first time

For those of you outside the Philadelphia area, Wawa is a chain of convenience stores that, more recently, have focused on their sandwich, coffee and take-out foods business. With very few exceptions, most Philadelphians love Wawa and visit them often.

There are at least nine thousand Wawas within five minutes of the place where I work. Several times a month, I will stop at one of them to pick up hoagies for Mrs. Pincus and myself. (That might be the most Philadelphia sentence I've ever written!) Last Monday was one of those times.

I usually choose the Wawa at Route 73 and Remington Avenue, just down the street from Pennsauken High School (home of the still politically-incorrect "Indians"). A few years ago, Wawa introduced a convenient touchscreen system to make ordering sandwiches, salads and other prepared foods a breeze. The system is great. It's fast, accurate and requires little-to-no interaction with any other human being. Each step in the ordering process is given its own screen from which a hungry customer can select the type of sandwich, the type of bread, the type of ingredients, the type of toppings and even the amount of said toppings. (Although, the choice of "a little bit of mayonnaise" is still totally subjectable, leaving the customer at the mercy of a hair-netted, name-tagged, minimum-wage earner.) When the order process is completed, a little box spits out a barcoded receipt. The customer takes the receipt to the cashier to scan. The customer pays and returns to the order area to pick up the tightly wrapped sandwich, usually ready and waiting. Regular customers of Wawa are used to the whole procedure and engage in it often. I know I do.

The whole touchscreen system is very intuitive, even for the most technology-fearing customer. This past Monday, while I punched out my selection for two hoagies, I overheard a guy at another touchscreen terminal. Actually, everybody in the place overheard this guy. He was screaming. 

I have noticed that people who insist on talking on their phones everywhere they go, love to scream. They have no issues with discussing personal issues — at top volume — while casually walking down the street, sitting on a bus, standing in a checkout line at Target or just about any public place. Well, this guy in Wawa was screaming into his phone. As the conversation unfolded, it became clear that he was ordering hoagies for someone who had never eaten a hoagie before. It was not clear (but it was a distinct possibility) if the person on the other end of the conversation had ever seen a hoagie. Perhaps these two — the guy at Wawa and his unseen conversation partner — were new to the area. Perhaps they just moved here and were unfamiliar with the local delicacy known as "the hoagie" and how Philadelphians place it in the same esteem as soft pretzels, "wooder oice" and — yes! — Benjamin Franklin and the "Liverty Bell." I would have given this pair the benefit of the doubt — except the guy was sporting a Phillies cap and an Eagles "Super Bowl Champions" t-shirt.

The conversation went a little like this...

GUY IN WAWA: What size hoagie do you want?

VOICE ON PHONE: Size? What do you mean "size?"

GIW: Size! Six inch? Ten inch?

VOP: Well, how big is the ten inch?

GIW(rolls his eyes and stares at the phone): TEN INCHES! Y'KNOW... LIKE TEN INCHES LONG! Y'KNOW BIG!

VOP: Um, then, six inches, I guess.

GIW: What kind of hoagie do you want?

VOP: Well, what kinds do they have? Do they have chicken salad?

GIW: They have the regular kind that everybody has.

VOP: Do they have Italian? Can I get an Italian, but with chicken salad?

GIW: What? No, they don't have chicken salad! You just want an Italian hoagie, then?

VOP: Well, what's on an Italian hoagie?

GIW: I don't know! I guess the regular stuff that's on an Italian hoagie anywhere!

VOP: Do they have cheese? Can I get cheese? Do they have Swiss cheese? Can I get Swiss cheese on my Italian hoagie? You say they don't have chicken salad? I really wanted an Italian chicken salad hoagie.

At this point, the GIW walks — no! stomps! — away from the touchscreen area and ducks down one of the merchandise aisles. After a minute or so, he emerges, still speaking into his phone at the very top of his voice.

GIW: ... you can can get lettuce, if you want. Yes, and tomatoes. What? No, they don't have chicken salad.

The number on my receipt was called and my hoagies were ready. I picked them up and left.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

crazy game

My son has become enamored with all things Japanese. He recently visited the Land of the Rising Sun and it only heightened his admiration and love for the country and its culture — especially its pop culture. And Japan is brimming with pop culture. A lot of it is a happy amalgam of traditional Japanese lore mixed with a skewed interpretation of American influence and iconography. This produces an interesting blend that is compelling and flashy, but uniquely Japanese.

