as well as the logos of the Phillies and that other team from Houston that actually won the series. My basket was kind of heavy, as it was piled high with a large number of baseballs. A very large number. I made my way to the closest cashier and placed the basket on the countertop. The cashier began counting out the baseballs and ringing up my purchase.

The store only had a few customers. It was two weeks after Christmas on a Saturday afternoon at a ballpark where the next scheduled game was to occur in four months. Not exactly the makings of a big shopping day for baseball memorabilia. One of those customers took her place behind me in line.

And, here it comes...

She was a short, bleached blonde with a curled-lip sneer already plastered across her face. She cleared her throat, and with nicotine-addled vocal cords, croaked out her inquiry regarding my purchase.

"What are you going to doooooo with all those?" 

Approximate location of her house

She pointed a tobacco-yellowed finger in the direction of my now half-empty shopping basket. This woman was typical South Philly. I could picture her setting up two lawn chairs to secure the parking space that her grandson dug out after a recent snowfall. I could imagine her strutting in her living room in front of the television, a four-inch ash hanging off the end of her cigarette, while the Mummers marched across the screen. I could almost hear her defending the New Year's merrymakers for their God-given freedom to wear blackface and make fun of Asians. In my mind, I could see her coming down the front steps of Our Lady of Get the Fuck Off My Front Stoop after attending Christmas Eve services. I may have seen her on the six o'clock news excitedly celebrating when the city was forced by a court order to remove the wooden box that encased the statue of noted enslaver and historical oppressor Christopher Columbus for nearly two years. I'm almost positive that before she got to the store to question me, she had a PBR and a couple of Marlboro Lights for breakfast. And now, she was very concerned about why I was buying 60 baseballs... and my answer better be a good one.

"What are you going to doooooo with all those?"

I turned slightly in her direction and said, "Play baseball."

She sneered more. She wasn't finished. "Are they real baseballs or are they those foam things?" Why are these baseballs of such interest to this woman? 

"I sure hope they are baseballs.," I replied. I looked at her. She was holding a t-shirt on a hanger and a baseball cap, both sporting the familiar Phillies "P" logo.

"What are you going to do with those?" I asked in a monotone as I pointed right back at her.

"Wear 'em!," she answered indignantly. My question, nearly identical to hers, seemed to have insulted her.

She scooted behind me when the other cashier called her over. As she passed behind me, she muttered "Sorry I asked." The three words were dripping in sarcasm.

I didn't see this woman monitoring the purchases of anyone else in the store. I saw a man carrying a Phillies jersey. He wasn't questioned. A woman and a young girl were buying a plush figure of the Phillie Phanatic. They weren't asked to explain their future plans for the toy once they got home. Just me. I was interrogated. I was cross-examined. My intentions were probed by the unofficial representative of Major League Baseball Purchases - National League East Division. And what exactly was she going to do with the information gathered from her little third degree? Do I have a detailed file in some cabinet somewhere south of Ritner Street?

When I left the store with my paid-for purchases, I spotted my personal inquisitor getting into a car that was illegally parked.

Now, I have some questions.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

i can't go for that

I am a rule follower and a direction follower. I just am. It's just in my nature. I am irritated by people who see posted rules or understood societal policy and think to themselves: "Well, that doesn't mean me, of course. That means everyone else." I have known plenty of people who have blatantly ignored rules or instruction. One guy I know drove the wrong way down a one way street, while saying with a smile "It's okay." I have had a constant battle with people parking their cars several feet into my driveway (sometime even fully across my driveway). I often wonder, do they get out of their car, assess how they are parked and think: "Yeah. This is okay." ? I suppose they do, because I have witnessed the evidence regularly for almost forty years.

Rules are not a bad thing. They are what separates us from lower forms of life on this planet. We, as humans, have the ability to understand and follow rules. The animal kingdom has more primitive rules. If a lion doesn't like what another animal is doing, he just bites his head off. Humans, I think, are more reasonable than that.... but not by much.

It makes me crazy when people don't follow directions. Even simple ones. I don't know if it's because they don't read directions or they don't understand directions or they just don't feel the directions apply to them. (Hang on.... I'll make my point shortly.) Social media is the biggest forum for direction ignorers, Facebook specifically. Facebook is filled with folks who just look at the pictures, disregard simple directions and ask questions that could easily be answered if they would just go back and read instead of commenting first. You know, open your ears and shut your mouth.

