the hottest spot north of havana

Just this week my son told me he was going to a show at a newish venue in Philadelphia called Nikki Lopez. I say "newish" because Nikki Lopez opened in the former location of South Street stalwart, the infamous JC Dobb's. JC Dobb's was a little hole-in-the-wall bar that featured the live music of a number of popular Philly bands as well as early career performances by bands like Nirvana, Pearl Jam and Rage Against the Machine. Dobb's opened and closed several times since its "official" closing in the mid-90s. Allegations of sexual assault by some of the venue's employees forced the current owner to put the place up for sale in 2023.

Early in 2025, JC Dobb's emerged again, this time under the name Nikki Lopez. Along with drinks and the promise of hot dogs, Nikki Lopez presents the same caliber of bands that Dobb's featured in its heyday— updated to fit into current trends in 21st century live indie music. The show my son went to fit square into that category.

On his way to Nikki Lopez, my son called to tell me that Copabanana, another staple on the South Street of my formative years, had closed. For good.

That made me sad, although I had not been to Copa (as it was affectionately known) for years. And by years, I mean way too many to count.

I have such fond memories of Copabanana. When I first met the future Mrs. Pincus, she lived in a small apartment just a few walkable blocks from South Street. We went to Copa often for a quick dinner and a taste of  their signature Spanish fries. Those were incredible. They were a simple combination of French fries, mixed with fried onions and fried green peppers. I could have sat at a table in Copa and eaten basket after greasy basket of their Spanish fries. I used to work at a popular ice cream shop on South Street. After work — sometimes around midnight — I'd stop at Copa and get an order of Spanish fries for Mrs. P and I to share, despite the late hour..

The atmosphere at Copa was always a little... shall we say.... shady. There was always some hoodlum-looking character catching a quick cigarette outside the kitchen door. He was the last person you'd want to be preparing your food. Once navigating the dark and foreboding bar — fully stocked with one unsavory individual after another — the dining room wasn't much better. The interior was a maze of close tables and winding passageways that, in another life, may have been a carnival fun house. The carpets were worn and sometimes damp. The air conditioning blew hot air and the in-house sound system broadcast more crackles than actual music. But it was funky and cool and it was the place to go on South Street. Their extensive menu offered burgers and sides and even a selection of vegetarian-friendly options long before that was "a thing."

More recently, from the confines of my safe suburban home, I would often keep up with local news concerning Copa. On a regular basis, stories would circulate about rent increases in the South Street neighborhood and Copa would face the possibility of closure. The stories and reports would dissipate and Copa would remain open... until the next story would make the local papers or appear as a footnote on the local news.

According to some superficial investigation, the current owner of Copabanana started a GoFundMe campaign in 2023 to help "save" the struggling restaurant from its financial burden. A proposed goal of $250,000, funds of which would be split between saving the restaurant and supplementing the health needs of its home-bound owner, had only garnered $165. 

I stumbled across a Reddit page on which both former employees and former patrons voiced their unbridled and uncensored opinions of the "beloved" bar and restaurant. Some called the place "disgusting." Others, including a user who claimed to have been a long-tenured waitress, labeled Copa "a shithole." Some wondered why the drug dealers who frequented the bar couldn't lend a financial hand. Another creative user posted a "musical" comment bookended with musical notes as "♬ Her name was Lola / She was a crackhead ♬," alluding to the similarly-titled Barry Manilow hit of from the 70s, while simultaneously noting the clientele. There were tender memories of fist fights, drunken regulars, surly and aggressive bartenders and that memorable damp carpet.

Still, there was something very comforting in knowing that Copa still existed, knowing I could still go there anytime I wished... although I had zero intentions of going.  But, I can still picture — with great clarity — the South Street landscape of the early 1980s. The TLA Cinema, Zipperhead, Paper Moon, Frank's Pizza, Keep In Touch, Skinz and yes, even Hilary's Ice Cream where I worked. And, of course, Copa — right there on the corner of 4th and South. Its purple walls and lime green trim standing like a guiding lighthouse for the punks and the weekend wannabe punks.