My son recently enjoyed? endured? experienced? a screening of a 1985 Japanese cult science-fiction musical comedy called The Legend of the Stardust Brothers. The movie — all 100 confounding minutes of it — started life as a concept album by a non-existent Japanese pop group called The Stardust Brothers. Inspired by the quirky The Rocky Horror Picture Show and the even quirkier The Phantom of the Paradise, Japanese singer-songwriter-producer Haruo Chicada wrote a dozen songs and released the album in 1980. A few years later, filmmaker Makoto Tezuka (son of manga legend Osamu Tezuka, creator of Astro Boy, Kimba the White Lion and a zillion other beloved Japanese animated properties) adapted Chicada's work into a live-action, big-screen presentation.

Although my son got to watch The Legend of the Stardust Brothers in a proper theater, I managed to track down the film on one of the free streaming services available though my cable television provider. On a Sunday afternoon, after watching the Phillies drop an early season game to the beleaguered Washington Nationals, I spoke the magic words — "The Legend of the Stardust Brothers" — into the voice-activated search feature on my cable box remote control. My TV screen came alive with several options on which I could view my son's cinematic recommendation. With a few quick navigations, I settled back to watch The Legend of the Stardust Brothers.

The film is about.... um.... it's about... well, it's sort of.... I mean.... it's kind of.....

Honestly, I don't know what it was about. I watched it. At its conclusion, one hour and forty minutes after it started, I wasn't quite sure what I had just seen. Admittedly, it was filled with catchy songs. There were two main characters who seem to be just as bewildered as I was. There was a girl and there was a guy with dark glasses and thick sideburns. There were two bumbling inept security guards. There was a guy who looked like David Bowie. There were girls in shiny jumpsuits. There were monsters. There were gangsters. There was a little cartoon. It was colorful and fast-moving. It featured a lot of jumpy camera work and quick cuts. Did I mention that the songs were catchy? 

Was it bad? No, not really. It held my interest, from a curiosity standpoint. Was it good? No, not really. It was cute, but nearly plotless. The budget for this movie looked to be about 261 yen. (That approximately $1.80 American). But, the songs sure were catchy.

a dedication

I saw The Phantom of the Paradise in its original theatrical release in 1974. I loved it. It was the coolest movie I had ever seen. Granted, I was 13 and it was replaced on my "Gauge of Coolness" just a few moths later by the Who's silver screen adaption of  the rock opera Tommy. I saw The Rocky Horror Picture Show after its midnight showing buzz reached me in my sheltered Northeast Philadelphia cocoon. I ventured down to the exotic world of Philadelphia's notorious South Street to witness the rice-throwing, talk-back-to-the-screen spectacle for myself. Years later, I could definitely see the influence both of these films had on the filmmakers in bringing The Legend of the Stardust Brothers to fruition.

After the final credits scrolled to darkness, I called my son. When he answered the phone, I merely said: "What did you just make me watch?" This echoed my son's own retort after I made him sit by my side to view my newly-purchased DVD of The Phantom of the Paradise approximately two decades ago.

I guess now we're even.

The songs were catchy, though.

The Legend of the Stardust Brothers is streaming for free on Freevee and Tubi.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

who's that girl?

Mrs. Pincus and I made plans to meet some friends for dinner. We decided on The Pub, a restaurant that is somewhat of a local legend in the Philadelphia-South Jersey area. The Pub, as we often joke, is the "land that time forgot." It boasts an enormous dining room appointed with dark wood, suits of armor, various coats of arms and a number of taxidermied animal heads. (Perhaps some which have made it to the menu?) The Pub prides itself on serving huge hunks of steaks, broiled right before your eyes by a battalion of toque blanche-wearing chefs, plying their cooking skills over flaming coals. What — you may ask — would a vegetarian such as myself find to eat at a steakhouse? (Okay, maybe you didn't ask, but I'm telling you anyway.) In addition to a wide selection of animal-based dinners, The Pub also has twin salad bars that stretch a good thirty feet, laden with freshly-cut vegetables, giant vats of dressing, huge bowls of prepared cold specialty salads, house-made corn bread and zucchini bread, wedges of cheese from which guests can cut their own preferred-size slice and their locally-renowned Caesar salad. It's terribly overpriced, but you can help yourself as many times as you like.

Our trips to The Pub always include a pre-dinner visit to a large thrift store right across the street. Over the years, the store has changed ownership several times and now it has joined the ranks of 2nd Avenue Thrift, an international chain of stores — operating under a few different names — with over 300 locations across the United States, Canada and even Australia. Speaking of "the land that time forgot," that's exactly with a trip to a thrift store is. And the shelves at 2nd Avenue Thrift tell a story with every vase, knick-knack, appliance and donated wedding dress on display.