(Okay.... here comes my point.)

Yesterday, I posted my annual JPiC Death Pool list. For those of you who have known me for some time, you are aware of my somewhat ghoulish fascination with celebrities, especially dead celebrities. I draw them. I visit their graves. I read about them and I report when a live celebrity becomes a dead celebrity. This actually began as a little race among a few friends to see who could report on a celebrity death the quickest. Since then, I have become a "grim reaper" of sorts, sometimes accused of having an inside connection with the Pale Rider himself. But — I swear — that's not true.

For many years now, I have compiled a list at the end of the year enumerating a select group of celebrities that I think will pass on in the coming year. It is not a "wish list." It is not a "hit list." It is not a "death wish." It is none of those things. It is merely an extension of my interest in all things celebrity.  When I first started doing this, I just shared it with friends, family and those who I thought might be interested. Since the advent of social media, my list sharing has become more widespread. I began posting my year-end list on Twitter and Instagram and — ugh! — Facebook, the armpit of the internet.

Facebook is the great equalizer. Everyone with access to a computer, smartphone and an opinion has the same voice as you on Facebook. And rules? Unless the mysterious watchdogs that quietly monitor subversive Facebook activity deem your particular post "offensive" and throw you in "Facebook jail," pretty much anything goes. There is limited reading on Facebook. People like to look at pictures and will read maybe the first five words of a post.... then begin to comment. They have already formed their opinion based on a picture, a headline or four or five words. So, when I started posting my Death Pool list, I accompanied my post with a bit of information that, foolishly, I thought will be informative. Invariably, it is ignored. 

For the past couple years, my Death Pool introduction has included this wording:

As I have said in previous years, this is in NO WAY a "wish list." THAT would look totally different. This is not a vendetta. This is merely a prediction with no insight or merit of any kind. Once again, please don't question my choices.

• Please don't tell me to add a name.

• Please don't ask me to remove a name.

• Please don't comment with an "OH NO!"

This is MY list. If you don't like my choices, I encourage you to make your OWN list.

And for the past couple of years — including this year — the comments have included people telling me who to add, people questioning why I included a particular name as well as several "OH NO"s. Right off the fucking bat! Doesn't anybody read? Doesn't anybody follow direction? 

I have a friend who owns a business. In his business, he has had to hire employees and he uses a custom job application. The nature of his business requires understanding and comprehension of sometimes intricate and complicated, multi-step procedures that have to be read. The job application (that he designed) is fairly lengthy, with lots of long questions and many, many lines on which applicants can write a detailed answer. However, at the very top of the application is a paragraph of instruction. The last line of the paragraph reads: "Please ignore all of the previous instructions. Just write your name on the first line and leave the rest of this application blank."

Guess how many qualified applications he has received?

Please follow directions. Thank you.

Oh, and in case you are interested, here's my 2023 Death Pool list. Happy New Year.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

revolution 9

I have become pretty active on Instagram. I've been active on social media for some time now, but recently Instagram has taken a big leap over my previously favored platform, the now-vile, politically-charged garbage heap known as Twitter. Sure, I spend waaaay too much time on Facebook (Hey! Who doesn't?), but Instagram has become more... oh, I don't know.... sociable?!?! I find it easier to post  and it's more receptive to creativity, specifically with its stickers and text and music accompaniments. I have been enjoying the enhancements that Instagram allows as far as posting my daily celebrity death anniversaries. And because I fancy myself as an artist (I know, some of you might debate that claim...), I'm always looking for new outlets for creativity. Plus, Instagram is the perfect forum to display my admittedly skewed sense of humor and my love of old television shows. So it's a win-win-win!

A few years ago, Instagram started this end-of-year thing where it allows — or even encourages — the posting of a nine-image collage consisting of one's nine most favored or "favorited" posts from the previous year. With the assistance of several third-party apps, a collage is created — available for downloading, posting and eager for comments. Other internet services have jumped on the "year in review" opportunity, with folks posting their annual granular breakdown of listening habits via Spotify, Pandora and other music-streaming platforms of which I don't use. (Yep, I still listen to the radio.) Instagram's "Best Nine" apps were clunky at first, but have since been reworked and a suitable-for-posting compilation is ready in just a few minutes.