I remember when another legendary Philadelphia eatery closed its doors, the treasured Automat Horn & Hardart's. In the wake of changing trends in the restaurant industry, Horn & Hardart's, with over 100 locations, announced its closure in 1991. Folks, all sharing misty memories of the chain's glory days, flooded the corporate office with phone calls, expressing sadness and outrage. "How can you close?," the callers would demand. The corporate answer was a sardonic "When was the last time you ate at a Horn & Hardart's?"

I'll miss Copa, although I don't remember the last time I had their Spanish fries. They sure were good.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

razor's edge

I hate to shave. I. Hate. To. Shave. Hate it. Hate. It. I think I have made it pretty clear how I feel about shaving.... and that is..... I hate it.

I used to watch my dad shave. That was a nightly ritual for him. Nightly! My dad shaved every night. Every goddamn night! I had one of those toy razors that hung in the supermarket on the same racks as jacks and those little green army men whose feet were fused to a little slab of plastic so they could stand up. My mom would buy me one of those kiddie shaving kits and I would stand in the bathroom alongside my dad while he shaved. He'd smear lather all over my face and I'd mimic the faces my dad would make as he guided his razor around his nose and chin and Adam's apple. I imitated the same actions with my little one-piece, bladeless, plastic razor. One summer, my mom won a hot lather dispenser on a wheel in Atlantic City, Of course, she gave it to my dad. This little gadget, once loaded with a standard can of shaving cream, would spit out steaming lather, just like at the barber shop — well, at least the barber shops you saw on TV. My dad would extract a dollop of hot shaving cream for me and then one for himself and we were shaving like the rich folks did — in their rich bathrooms with their rich hot lather dispensers that rich people had... I guess. After the initial can of shaving cream was used up, my dad went back to shaving with unheated cream straight from the can.

I started shaving with a real razor when I was about sixteen. I started off using my dad's electric razor. (He had dispensed with his hot lather dispenser.) After using an electric razor, it never quite felt like I had shaved. When I was a teenager, however, it was cool to try to grow a beard. But, when I got a job scooping ice cream at a place where facial hair was frowned upon (like working at Disneyland or playing for the New York Yankees), I had to shave regularly. The guy that owned the ice cream place didn't care for the quality of the shave I received from my dad's electric razor. That's when I was forced to master the fine art of shaving with a razor. I bought a disposable razor (a cheapo Bic) and that did the trick. I was able to get rid of the first bits of "beard" that had sprouted on my teenage face — along with a layer of skin.

I've had a beard and/or mustache on and off for many years. It's not because I like how I look with facial hair. It's because I hate to shave (Please see the first paragraph to remind yourself of how I feel about shaving.) When I have grown a full beard, I rarely — if ever — trimmed it, because I considered that to be shaving. Once, at a job, a coworker asked me my age. I had a full beard at the time, peppered with gray hairs mixed among my natural brown. I chuckled and dared him to guess my age. He looked me up and down and ventured a guess that was fifteen years over my actual age. The next day, I saved my beard off. And I kept it off for years.

When I started working in the marketing department of a large law firm, I got into the habit of shaving every day. I was going through those disposable razors like firewood during a particularly cold winter. I was required to offer a presentable and professional appearance as a reflection of the law firm. Sure, I was dyeing my hair bright orange at the time, but it was always properly groomed and my face was always clean shaven. It was brutal and I hated shaving even more.

I no longer work at that law firm. Now I work for a commercial printing company. The dregs of society work for commercial printers and nobody gives a shit how I look. I can shave (or not shave) as often as I wish. So, I choose to not shave for as longa as I can, until I decide to finally shave. Sometimes I catch a glance of myself in the mirror and I notice I bear a striking resemblance to the guy that Aladdin runs into in the dungeon that's actually the evil Jafar in disguise. (Except for the teeth. My teeth are in better shape and I have the dentist bills to prove it.) My beard — which now is fully white — is wild and unkept and badly in need of a trim. Better yet, I will determine upon closer inspection of my reflection, my beard should be cut off entirely. I always keep a stock of disposable razors on hand, but, Mrs. Pincus found a Gillette Fusion razor she had received as a trial sample someplace. She asked if I wanted to give it a try. I shrugged and said, "Sure. What the heck!"