I am not a big fan of thrift shops, but this one I can tolerate. As Mrs. P scours the day's offerings, I usually find myself snapping pictures to post on social media, accompanied by a typical Josh Pincus smart-ass comment that you've come to know and love.... or at least know. 

Our friends — Cookie and Consuelo — arrived a little before we did and already had accumulated a little pile of items in their shopping cart. In the second aisle — the one filled with shelf after shelf of picture frames of varying sizes — Consuelo pointed out something that was definitely right up the Josh Pincus alley. Dotting the shelves among the variety of picture frames, there were a few that stood out like a sore thumb — a sad, neglected, forgotten sore thumb. 

Most of the picture frames were empty. Others had the sample photo that comes in the frame when it is originally offered for purchase in a regular retail store. It's usually a happy couple staring longingly into each others eyes or a serene view of a lake framed by fall foliage, mimicking a photo that you yourself may have taken on a cherished vacation. Stock photos like these are placed in frames much in the way an appetizing photo of a pizza slice or a gravy-drenched Salisbury steak appears on the packaging of a frozen dinner with the inconspicuous disclaimer "SERVING SUGGESTION" tucked just above the net weight. But a few frames showed a photo of a smiling Asian young lady in several different surroundings and in several different outfits. In one, she is beaming, seated at a restaurant table between two women around her age. One of the women's faces is slightly obscured by a large price sticker. The other woman is actually just an arm, but it is most definitely a feminine arm. The subject of the photo is wearing a dark blue shirt with white pinstripes. She is also sporting a blue lei around her neck, leading me to believe that this is a moment from some sort of celebration — captured in time. There is a hint of a gift bag in the foreground, offering further support for my "celebration" theory. Next to this photo was another one of the same young lady. In this shot, she is displaying the same smile as in the other photo. She is seated — rather closely — to a man whose face is mostly covered by a price sticker. They appear to be in a formal setting, like a reception or a fancy restaurant, as the man is wearing a sport jacket and the young lady is wearing a red, sleeveless top, possibly a dress.

Further along the shelf was a fancy frame with another photo of the same young lady. In this one, she is crouched down to put her on the same level as a perky-eared German Shepherd. She's wearing a spaghetti-strap dress and she has a different style to her hair, a possible clue that this was taken in a different year than the other photos. Next to that was a smaller gold frame showing an older couple with a young child between them. Upon closer inspection, one can surmise that the young child is the young lady from the previous photos. The child is wearing pajamas or a costume of some kind and her face is dabbed with colorful make-up, specifically a big red dot on her nose. She is smiling in a similar fashion as the young lady in the adjacent frames. The same older couple (though slightly younger) are in an nearby framed picture. In that one, they are pictured without the little girl, but it is absolutely the same couple. 

Then, there was a larger frame with a slightly older version of the little girl in a swimming pool. She is floating inside an inflatable ring decorated with colorful stripes. Her bowl-cut hairdo is wet against her head, but the smile gives her away as being the same child. Then, there's a group photo in a square frame. It's a typical family including — I can only imagine — brothers, sisters, spouses, cousins and their children posed on the front steps of a home. At the very bottom, next to a happy woman holding a baby and a toddler, is the young girl. Again, she is smiling. It should be noted that everyone in the photo appears to be stereotypical "white bread and mayonnaise" Caucasian, right down to their restricted country club outfits and corporate America haircuts. The young lady is the only Asian in the photo... adding to the gathering mystery unfolding on the thrift store shelves. Further down, separated by several empty frames propped up on their built-in easel backs, was another photo. This one was sort of faded as though its original display spot was a windowsill or a shelf in the path of daily direct sunlight. But there was the young lady, this time in her pre-teen years. She appears to be about eleven or twelve and is posed with two Caucasian girls and a Caucasian boy, all about her age. The four youngsters are gathered excitedly around Chip, the beloved Disney chipmunk, sans his otherwise ubiquitous "partner-in-crime" Dale. Noting the collapsed beach umbrellas in the background, this picture was probably taken on a family vacation at the Walt Disney World resort. I don't recognize any of the other children from the group photo on the house front steps, but I'd venture to guess that they are close acquaintances or maybe adoptive family.