I did mine for 2022 a few days ago and I am posting it here before I post it to Instagram. (Oooh!  JPiC exclusive content! And you don't even have to be a Patreon member!) In past years, I got just a random mish-mash sampling of disjointed and unrelated posts from the previous year. This year, however, I was intrigued by how spot-on my selections were. Of course, there are drawings. I suppose the majority of my Instagram posts are drawings. After all, I like to draw. But the five chosen drawings featured three dead celebrities and quotes from two that are still with us. If you have been following me for any length of time, you know about my affinity for dead celebrities and propensity to immortalize them in my little corner of the internet. Also two drawings are in black & white, two are in color and one is in limited color — a very accurate overview of how I work. 

In addition to the drawings, there are photographs. I post a lot of photographs on my Instagram account. A good portion of my photographs are freeze-frame screenshots if my television. I watch an inordinate amount of television and I see a lot of cool, interesting and unusual stuff (well... to me anyway) and I feel compelled to share them. In this year's "top nine," there are two pictures from television. One is from an old TV show and one is not. The former is a scene from a 1962 episode of The Andy Griffith Show. The scene features a young Barbara Eden, three years before her iconic role as the mischievous bottle-dweller on the sitcom I Dream of Jeannie. I love to spot actors and actresses in unlikely appearances outside of a role for which they became famous. And I love to share them with the people who, like me, are fascinated by this sort of thing... all six of you. The other television photo is from a news report on CNN. I don't remember what the story was about, but I was startled by the fact that the reporter bore an uncanny resemblance to They Might Be Giants guitarist John Flansburgh. And that needed to be shared, too.

The two remaining pictures rounding out my "top nine" are a picture of our dining room table laden with a tempting array of home-baked goodies prepared by my wife, the celebrated Mrs. P. This picture, taken just prior to the onslaught of guests coming to our annual Night Before Thanksgiving Dessert Party, shows the results of a single day of baking (that's right! a single day!) and how Mrs. P makes it look so easy. (Spoiler Alert: It is not easy.) This photo is similar to other photos taken of past year's gatherings, however this one was snapped before our 38th one. These have been going on every year — uninterrupted, even by a pandemic! — for well over a quarter of a century.

The last picture is my favorite. It was taken at this past summer's XPoNetial Music Festival (presented by Subaru), a yearly outdoor music festival held over three days on the Camden waterfront — one of the few beautiful things about Camden, New Jersey. The picture shows me (uncharacteristically wearing a hat) with my two favorite people in the entire world — my wife and my son. And there's no one with whom I would rather spend three days out in the sun, listening to music and surrounded by thousands of people than these two.

I don't know why I was so taken by this little visual glimpse into the world of Josh Pincus. I just was. And, to be honest, it's hard to write a new blog post every week.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

pretzel logic

Recently, I was talking to a friend about our respective jobs. I noted that — after forty years — I finally have the job I was looking for. One that allows me to earn a living and not give it a second thought once I leave for the day. No pressure. No meetings. No bosses with nothing to do all day leaning over my shoulder. No unnecessary or unrealistic goals. No disruptive co-workers. Is it the best job I've ever had? (and I have had a lot!) No. That would be the first job I ever had.

After I had outgrown setting up a Kool-Aid stand on the cement apron of the driveway of my parent's house, I was recruited by my brother Max's friend Gerb to join the ranks of a little business enterprise he had started and was trying to grow. Gerb (that's pronounced with a hard "G") was a tall, lanky jovial guy with a giant shock of curly hair and a keen entrepreneurial mindset. Max told me that Gerb had a crew of kids about my age (that would be 14) set up in various, carefully selected locations throughout Northeast Philadelphia, selling soft pretzels. Soft pretzels are a staple food in Philadelphia, so they would — no doubt — sell like hotcakes! (Is that what they call a "mixed metaphor?") To this day, I still describe Philadelphia soft pretzels as "my kryptonite." Many people in the City of Brotherly Love feel the same.

Without even asking, Max volunteered me to join up with this little venture. Honestly, I didn't object. School was out for the summer and, at 14, I certainly could use a little extra money. After all, comic books and pizza didn't buy themselves. So, it was settled and I was officially among the gainfully employed. This was also my opportunity to help my brother out. He had been friends with Gerb for some time, but he didn't know his actual name. Everyone just called him "Gerb." Coincidentally, I went to school with Gerb's younger brother, who was also called "Gerb," but I knew that his real name was "Howard." I could only assume that the elder Gerb had a real name as well.