The Gillette Company makes a lot of razors in a wide variety of prices and they all do pretty much the exact same thing. The Fusion razor, which employs a five-blade cartridge, runs around twenty-two bucks. The one Mrs. P gave me was free — a promotion used to get a potential customer to purchase refill blades in the future. I got one shave out of the non-brand name disposable razors I was using. By the time I got around to shaving, my coarse beard would render the blades unusably dull by the end of a shaving session. I took the new razor, my trusty electric beard trimmer and can of shaving cream and went into the bathroom to rid my face of several week's of beard growth. The Gillette Fusion was terrific! Without trying to sound like a commercial, it was the closest, smoothest shave I have ever had. I rinsed off the Gillette Fusion and stuck it in the medicine cabinet,  hoping it would provide another close shave the next time I decided to employ its service — whenever that would be.

When I got around to shaving again (probably six or seven weeks later), I grabbed my Gillette Fusion and, once again, it delivered an equally close shave. No cuts, No nicks. Just a clean close shave. Jeez! I really am starting to sound like a commercial, but, I swear, I am not being sponsored by nor am I receiving any sort of compensation from the Gillette company. Again. I rinse any shaving cream residue and stray whiskers from my razor and stored it until needed.

This has been going on for months. I keep getting a great, close, clean shave from the same five blades attached to the Gillette Fusion handle. Months, I tell you! The blades are just as sharp, just as accurate as the day Mrs. P asked if I wanted to give it a try. Just to be safe, I bought a replacement pack of blades for fifteen bucks. I haven't touched those supplement blades yet, as the original set is just fine. The original blades have provided the greatest shaves I have had in nearly a half century of shaving.

I shaved just this morning (after catching a fleeting glimpse of what I thought was Santa Claus in a mirror). My ol' reliable Gillette Fusion is still showing no signs of dulling. I still hate shaving, but now... now.... it has become a test. A test of endurance. 

So far, Gillette is winning.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

dance for me

Halloween is a-coming! Time to decorate your house with ghosts and cobwebs (unless that is your everyday décor). Time to purchase giant bags of candy — some to even give out to groups of trick-or-treaters that will come a-knocking at your front door on October 31. You'll probably buy another bag of candy — the good stuff — that you'll eat before the days of the month reach double digits. The Reeses cups are too good to give out. The freeloading neighborhood kids will have to be content with Tootsie Rolls and Dum-Dums lollipops. If they don't like it.... well, you get what you pay for. (I believe that Halloween can be used as a teaching moment.)

When I was a kid, Halloween was a marathon of candy collecting. I lived in a big neighborhood with lots and lots of houses. Word would quickly spread through the groups of costumed children prowling the streets about a house that was handing out full-size Hershey bars. An apple received in good faith from some out-of-touch, childless old person would invariably be quickly returned via an impromptu Sandy Koufax imitation. Some years, I would stop back at my house to drop off my accumulated haul and to pick up a fresh pillow case that served as my collection bag. I could get enough candy to last nearly 'til Thanksgiving, with only a few unwanted Mary Janes and Bit O' Honey gracing the bottom of the bag.

When I grew up, got married and moved into my own house in the Philadelphia suburbs, Halloween was always active, but never as jam-packed or as busy as the Halloweens of my youth. When my son was little, we would only walk as far as the end of out block. He was usually too anxious to return to our house and see all the other kids' costumes. He figured that he could get candy from his parents anytime he wanted — and he was right.

Just after we moved in to our house and for several years following, we would recognize some of the kids who would come trick-or-treating at our house. And there was this one girl...  

Groups of kids would make their way up our front walk via a narrow paved path that stretches from the sidewalk to our front porch. Their parents, or the elected adult tasked with guiding them around for the evening, would wait on the sidewalk during the candy transaction taking place on our porch. Every year, a particular mom and dad would proudly present their precocious daughter for our entertainment pleasure. They'd help her climb the stairs to the "performance" area of our porch and prod her to amuse us with a little, choreographed dance routine, the result of countless hours of  afterschool and weekend practice. Decked out in a sequined and sparkly, but unrecognizable costume and a pair of shiny black tap shoes, this little girl would "5-6-7-8" her way into local Halloween immortality. Her parents would stand alongside of one of the stone support columns of our porch while this diminutive Shirley Temple wannabe kicked and tapped and buck-&-winged for a good three minutes. A good long three minutes. After the big finish and a loud round of applause from mom and dad, she'd stick her plastic pumpkin out for some sugar-spiked, chocolate-covered compensation. We'd oblige. The little girl would courtesy, just the way she was taught in dancing school, pirouette and descend the steps to the front walkway. Mrs. Pincus and I would, of course, scratch our heads and wonder what in the world we just witnessed.