I spent a little bit more time in the picture frame aisle as my wife made her way towards knick-knacks and a wall of bagged, mismatched toys. I looked at the photos on the shelves for a good long time, devising a story about how these frames met their final fate and wound up for sale on the shelves of a thrift shop in Pennsauken, New Jersey. Based on the approximate age of the constant young lady in the photos, I imagine that she was adopted by a member of the Caucasian family also featured in the photos. I envisioned a young couple enrolling into an international adoption program and filing for the adoption of a child from a distant Asian country. They probably took a long flight to the other side of the world to meet their new child and bring her to her new home. On the return flight, they anxiously discussed introducing her to their family — and what would become their new daughter's new family. At first, Mom and Dad (or Grandma and Grandpa) did not approve of the whole affair. Their rigid, upper class, elitist and segregated upbringing shunned the mingling of races. The very thought of an Asian grandchild was positively unheard of and could prove to be an embarrassment in the eyes of their longtime friends at church, the tennis club and other social circles. But, as time went on, they softened. They relented and, most importantly, they came to love their granddaughter as much as they loved their natural-born grandchildren (as is revealed in the third photo described above). The young girl grew up and was accepted by her adopted family. She was welcomed with unconditional love and became a part of the family. And she loved being with her family — really the only family she ever knew.

Then, tragically, the girl passed away. Suddenly. An illness, undetected and undiagnosed at first, but sadly, untreatable, took her swiftly and unexpectedly. When she died, at such a young age with her entire life still ahead, her family was devastated. Soon after the funeral, several members of her family volunteered to gather up her belongings in her small apartment — the apartment she just moved into after landing a new job. Feeling helpless and distraught, they dropped the few boxes of clothing and other belongings off at 2nd Avenue Thrift. In their hurry, they didn't even take the time to remove memory-filled photos from frames. It was just too painful and they weren't thinking straight. The family just wanted to move on and, in the process, hastily erase the memory of their young daughter/granddaughter/cousin/niece. The unfettered employees at 2nd Avenue Thrift just did their jobs. They assessed the haul, priced the individual items and placed them out for sale in the appropriate sections of the store — laying bare the short, bittersweet life of this poor young lady for the vulture-like clientele of 2nd Avenue Thrift to pick over, like the carcass of a mangled animal exposed on the African veldt.

Or maybe she just had enough of this shit cluttering up her apartment.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

the times they are a-changing

Before I begin this story, there are a couple of terms that I reference. One is "rip rap." See that picture above? That's rip rap. According the Environmental Protection Agency and several commercial construction companies, rip rap is described as: "a range of rocky material placed along shorelines, bridge foundations, steep slopes, and other shoreline structures to protect from scour and erosion. Rocks used range from 4 inches to over 2 feet. The size of the rock needed on a project depends on the steepness of the slope and how fast water is moving." The other term is "heartless." Rip rap plays an integral part in this story. So does the term "heartless." But, I'm sure you already know what that means.

In 1837, prominent Philadelphia doctor John A. Elkinton made plans to build a rural-style cemetery on property that he owned — approximately 20 acres — at Broad and Berks Streets. He envisioned a bucolic space filled with winding paths, landscaped foliage and beautifully designed monuments to serve as a gathering place for families — as was the practice for cemeteries in the 19th century. This would be Philadelphia's second such style of cemetery after the celebrated Laurel Hill which occupies 74 acres along the Schuylkill River. After the Civil War, Dr. Elkinton contracted local artist John Sartain to design and supervise construction of a gothic gatehouse, as well as a 67-foot tall obelisk that would serve as a centerpiece of the cemetery. The base of the obelisk was adorned with two bronze plaques honoring George Washington and the Marquis de Lafayette and their achievements in the American Revolution. 

Patterned after France's Père Lachaise Cemetery, Monument Cemetery grew to be just what Dr. Elkinton had hoped for — a pastoral jewel in the thick of Philadelphia's bustling commerce. However, by 1929, Monument Cemetery was considered full. That is, it had run out of room to accept any more burials. When a cemetery can no longer accept burials, it no longer has a source of income. In the days before "perpetual care" was a "thing," loss of income was bad for cemeteries. The grounds became overgrown and unkempt. It slowly fell into a state of progressive disrepair. The once beloved rural gathering spot became a reviled blemish in the eyes of the surrounding neighborhood. It was a neighborhood that was now more interested in urban expansion and no longer felt the need for a glorified "park." The gatehouse was demolished to extend Berks Street. Temple University, founded just after the opening of Monument Cemetery, was slowly but surely growing, adding a medical and dental school as well as a school for teacher training and nursing.