Early one summer Saturday, Gerb pulled up in front of my house in his tan Camaro. He honked the horn a couple of times and I bounded out of the house, ready for my first day of selling pretzels. I brought a big insulated jug of my mom's "world famous" iced tea to keep a potential mid-day thirst at bay. I also brought a peanut butter sandwich — in a bag stuffed in my pocket — that was in the process of being violently disfigured as I took a seat in the passenger's side of Gerb's car. Gerb — with a big grin on his friendly face — drummed on the steering wheel as he drove me out to my chosen spot. He explained the simple procedure of selling pretzels and how much to charge. "When someone asks the price," he began, "tell them 'four for fifty.' That way you have a better chance of selling four pretzels at one time." Always thinking, this guy Gerb! He gave me a stack of brown paper bags, the kind my mom would pack my school lunch in and the kind I was involuntarily mangling in my pocket at this very moment. I was instructed to fill a dozen or so bags with four pretzels each and have them ready to go for customers, the majority of whom I'd be doing business with through their driver's side window. You see, my little retail outlet was a card table set up on an eight-foot-wide median strip of a rather busy neighborhood thoroughfare.

Gerb pulled up to said median and set his four-way hazard flashers on. He hopped out of the car and I did the same, grabbing the flattened card table from the back seat. He popped open his trunk and removed a large plank of discarded faux wood paneling upon which rested a pile of soft pretzels, connected in the baking process in long rows, stacked on top of one another. I quickly extended the legs of the table and Gerb plopped the plank of pretzels on its surface with a thud. He jammed his hands in his pockets and extracted a fistful of change. "Here," he said, "this should get you started." He jumped back into his car and, as he drove off, he said, "I'll be back around three to pick you up. Good luck." And off he went.

And there I was.

I immediately started bagging four pretzels at a time, as I was instructed. Cars zoomed by me on both sides and it was a little jarring at first. Within a minute or two, a car pulled up and the driver barked, "How much?" in my direction. Startled, I meekly replied, "Um...four for.... um... fifty." I struggled as I tried to remember all of the simple directions Gerb imparted to me. "Gimme four," the driver said and he waved a dollar in my direction. I handed him a bag, took his dollar and fished two quarters out of my pocket from the supply of coins Gerb gave me. The whole exchange took about 60 seconds. Shit! This was gonna be easy!

And to be honest, it was.

In Philadelphia, pretzels practically sell themselves. Everyone in this city grew up eating them. For goodness sake, I loved them! They are delicious, convenient, easy to handle and available all over the place. And buying them from some kid standing on a median strip in the middle of Bustleton Avenue wasn't the least bit odd in 1975. That summer was great. Gerb picked me up every morning at my house and came by around three in the afternoon the collect me, the table and the empty hunk of paneling... because I always sold out. Always. The days were filled with an interesting assortment of characters, including my current Social Studies teacher (who, at first, scared me, but became a daily customer) and a driver from a nearby funeral home who stopped to inquire the price of my salt-and dough wares while transporting a casket in the back of his vehicle... with a long procession of funeral attendees behind him. I witnessed accidents, police chases, terrible drivers and even a fist fight. It was more excitement than a 14-year old could take.... and I loved every minute of it.

Before the summer ended, Gerb decided to move on to bigger and better pastures. He sold his business to Jeff, another one of Max's friends. I wasn't too keen on this new guy. He seemed to only be interested in the money, as the first thing he did was raise the prices a full quarter. This cut down on business and angered those regular customers who had been paying less just a day before. One morning when he picked me up, I told Jeff that this would be my last day.

After that, I worked in a slew of jobs in retail stores for bosses who were assholes. After attending art school, I worked in a slew of jobs in my chosen field for bosses who were also assholes.

I still love pretzels though and, every winter, I wear this scarf to remind me how much I do.

Available from your pals at South Fellini.