This was an annual performance... until it wasn't.

In the over thirty years we have lived in our house, the amount of trick-or-treaters has slowly diminished. Kids grew up. Families moved away and the residents of the neighborhood got older. Some years, no more than five costumed kids have come begging for sweets.

I like to think that our yearly entertainer is probably knocking 'em dead on Broadway. For candy.

Or, perhaps, she's writing a letter to Dad-dy....

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

brief encounter

I was sitting at my desk at work when my phone rang. Not my desk phone. My cellphone. If my cellphone rings, and it's not a number I recognize, I do not answer it. I hate to talk on the phone and I certainly don't like to waste my time talking to someone I don't know well enough to have their phone number programmed into my contacts list. I stopped what I was doing and picked up my cellphone that was charging on a pad on my desk. As it continued to ring, the screen displayed the name and phone number of my insurance agent. My insurance agent retired a while ago I want to say months, but, lately I have come to realize that I have no skills for gauging the passage of time, so, it was probably more like a few years ago that he retired. As part of his retirement, he passed his customer list over to a new agent. The new agent kept the same phone number. I just never bothered to change the name to the new agent's name in my contacts.

Not my agent.

Regardless of who my insurance agent is, I still pay premiums on my car insurance, homeowner's insurance and life insurance when the bills come due. I pay them online, through the State Farm website, with just a few clicks of my mouse. And that's it. I really don't give much thought to my various insurance policies. I know the insurance on my car went up a few years ago when I replaced my twenty-year-old car with a new one. Spoke with an administrator in the office of my new insurance agent about the new rate and to update my policy with the pertinent information for my new vehicle. Aside from that, insurance is rarely, if ever, a topic of conversation.

Ummm... no thanks.

So, there's a call coming in from my new insurance agent. I stared at the display briefly before declining the call and getting back to work. I was surprised when I didn't hear the little tone that lets me know that someone had left me a voicemail message. I didn't dwell on that thought for too long, as I had work to do. As a matter of fact, I totally forgot about the whole thing.

Just this week, there I was at work again and my cell phone rang. Again. In a wave of deja-vu, I looked at my cell phone screen to see the name of my former insurance agent shining brightly above the options offered to either accept or reject the call. And, once again, I swiped the "red" option to reject the call and returned my attention to my work. This time, however, I heard that little "beep," alerting me that the rejected caller had left me a message. Since I knew who it was from and I knew I had no pressing business with them, I decided to wait until later in the day to listen to the message.

You've got mail

When I got home from work, my wife and I talked while we prepared dinner. The call from the insurance agent didn't even breach the conversation. After dinner, Mrs. P and I settled in front of the TV for an evening of sixty-year old Westerns or perhaps a Phillies game. With only half of my attention on the television, I noticed the little "voicemail" symbol on my phone. I punched in my security code and listened. A female voice identified herself as a representative from my new insurance agent's office. She went on to say that she'd like to discuss my insurance needs. She explained that she'd like to schedule a conference call with my new insurance agent that would take about thirty to forty-five minutes. She then instructed me to call back to set up such a call, reminding me of the call's importance.

When my wife and I bought our house in 1986, I called the closest insurance agent to our new home to get the homeowner's insurance required by the terms of our mortgage. I went to the guy's office and discussed the particulars. As long as I was there, I inquired about car insurance rates and was quickly presented with a list that was considerably cheaper that what we were currently paying. At the end of a meeting that took under ninety minutes, I walked out of the insurance agent's office with policies for homeowner's insurance and two new, less expensive, ones for our cars. The following year, when our son was born, I arranged for a life insurance policy for myself. That was done entirely over the phone by my agent's assistant. Over the years, we have had several claims on our insurance policies, most of which were handled on the phone. If any required a visit to the insurance office, either I or my wife, dealt with our agent's assistant. So, over the course of nearly forty years, I met my insurance agent a total of one time. Now, he is retired. If he decides — in his retirement — to turn to a life of crime and he is arrested, the police cannot rely on me to pick this guy out of a line-up.