Just after the end of World War II, Temple, a public university under the auspices of the state of Pennsylvania, was looking to establish itself as a commuter school. The addition of parking lots would figure prominently into that plan. A deal was made by Temple to purchase Monument Cemetery, its precious land being the perfect spot for a parking lot and proposed athletic fields. In 1954, Temple University purchased 11 1/2 acres of Monument Cemetery. The remaining land would be acquired by the School District of Philadelphia where it would become the future home of George Washington Carver Elementary School. As part of the agreement, Temple contacted 728 families of relatives interred at Monument Cemetery. Only 728 families could be identified and tracked down — 728 of the over 28,000 bodies buried there. Of the 728, only 300 families responded and those 300 had their relatives' remains and grave markers moved to new burial places, most going to Lakeview Cemetery in Rockledge, Pennsylvania, just outside the city limits in the Northern suburbs. The remaining bodies were moved to a mass grave at Lakeview.... allegedly. Over the years, records have been lost and it is unclear where exactly the mass grave is located. Residents recall watching excavation equipment dig up graves and earthly remains and dump them into the backs of trucks that would drive away... somewhere. The process of moving the bodies and graves took over four years. However, the headstones from Monument Cemetery would experience a different fate.

© pwbaker - flickr

The original headstones and grave markers — some engraved with ornate gothic designs and embellishments — were sold to a local construction company. In 1969, when construction began on the Betsy Ross Bridge, a steel truss bridge that spans the Delaware River between the Bridesburg section of Philadelphia and Pennsauken, New Jersey, the surplus grave markers from Monument Cemetery were strewn haphazardly along the muddy shoreline to serve as rip rap. Although its actual whereabouts have been lost in a clerical shuffle, it is believed that the 67-foot, Sartain-designed obelisk was crushed, its pieces mingled among the other rocks and stones on the banks of the Delaware. The grave stones, however, were not ground up. They were placed in their full, unbroken form on the shore. At low tide, many headstones — with etched names and dates fully legible — can still be seen poking out of the mud and rocks. Some are not the least bit buried.

In 2025, this scenario is perceived as "thoughtless," greedy," "arrogant," and "soulless" on the part of Temple University and the city of Philadelphia. But, in 1954, the neighborhood was only too happy to see the overgrown and abandoned Monument Cemetery cleaned up by the benevolent University in its quest to expand education. They didn't care how the space was "cleaned up" and they certainly didn't care about Monument Cemetery anymore.

Be careful how you judge. Hindsight is 20-20, but sometimes our hindsight could benefit from a stronger prescription.

The story of Monument Cemetery and its fate can be found in greater detail at Hidden City and The Cemetery Traveler.

www,joshpincusiscrying.com

better man

I used to make regular trips to the neighborhood dry cleaner when I worked in a downtown law firm and was required to dress in what has become known as "business casual.". Now, in my current job, tucked away in the behind-the-scenes world of the pre-press department of a large commercial printer, no one cares how I dress. My standard work clothes are jeans and t-shirts, not that far off from how I dressed in high school. So, my stock of button-down shirts now hang silently in my closet, hoping to be pulled out for that rare visit to a classy restaurant or the off chance I get invited to a wedding. Well it just so happens, Mrs. P and I are going to a wedding tomorrow. The shirt I wore to the last wedding I attended hung on a hook in our bedroom closet, patiently waiting to be taken to the dry cleaner. That happened this week and, today, I went to pick it up.

My little suburban Philadelphia neighborhood is home to a large number of affluent families. Throughout its 1.74 square mile area, there are large sprawling properties boasting homes that could arguably be labeled "mansions." I do not live in one of those. I live on a block where the homes were originally built to accommodate the servants of the likes of Peter Widener (a prominent nineteenth century businessman) and William Elkins (another businessman and co-founder of the Philadelphia Rapid Transit Company with Widener). But, just down the street from my house are residences designed and built by noted Gilded Age architect Horace Trumbauer. 

It has been my experience that "affluence" walks hand-in-hand with "arrogance." And that certainly is the case in my little corner of the world. Without going into a lot of messy detail, let's just say that a certain contingency of my neighbors believe that if you are not rich or white, then you are beneath them socially and intellectually. And you are treated as thus. I have seen it first hand in the supermarket and in the post office. I used to see it on the train when I took the train to work daily. I would watch as men — in stylish suits holding fancy leather briefcases — pushed themselves in front of a gathering of people as the train pulled into the station. They believed that their income and perceived social status entitled them to board first. Once aboard, they'd spread their belongings across a seat made for two. On crowded mornings, when seating was at a premium, they would only relinquish their seats when asked a few times. And even then it would be done begrudgingly.