By the way, Gerb's name was Rob.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

i've got a lovely bunch of coconuts

I was a picky eater when I was a kid. My father would often accuse me of only limiting my food intake to pizza. (To be honest, he wasn't that far off.) My mother would regularly accompany meals with all sorts of vegetables. With the exception of corn and potatoes, I would not eat the vegetables my mother tried to push on me. Potatoes, in any form, were just mere steps away from French fries... and I loved French fries. Corn... well, corn was corn and as that young man in the latest You Tube viral video has confirmed "It's corn!" But, those others....? Yeesh! I wouldn't touch 'em with a ten-foot fork. No amount of butter or salt or anything would get me to like string beans.

As I got older, my eating habits changed. Considerably. I ate salad, something I would customarily slide over to my mother's side of the table when dining in a restaurant. I ate broccoli, granted it had to be mixed in a spicy sauce and served with a plate full of other chopped up ingredients within the cozy and mysterious confines of a Chinese restaurant. I still pick sliced tomatoes off of a hoagie, but I will happily consume the lettuce and onion, an act unheard of when I was a child. My wife often marvels at my evolved eating habits, commenting, "Your mother would be so proud of you!" I'm pretty sure she would.

Almost a decade ago, I wrote a pretty disparaging piece about raisins and my dislike of them. I was convinced that there was a universal conspiracy to get people to eat raisins. Not to necessarily like raisins, just to eat them. I observed that raisins were covertly snuck into various foods in a effort to get them eaten. They had to be hidden in bread and noodle casseroles and cakes. The name of a particular dish could not include the actual word "raisin," for fear no one would eat it. So, things like "cinnamon rolls" were never identified as "raisin cinnamon roils." "Coffee cake" was similarly ambiguous about all of its components. Even for the tiniest amount of raisins, they'll say: "You can't even taste the raisins!" It's like the people who say: "I know it's a Jim Carrey movie, but you'll like it." It's still has Jim Carrey in it! Only "raisin bread" appears ballsy enough to put its most reviled ingredient first in its name. Obviously, that was for those other people. You know, the ones proliferating the whole "raisin agenda." But, I hereby rescind my stance on raisins. I like them. I eat them. I concede that they are not among my favorite foods, but I no longer gag when I discover one in a bite of baked good, nor to I make a little pile of them on the side of my plate when politely eating something that contains them.

However, there is one food I will never ever ever happily eat. They say " never say never." Well, I'm saying never. And I'm talking about you, coconut. Coconut is horrible! Just horrible. I know, I know. All you coconut lovers will disagree with me. Look, I've had coconut. I believe I am still chewing coconut I ate when I was nine. It is a taste and mouth sensation on the same level as root canal. No, I take that back. I've had several root canal procedures. Eating coconut is worse. I have become so highly sensitive to coconut that I can tell if someone said the word "coconut" while they were preparing a dish I am eating. When I was a kid and would return from a night of Halloween trick-or-treating, I would pull out all of the coconut based candy from my bag and try to make trades with my brother (he actually liked coconut - eeech!) If a trade could not be agreed upon — fuck it! — I'd just give him the goddamn coconut rather that have it mixed in with my nominal candy haul. When I took my son out for Halloween, I taught him to say "trick or treat" and "nothing with coconut." When he got a little older and developed an actual fondness for coconut (whose kid are you?), my days of ransacking his Halloween spoils had ended.

Not a cow.

A few years ago, based on the advice of a doctor, I began eating breakfast on a daily basis. This was a meal that I skipped for most of my adult life. But after a series of vasovagal syncopes, my doctor recommended that I eat breakfast every morning to combat the feeling of hunger during the day, thereby preventing future fainting episodes. So, every morning, before I leave for work, I pour myself a bowl of cereal and a cup of coffee. Nothing extravagant and no actual cooking is involved. I always make sure there is milk in the house, a regular requirement that lapsed after my son moved out on his own. One day, a year or so ago, my son suggested that I switch to almond milk, citing its health benefits. He explained that dairy-based milk is passé. I was hesitant at first, but, once I tasted almond milk, I was hooked. The "unsweetened" variety has no discernable taste and, I believe, is lower in calories than the stuff that comes from mistreated cows. So almond milk it is... and has been for some time now.

Last week, after seeing that the current supply of almond milk was running low, I added it to our running shopping list. During the day, Mrs Pincus went to the supermarket and purchased everything on said list. The next morning, I began my daily ritual of turning on the Keurig, getting a bowl from the kitchen cabinet, getting cereal from a different kitchen cabinet and grabbing the carton of almond milk from the refrigerator. I grabbed the newly purchased almond milk, removed the safety seal and poured an amount over the waiting Honey Nut Cheerios in my bowl — just like I've done on countless mornings. I picked up the bowl and mug and headed upstairs for some classic TV reruns before I left for work. I plopped myself down on the sofa, flicked on the TV and put the first heaping spoonful of cereal in my mouth.