I really, really want to call my new insurance agent and explain to her that I see no need to meet with, conference call with, or otherwise relate the current or future status of any of insurance policies I currently hold. If I feel the need to increase, decrease or otherwise alter my current insurance situation, I will surely let her know. In the meantime, I'm good. I'd also like to tell her that the one and only time I ever met my previous insurance agent was, most likely, before she was born.

I really, really want to. But I won't.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

cover me

My favorite radio station, WXPN in Philadelphia, just announced the theme for its annual "Countdown of the 885 Greatest..." whatever for this year. In the past, they have ranked albums, songs, artists over the course of a week or so in the early part of December. After opening up the voting to listeners via the station's website, the playback is subject to heated debates and angry disappointment by those who take countdowns and rating things waaaay too seriously. Countdowns (as well as halls of fame and awards shows) are meaningless. They are based on opinion and only opinion. However, people hold their opinions very dearly. Very dearly. Dearly enough that opinions have been known to cause fist fights and loss of friendship.

I rarely listen to WXPN's annual countdowns for any long period of time. Sometimes, I will tune in just for fodder for posting snarky comments on social media (something I am known to do) until I lose interest (something I am also known to do). Otherwise, I have no interest in knowing that Creedence Clearwater Revival's "Up Around the Bend" was voted the 432nd best song by a group comprised of a guy that hated his brother (Oasis' "Wonderwall" came in considerably higher.) I don't care to rank and rate music, so I never vote in the countdowns. I just want to listen to songs.

This year, the theme is The 885 Greatest Cover Songs (the station's signal comes in on 88.5, hence the randomness of the tallied amount of final entries). I love cover songs. I love to hear one artist's interpretation of another artist's composition, especially songs that are so-called "classics." I love to hear obscure versions of familiar songs. Conversely, I like to hear a familiar song, only to discover that the version everyone knows was previously recorded by someone else, but for some reason, just wasn't a hit. I like offbeat and unexpected takes on popular songs. Covers are cool and I just might listen to this year's countdown more than I did in years past.

Cover songs themselves can be broken down into subcategories of their own. One of my favorites (and I'm sure this will be brought up in the course of XPN's playback this year) is songs that you didn't know were covers. For example, "The Gambler" by Kenny Rogers. Not only is that song a cover, but it's the third recording after the original version. The song was recorded by country singer Bobby Bare. It did not chart, so the song's composer Don Schlitz recorded it himself, with similar results. Johnny Cash included it on his 1978 album Gone Girl. Kenny Rogers took a shot with it the same year and scored a Number One hit on the Billboard Country chart. It reached Number 16 on Billboard's Hot 100. Another surprising cover is "Superstar," the eerie ballad that reached Number 2 on the Billboard chart for The Carpenters in 1971. It was originally recorded by folk-rock duo Delaney and Bonnie in 1969. Richard Carpenter saw Bette Midler sing the song on The Tonight Show late one night and thought it would be perfect for his sister's vocals. He was right. How about Barry Manilow's signature "I Write the Songs?" Yep. A Cover. It was originally recorded by pop husband-and-wife duo The Captain & Tennille in May 1975 and released as a non-charting single by teen idol David Cassidy before Manilow reluctantly recorded it a few months later. It hit Number One for Manilow. The song's author, Beach Boy Bruce Johnston, included the tune on his own solo record and Frank Sinatra re-recorded it as "I Sing The Songs," entirely missing the song's meaning.

Other songs like Blondie's "Hanging on the Telephone," "I Love Rock 'N' Roll" by Joan Jett and The Blackhearts and even Chubby Checker's "The Twist" are all covers. Yes sir... this year's countdown is going to be a wild ride.

The voting opened just a few days ago and runs until the end of October. Voters are limited to a list of ten songs. I have been compiling my list since the theme was announced. My list, of course, will not represent the best cover songs, because that is merely opinion. There is no "best." I will just submit a list of some of my favorite cover songs. I suppose songs will be ranked by how many people vote for the same song. If that's the case, none of my selections will even make the list. But that's okay. I can listen to them anytime I want.

And at this point, my list of ten songs has been whittled down to twenty. But, I have plenty of time to vote.

I know my list will include THIS GEM. It's my favorite cover song of all time.