I have seen these same folks belittle cashiers or municipal workmen or even workers who they themselves hired. Conversely, they have also spoken to these same laborers as though they were children with limited understanding, using slow, condescending tones.

This morning, when I entered the dry cleaner, there was one of my neighbors already at the counter in mid-transaction. The dry cleaner is owned by an Asian family that has operated the business for a million years. They are friendly, accommodating and just a little bit over-priced, but — in their defense — they charge what the neighborhood will bear. 

I waited patiently with my little pick-up receipt in hand as my neighbor finished his business. He pulled a pair of pants from the pile of clothing on the counter and showed it to the woman who was helping him. The guy was wearing long basketball shorts and expensive sneakers with no socks. He had a pair of expensive-looking sunglasses propped up on his head like a headband. There was a chunky gold chain around his neck. His Maserati SUV was idling in the small parking lot.

He pulled a pair of pants from the pile of clothes on the counter and held them up to the woman who was helping him. "These pants," he began, "are tailored pants. I want them let out in the legs and the seat." The woman examined the pants, running her hand over the material. "Let out.," she muttered absentmindedly. Since she was obviously not white and probably not rich, the man automatically placed her in a social standing far below his own... so, he repeated, "These pants are tailored pants." The volume of his voice increased. "I want them let out in the legs and the seat. They were tailored when I was twenty and they don't fit well now. I need them let out. All the way!" He emphasized "All the way!," as though the pants were made with an endless supply of fabric, folded up like an accordion, and able to be "let out" or "taken in" at will. The woman frowned and shook her head. "Hmmm....," she whispered as she gathered her thoughts to answer. The man interpreted her lack of an immediate answer as a case of a language barrier. Specifically, his expert command of universally-understood English versus her feeble and inferior Asian tongue. Again, he raised his voice to a level too loud for such a small indoor space and especially too loud for a conversation with someone standing less than a foot way. And, again, he repeated, "These are tailored pants. I want them let out in the legs and the seat. All the way! As much as they can go." The condescending tone increased with the volume. The woman finally replied. "Get new pants.," she said. "New pants?," he questioned. "Yes," she confirmed, "It will cost more money to do this than a new pair of pants would cost." "So, you can't just let them out" he pressed. (It had become obvious to me and to the woman that this guy had no clue how "let them out" worked from a physics standpoint.) "No.," she replied. He pushed the rest of his clothes across the counter and left.

I stepped up to the counter and handed over my receipt. "Picking up,?" the woman asked. I nodded.

The man returned a just second later. He loudly announced that he had left his finished dry cleaning hanging on the "pick-up" rack. He chuckled nervously as he grabbed the clothing, neatly covered in plastic and uniform on bundled hangers.

The woman at the counter didn't even look up.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

if I can't have you

On Sunday, my wife and I took our son to one of his favorite stores - H Mart. We actually live equidistant from two H Marts, but he chose to go to the larger one. (Just as a side note, the smaller H Mart is the actual one that is referenced in Michelle Zauner's best-selling memoir Crying in H Mart.) Okay, maybe the larger H Mart is a bit further from our house than the one that traumatized the lead singer of Japanese Breakfast, but, nevertheless, we obliged my son and his shopping list and drove the extra mile.

This particular H Mart is at the end of a large, L-shaped shopping center. Closer to where we parked in the very busy, very congested parking lot is a Family Dollar store. When we got out of our car, my son made a beeline towards H Mart, while my wife announced that she was going to check out the Family Dollar store and we would meet up with him shortly. I had never been in a Family Dollar store, despite their having over 8000 locations nationwide. As a matter of fact, before their 2015 acquisition by rival Dollar Tree, Family Dollar was the second largest retailer — of its kind — in the country.... and neither Mrs. P nor I had ever been inside one. Well, that was about to change. As they say, you're never too old to do new things... although I suppose the proverbial "they" were referring to skydiving or learning a foreign language.