Something was..... off.

I looked in the bowl. Was the cereal stale? Had something gotten into it? Was this the same cereal I had yesterday... because it tasted okay then. Was the milk bad? Was it past its printed expiration date? I sniffed the bowl. I'm not sure was result I was expecting. I sure looked okay. I tasted it again. Yep. Still tasted... off.  I went downstairs to the kitchen to check the carton of almond milk. I bounded down the stairs. I opened refrigerator, removed the new carton of almond milk and examined the label. just under the word "almond" was the phrase "coconut blend." It was mocking me. I could vaguely hear that phrase laughing at me with the maniacal fervor of Cesar Romero's "Joker" from the classic Batman TV series. "HA! HA! HA! YOU CONSUMED COCONUT, YOU UNSUSPECTING FOOL!," it said, as I pictured Romero's lavender-gloved hands clapping with glee and his pancaked face grinning with malevolent accomplishment. And like a dejected Batman, whose arch-villain had just gotten the best of me, I silently fumed. I went back upstairs to — reluctantly — finish my breakfast.

That vile almond-coconut milk blend lasted about ten days. I was determined to use it up. Throwing it away would have been childish. I toughed it out. I hated it. Every minute of it. But I poured it over my cereal every day until the carton was empty. Every day, its repulsive taste of coconut ruined my cereal, filled my mouth and laughed like the Joker. But I was going to show coconut that I was the better man. And when the final drop of almond-coconut milk blend fell from the plastic spout into my bowl, I had won. It didn't kill me. It made me stronger.

And a little nauseous.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

liquored up and lacquered down

I don't drink alcohol. I used to, when I was much younger. I never used a fake ID, like a lot of my contemporaries. To be honest, I didn't think it was necessary, as the legal drinking age in New Jersey was 18 when I turned 18... and New Jersey was just a short drive and a ten-cent bridge toll from my house. Prior to that, I drank in several New Jersey establishments that almost never asked to see anyone's ID. As long as you laid low and didn't draw any attention to yourself, an underage drinker, like myself, could happily be served all the cheap beer they could consume. And — save for a few harrowing, cringe-worthy incidents — my friends and I knew our limits.

In the summer of  1979, I turned 18. Just after graduation from high school, a couple of friends and I spent a few days in Atlantic City. After securing a room in our favorite shitty rooming house, I headed out to make my first legal purchase of alcohol at a liquor store. My friend Alan would not turn 18 for another month and my friend Scott had to wait until the following January, but Josh was here to make sure their alcohol consumption was free-flowing  and uninterrupted. We approached the front entrance of Chelsea Liquors and I pulled open the door. Alan and Scott stayed behind, peering through the glass of the front window like two puppies waiting for their owner to return with treats. Chelsea Liquors was a long narrow store with a main aisle flanked by cases of beer and bottles of hard liquor. I slowly strolled along the aisle grabbing two six packs of Genesee Cream Ale (a favorite beverage at the time) and made my way to the counter at the rear of the store. Two older men, around my father's age and looking just as stern, stood on the other side of the counter giving me the once-over as I dropped the beer on the faux Formica countertop. One of the men muttered, "ID?" and I confidently pulled my little wallet from my back pocket, extracted my driver's license and presented it to the man to silently answer his inquiry. In my mind, I puffed out "Read it and weep, motherfucker. As of yesterday, I have graced this planet for eighteen years." In reality, I said nothing, as I was too nervous to form any words. Besides, no words would never make it past the enormous lump in my throat. The man examined my license from over the top of his glasses. He looked at me, at my license, at me again... then handed my driver's license back to me. I paid for the beer, grabbed my purchase and began to make the thirty-five mile walk back to the front door. I half-expected to be chased or have sirens go off or have the front door suddenly get blocked by automatic bars descending from the ceiling like in a James Bond movie. But — no — none of that happened. I was legally permitted to purchase alcoholic beverages in any amount under the laws of New Jersey. And that is exactly what I did. And from that point forward, I did it a lot.