You can vote in WXPN's Countdown HERE.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

life in the fast lane

A few days ago, I went to my son's house after work. Although I live in Pennsylvania, I work in New Jersey. As a matter of fact, my last three jobs have been in the Garden State. Many people who live in Philadelphia and the immediate surrounding suburbs work in New Jersey. It's really not that far and there are several bridges that take an interstate traveler to essentially the same place. New Jersey is weird that way. (New Jersey is weird in other ways, but that's a subject for another blog post.)

This would have saved Sonny Corleone's life.

When I first started working in New Jersey, I immediately purchased an EZ Pass. This ingenious little invention mounts conveniently on my car's windshield and allows easy (or, in this case EZ) access to special lanes on toll bridges. There is some sort of electronic reader mounted high above the EZ Pass lane that scans a car's EZ Pass and deducts the toll amount from the users' account. Or (in my case) charges a credit card that's on file in the EZ Pass system. It's quick, convenient and avoids any contact with a human being — three selling points that make me very happy. The EZ Pass system has pretty much eliminated the job of "toll taker" on the Pennsylvania Turnpike. There are also no toll takers on the Tacony-Palmyra Bridge, the one I take to and from work almost every day. My alternate route — The Betsy Ross Bridge — still has a few booths manned by real, live human beings for those commuters without an EZ Pass and a car ashtray filled with loose change. Actually, spare change is useless on a bridge, as the toll is up to six bucks on most of the bridges between Pennsylvania and New Jersey. The Tacony-Palmyra Bridge and the Betsy Ross Bridge also feature technology that reads a car's license plate and will bill the driver by mail. So, you really don't need cash.

Unless you're crossing the Walt Whitman Bridge and you're not paying attention.

Like me.

Job security

Every so often, I go to my son's house in South Philadelphia after work. Sometimes it's to feed his cat if he is working late. Sometimes, it's to feed his cat if he's away on vacation. Sometimes, it's to pick him up for a concert that — most often — does not involve his cat. That was the reason for my most recent trip. A concert. The most convenient bridge from my job to my son's house is the Walt Whitman. The Walt Whitman Bridge boasts a whopping fifteen toll booths to accommodate the volume of traffic that regularly use the thruway. The far left end of the bank of toll booths are clearly marked "EZ PASS ONLY." The next few are labeled "CASH ONLY" and the far end offer more EZ Pass options. Scattered among the toll booths are several that are labeled "LANE CLOSED" with a bright red light and a large gate blocking any access to the lane. Despite my unfounded and totally irrational fear of bridges, I try to navigate my car across four lanes of converging traffic to position myself in one of the EZ Pass lanes. On this particular day, I was not paying attention. Or perhaps the late afternoon sun was obscuring the identifying signs. Or maybe my glasses were smudged. Whatever the true reason, I apparently drove into a "CASH ONLY" lane. Now on other bridges, the Cash Only lanes are also equipped with EZ Pass readers. Not on the Walt Whitman Bridge, though. No sir. The Walt Whitman Bridge is still staffed by a skeleton crew of day-glo vest wearing, car-exhaust smelling cranks who haven't smiled since the Kennedy administration. They are like postal workers or DMV employees, except with less skills.

Take your pick, but choose wisely.

So there I was, behind the wheel of my car, waiting for the non-existent EZ Pass reader to register six bucks from the transponder on my windshield, thereby raising the gate that stood between me and the shores of the Delaware River. I leaned forward to see if... well, I don't know what I was trying to see. Just then, Mr. "I Hate My Job" Toll Booth Worker barked out at me. "Six dollars please!" The "please" at the end of his request didn't sound the least bit friendly or pleasing. "I have an EZ Pass., " I explained as I pointed to the little white box of electronics clinging to the inside of my windshield. "This is the cash lane. Six dollars please.," the toll guy repeated, as he moved closer to my car. He stunk like the inside of an auto body shop — a stale combination of rubber, gasoline, carbon monoxide and sweat. "I don't have any cash.," I persisted. Toll Guy frowned. "Don't back up!," he warned, "I'll have to call your license plate in and fill out a form. He sounded as though he would have rather had a limb amputated than call in my license plate and fill out a form. In my rear-view mirror, I could see him scribbling on a pad of paper and then return to his little protective sanctuary to call whoever he had to call. In a minute of so, he pulled the top sheet off his little pad and stuck it in my face. "Write your EZ Pass account number on this and mail it in within ten days.," he announced. Then he reluctantly pressed a button to raise the gate. I was on my way.