Excitedly, we breached the door of Family Dollar and — let me tell you — this place was a shithole of the highest level. I mean it put other shitholes to shame! If they gave awards for shitholes.... well, you get it. I'm not sure what I was expecting, but I should have been expecting the same strange amalgamation of mismatched, out-of-fashion, discontinued, brand name knock-off crap that I have seen in other dollar stores. Family Dollar was no different. Its aisles were alternately jammed and empty. Some were stocked with big bottles of laundry detergent whose alternative brand labels were faintly reminiscent of Tide or Cheer. Adjacent aisles sported empty shelves with just one or two items — a pair of generic sneakers and a few cookbooks by a TV chef whose show has not presented new episodes in years — and all sorts of other merchandise littering the floor. The toy department displayed boxes of things that looked like Lego alongside packaged superhero figures from a movie that made its big premiere in theaters for the lucrative Christmas season... the Christmas season of 2019.

Mrs. P, with her keen eye, spotted a small counter display box with PVC figures of characters from the film The Nightmare Before Christmas. These, she thought preemptively, could serve as small gifts for children (neighbors that Mrs. P undeservingly fawns over) or could eventually make it out to one of our world-famous (or neighborhood famous, at least) yard sales — if they were cheap enough. There was a small sticker on each figures' backing card that showed the price as $1.25. Mrs. P grabbed all of them (about eight or nine) and handed me the box to carry as we scouted the store for more "treasures." In the very next aisle, there were hooks of various hair accessories. "Ooh!," my wife said, "I should grab a couple of hair ties for my mom." Mrs. P — as we have already established — is the nicest person in world. She regularly checks in and tends to her parents who are of an advanced age and are not nearly as mobile as they once were. Especially, my mother-in-law. On a regular basis, Mrs. P washes and combs her mother's hair, often tying it back to keep it neat and out of the way. Being the nice person she is, my wife thought some new hair ties would be a sweet surprise for her mom. She selected two different styles and tossed them in the box with the Nightmare figures.

We made our way through the narrow aisles until we decided we had seen enough. (Actually, I had seen enough as soon as I walked through the doorway.) Anyway, we took our small purchases up to the checkout counter and laid them out. We were greeted by a friendly young man who picked up the first figure and waved it across the electric eye of the price scanner. It beeped and the LED readout on the cash register showed ".01." The cashier scrunched up his face at the price and turned to another young man who was by the doors straightening the small shopping carts. The other man craned his neck to see the lighted display. He explained to the cashier, "If something comes up 'just a penny,' that means you can't sell it. It's old merchandise and you just gotta throw it away."

I have been shopping in stores for many, many, many years. I have even worked in my share of retail stores, some on the large chain level and others of the "Mom & Pop" variety. Never — and I do mean never — have I ever been instructed to throw away a perfectly saleable item — in full view of a customer — because a "secret code" price popped up. But this guy stood firm. He was adamant about not letting the cashier sell these figures to us at any price. He stood by as the cashier gathered up the nine or so figures, walked them over to a nearby trash receptacle behind the counter and deposited them with an audible clunk. He returned sheepishly from carrying out his duty as a loyal and abiding employee of  Family Dollar and asked if we still wanted the hair ties. The man who was straightening the shopping carts stood defiantly with his arms crossed, a smirk on his face, silently exuding pride in his flagrant toeing of the corporate line.

"Yes, please," replied Mrs. Pincus and the cashier continued to ring up our remaining item, in this case, just the hair ties. A woman, in some managerial capacity, stood behind the cashier and slowly shook her head in soundless disagreement. Once the now-abbreviated transaction was completed, we left the store. Mrs. P politely held the door for someone who followed us out. It was the manager woman, whose shift for the day had just ended. We all walked out to the parking lot together. The manager woman was still shaking her head, adding a few "tsk tsks" under her breath. Mrs. P chuckled. The woman smiled and said, "I would have sold them to you or just given them to you... if he wasn't there." The "he" was obviously the shopping cart straightener whose job — it appeared — also included loss prevention, inventory control, corporate policy and telling the teacher it was five minutes before three o'clock and homework had not yet been assigned.

We took our purchases — our two purchases — to our car and tossed them in the back among a collection of shopping bags, a few empty boxes and  assorted other items that have accumulated in Mrs. P's vehicle. We went to meet our son in H Mart.

A few days later, Mrs. P asked if the hair ties she bought for her mother ever made it into our house. I said I didn't bring them in and I wasn't sure where they were. She called our son to see if he inadvertently picked them up along with the stuff he bought at H Mart. He had not. Mrs. P looked in the back seat of her car. She looked in the surplus bags. She looked in the boxes. She even checked with her mother's belongings to see if she brought them in to her parents' house and simply forgot. Nope. Nothing.