On occasion, on a weekend evening with nothing to do, a friend and I would borrow my mom's car and drive across the Tacony-Palmyra Bridge with our destination being the reliable old Roger Wilco liquor store, a long-time fixture on Route 73 just over the Pennsylvania-New jersey border. Here, we would purchase a single quart of Ortlieb's Beer for eighty cents and return to my Philadelphia home to consume it. The whole deal,  including the 10 cent bridge toll in both directions, cost a buck. Not bad for a little Friday night entertainment. Yeah, yeah, I know, crossing state boundaries with alcohol is strictly verboten. But it was the 70s. We were stupid and, most importantly, we never got caught.

On the night before Thanksgiving 1983, I stopped drinking. By this time, I had reached the legal drinking age in Pennsylvania and took full advantage of the situation. My friend Scott and my friend Sam decided that we would see how much alcohol our bodies could tolerate. We found ourselves at the bar of The Dickens Inn, a British-themed pub in the historic section of Philadelphia. Here, we downed a few beers while we engaged in conversation with a couple of British sailors who were stationed on a ship docked on the Delaware River. We tried our darndest to keep up with their drinking, but our lightweight Northeast Philadelphia Jewish sensibilities were no match for their hard-drinking, seafaring ways. Soon, the bartender began plying us with shots of peppermint schnapps and beer chasers. Those sailor literally drank us under the table. I say "literally," because that where I ended up — under the table. To be more accurate, I wound up on my ass at the bottom of a flight of stairs. I was carried out of the place by Scott and Sam and loaded into Scott's car, but not before I was warned: "If you puke in my car, you are walking the rest of the way home." To Scott's satisfaction, I waited until I got home to throw up my guts. And with a houseful of people arriving for Thanksgiving the next day, I managed to crawl out of bed just as the last guests were leaving. I missed dinner while I prayed for sweet death to alleviate the throbbing in my head.

And I officially retired from the ranks of drinkers.

A few nights ago, Mrs. Pincus and I hosted the 38th annual "Night Before Thanksgiving" dessert party at our house. Over the years, the guest list has changed considerably from family to friends to our son's friends, most of whom seem to enjoy the festivities and being included more that anyone else. My son and his friends like to drink alcoholic beverages and, in recent years, I have purchased whatever was requested. This year, my son asked for a selection of Downeast hard cider, something I had to write down for fear I'd forget what I was looking for when I went to the liquor store. Since I work in New Jersey and pass the aforementioned Roger Wilco on a daily basis, I would pick up this Downeast stuff on my way home. A day or so before the party, I pulled into Roger Wilco's parking lot. I grabbed a shopping cart and entered the store. The place was enormous. Of course, I had not been inside since I purchased that eighty cent bottle of beer over forty years ago. There was an entire other room filled with Home Depot-like shelving stocked with beer, ale and cider in colorful packaging. It was very overwhelming. I asked a salesperson for the location of Downeast cider and he led me down an aisle past a few shelving units, pointing out the small boxes on an eye-left shelf. I would have never found it on my own. I loaded three 9-packs (who ever heard of a 9-pack?) into my cart and went back to check out. I snaked my way through the queue line and up to a young lady at a cash register. She greeted me with a half-smile and I placed the three boxes on the counter. Then, to my surprise, she asked me for ID. "Excuse me?' I said, knowing damn well what she just asked, but I needed to hear it again. I am 61 years old. I have a head full of.... well, not full.... but what's left of my hair is white. And sparse. And thin. Unfazed, she asked again. "ID," she said. I tried to stifle a laugh as I pulled my wallet from my back pocket and fumbled to remove my driver's license. Suddenly, I was transported back to Chelsea Liquors and that guy peering over the tops of his hornrims at my Pennsylvania-issued identification. That lump in my throat had even returned. I passed my license to the young lady — who couldn't have been older than twenty-one. Without even looking at my license, she handed it back to me and said "Thanks," punctuated by a snap of her chewing gum. Just like all those years back in Chelsea Liquors, I thought to myself: "ID? ID? Young lady, I am nearly as old as this building!" But, of course, I said nothing. I paid — a lot more than two six-packs of Genesee Cream Ale cost. I put my purchases behind the back seat of my car. Crossing the state line with alcohol is still illegal, though. 

But are they really gonna stop an old guy who doesn't drink?

www.joshpincusiscrying.com