When I got home, I copied the account number off of the front of the EZ Pass transponder on my windshield. I filled in the other required information and mailed the form off.

A few days later, I had to make a stop at my son's house again after work. This time — and for all future times — I paid close close attention.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

man on the moon

Much like the moon, the internet is a vast wasteland. And the "wastiest" of wastelands on the internet is Facebook.

Beats me, Ethel.

If you are a friend or follower of Josh Pincus... well, I question your judgement. Aside from that, you know that every morning, I post a smattering of celebrity death anniversaries. You know this... unless you have me muted, which I certainly understand and I don't blame you. If I were a friend of Josh Pincus, I'd probably mute him.... er, me, too. Just after I eat breakfast and before I leave for work, I scan the good old internet and post a series of photos of famous — and not-so-famous — folks to commemorate the anniversary of their passing. I have been doing this for years. Years, I tell you! I usually get a handful of "likes" or "cares" from the regular group of loyal, death-obsessed Facebook friends that are also awake at the ungodly hour of 5 AM. But, every so often, one post — right out of nowhere, for no discernible reason — gets a ridiculous amount of "likes" from people with whom I am not connected. Now, I have no idea how Facebook's algorithms work. I'm not even sure if I spelled "algorithm" correctly. But, these extra, added "likes" just baffle me. A few weeks ago. a post honoring the "death-aversary" of Lucille Ball's dependable co-star Vivian Vance racked up 27 responses, most of which were from people I don't know.

One small step

On August 25, along with Senator Ted Kennedy, singer-actress Aaliyah, celebrated author Truman Capote and baseball footnote Archibald "Moonlight" Graham (yes, he was a real person and, yes,  he only had one Major League at-bat), I posted my early morning acknowledgment of the passing of astronaut Neil Armstrong on the thirteenth anniversary of the sad event. Then I went to work.

Through the course of the day, as I toiled over the inane changes several supermarket owners had to their store's advertisements (my day job), I marveled as the "likes" for the Neil Armstrong post increased at an astounding rate... astounding for me anyway. Between requests to make a picture of a pint of blueberries bigger and instruction to change the price of country-style spare ribs from $1.69 per pound to $1.67 per pound, I checked Facebook to see Spaceman Neil's "likes" approach the 100 "likes" mark. I checked the actual post to find that, in addition to all of these "likes," several people had made comments.

And, as they say, the comment did not disappoint. They puzzled me, but they didn't disappoint.

The first one kicked off my bewilderment. One guy named Ian questioned...

...and he was quickly joined by a few of his conspiracy-theory leaning cohorts. Traitor? Neil Armstrong? Really? Oh wait. Are we still subscribing to that "man never went to the moon" bullshit? Do we still entertain the belief that the whole moon landing was staged by NASA and a group of Hollywood filmmakers led by the notorious Stanley Kubrick. Are we still standing by the unproven postulate that Kubrick's The Shining was a veiled attempt at an apology for partaking in a hoax on the world, filling his film with hints and symbolism, revealing that, when the film is played backwards or in reverse or something, it clearly states that the moon landing was a fake. Y'know.... if you're a moron.

Moments later, this comment appeared, thanks to the insightful Randall... whoever that is.

Um.... what? What does this mean? What does this have to do with Neil Armstrong? Or the space program? Or... or... anything, for that matter?

Yes, my friends, the internet is the lawless Wild West, fraught with colorful characters, ornery outlaws, shifty townsfolk, angry gunslingers, town drunks, and a group of people who still believe the world is flat and the great sun god drags the morning sun up over a mountain and pulls it back down at the end of the day... possibly in a great golden chariot. Regardless, I will keep posting my silly, stupid. mindless, borderline funny (the jury is still out on that one) entries on Facebook for your amusement... but mostly for mine.

But one thing is for sure. Facebook, oh, Facebook, why can't I quit you?

***UPDATE*** As of today, 38 people, most of whom I do not know, nor have any connection to, reacted to my early September post commemorating Steve Irwin's death. Oh.... the internet.

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