I am never going to Family Dollar again.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

get out of here with that (boom * boom * boom)

As a twenty-plus year seller on eBay (Oh for crissakes! NO! She will not sell your stuff!), Mrs. Pincus joined a Facebook group called "eBay For Beginners." She joined to offer her years of experience on the commerce website to those who are just starting out as sellers and are overwhelmed by the whole thing. The membership is mostly comprised of novice sellers, hoping to cash in on the untold riches they've been told are available on eBay. On a daily — sometimes hourly — basis, folks posts questions and scenarios that are filled with a combination of wonder and wrong information. After reading responses to these questions, Mrs. P chimes in with a clear-headed solution, based on a previous experience with the issue at hand. After twenty-seven years, she has seen it all and has become somewhat of an expert on the ins and outs of the mighty online auction and "buy-it-now" website. She has fielded questions about shipping and the head-scratching policies of the United States Postal Service. She has deciphered eBay policies that can sometimes be very confusing to new sellers. She has offered tips and tricks to make for more visible and enticing listings. She has even identified mysterious items that someone discovered while digging through Grandma's attic in hopes of finding some priceless antique that will result in a huge monetary return.

Like this one...

An anonymous member in the group (as anonymously identified by the user name "Anonymous Member) posted multiple images of a particular item. The user asked for assistance in identifying this piece. The item in question — a double ceramic cup decorated with dainty flowers and a large handle joining the two vessels — was like nothing this particular user had ever seen. They came to the good, sometimes helpful, folks in the "eBay For Beginners" group for some help.

In addition to her years of eBay experience, Mrs. Pincus has many more years of experience attending assorted Jewish religious services and practices. Immediately, upon seeing the photos, Mrs. P knew exactly what she was looking at. She explained that this was a ritual handwashing cup that is used before a meal. A blessing is recited and a bit of water is poured from the cup onto each hand to cleanse before eating. The wording on the overarching handle reads "Al Nitilat Yadayim" in Hebrew. It translates to "taking up of the hands." She went on to explain that these cups are made from a variety of materials, including copper, silver, glass even carved wood and some come with a bowl to catch the excess water. Most often they are a single cup with two handles. Mrs. Pincus commented on the uniqueness of this one, adding that, although she had never seen on quite like it, it was most definitely a ritual hand-washing cup. (Curiously, it does not have a specific name, like "sure, that's a piece of clothing, but it's called a scarf" or  "yes, that's a part of a cow's muscular system, but it's called a hamburger.")

The anonymous user thanked Mrs. Pincus for the information. But, because it's the "never satisfied" internet, a few comments under Mrs. P's clear and concise explanation, was a comment from another member of the group who offered a contradictory take on the object, as though this was a game of  The Liar's Club. This person — one Janet Roberta Mahoney — asserted that, and I quote...

"I disagree that it's for handwashing as pouring from one side spills the other. Can't tell from the photo how big it is. Is the open part connected between the 2? If so, I'd say it was a vase."

I'm going out on a limb here, but I'd say that Mrs. Pincus has been to many more Passover seders than Ms. Mahoney. I would venture to guess that Mrs. Pincus has held as many ritual hand-washing cups as Ms. Mahoney has held shillelaghs. While I wouldn't question Ms. Mahoney's knowledge of leprechauns, the Blarney Stone or St. Patrick's secrets of ridding a country of snakes, I would like to know how many times she has sat through the full reading of the Magillah, how many times she kisses the mezzuzah affixed to her door jamb before she leaves the house or  how much cholent she has eaten in her lifetime. If the original post featured a photo of a thurible, I would trust Ms. Mahoney in her assessment and explanation of that piece and its function in the rituals of the Catholic Church. But, alas, it was a photo of a hand-washing cup adorned with Hebrew writing — something with which Mrs. Pincus is intimately familiar. This is a case of staying in your lane, Ms. Mahoney, even if that lane is on the left side of the road.

I have often said that Mrs. Pincus is the nicest person I know. I don't say that just because she is my wife. I genuinely believe she is the nicest person. However, after hanging around with ol' Josh Pincus for over forty years, some of that "Josh Pincus"-ness has unfortunately rubbed off on her. Every once in a while, a "Josh Pincus"-style remark slips through when a more "Mrs. Pincus" reply would be expected. Mrs. P read Ms. Mahoney's comment and replied: "You're wrong."

Kinehora.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com