beyond belief

This morning, I was watching a show on the Food Network about (surprise!) food. Specifically, it was a showcase of Southern restaurants, each offering a signature meat dish. During one restaurant's profile, a chef explained that their meat comes from a local farm where the animals are raised humanely and treated with respect. In reality, of course they are. While those cows and little lammies are alive, they may very well be allowed to scamper through a sun-dabbled meadow. They may be fed the highest quality corn and other vitamin-rich nutrients, but — when it comes down to it — they are still bashed between the eyes with a sledgehammer or have their jugular slit and eventually their flanks will wind up breaded, fired or seared on a plate alongside some house made mac and cheese and some chichi sauce. "Humanely-raised" is a euphemistic term that carnivores uses to make themselves feel better about eating domesticated animals.

That said, I have been a vegetarian for almost twenty years. Before I decided to eliminate meat from my diet, I ate a lot of meat. Especially hamburgers. I loved hamburgers. I ate hamburgers my mom made. I ate hamburgers in diners (gingerly picking off the tomatoes and slipping them on to my mom's plate). I ate hamburgers in fast-food restaurants (always careful to ensure that my burger was tomato-free. Why didn't I exercise the same precautions in diners? I don't know. Perhaps I was intimidated by the stone-faced waitresses that called me "hon."). To be honest, there were some kinds of meat I did not like. I didn't care for steak or roast beef, but boy! did I like hamburgers. In 2006, in a decision formed as a testament to my own integrity, I decided to — once and for all — cut meat out of my diet. (The stupid story about how and, more importantly, why I became a vegetarian can be found HERE.) 

In full disclosure, I am not a vegan. Actually, in the eyes of some vegetarians, I'm not even a true vegetarian. I am a pescatarian, because I will eat fish. But, in keeping with the ultra-contradictory Josh Pincus brand, I don't eat all kinds of fish. I eat tuna and salmon and....that's about it. I like sushi, but only certain kinds of sushi. And I will not eat shellfish. I eat dairy products and eggs, so vegans still look at me with judgmental scorn (but so do a lot of people). As far as I'm concerned, I'm a vegetarian. So there.

Over the years, the folks who process food have been working diligently to create meatless versions of meat. These products are — inexplicably — directed at vegetarians. The food "powers that be" think that vegetarians secretly want to eat meat but, for ethical beliefs, they do not. Do all vegetarians harbor a dirty little secret about their desire to consume meat? Probably not. Do I? Maybe a little. My wife still eats meat and sometimes our dinners consist of two completely different meals. When we decide on "cold cuts" for dinner, Mrs P will purchase a package of turkey or corned beef from the kosher section of our local supermarket, while I opt for a vacuumed-sealed slab of slightly tan soy-based pseudo-turkey slices that don't taste anything remotely like turkey. They are good and I will eat them, but turkey aficionados (if that's a thing) would not be fooled... or amused. 

Fake meat food technology experienced major advancements within the past several years. It seems a special gene or molecule or some other science-y thing has been isolated. This gene — if you will — is the element that makes meat taste like meat. It's been processed and synthesized and if I actually understood the procedure, I'd be a food researcher instead of a mediocre blogger. The result, after countless trial-and-error experimentation, is a plant-based, meatless burger that actually looks, cooks and tastes like meat. When Mrs. P and I were first married, she made dinner for my parents — her new in-laws. She made spaghetti and "meatballs." The "meatballs" were actually a tofu-based concoction so as to allow cheese and butter to be served in our kosher-observant home. (Google the laws of kashrut, for a wild read.) At the conclusion of the meal, my father — a butcher by trade — complemented my wife and pushed his plate away. The five or six "meatballs were neatly lined up around the edge of his sauce-stained, otherwise empty, plate. Today, however, I would defy any meat eater (even my father) to tell the difference between the new crop of "burgers" from Beyond Meat® and Impossible® and the Real McCow... er... McCoy.

The first time I tried Beyond Burgers® was at my brother-in-law's house (not that brother-in-law, the other one). My brother-in-law, a vegetarian for as long as I can remember, invited us for dinner and, when we arrived, he was frying up some very suspicious looking burgers in his kitchen. I asked him if he finally abandoned the vegetarian lifestyle for "the dark side." He laughed and handed me the opened package of Beyond Burgers®. Seeing those thick, juicy patties sizzling in the pan made me very leery. Biting into one on a Kaiser roll and accented with ketchup, mustard, pickles and such... well, I wasn't convinced that this wasn't meat. As a matter of fact, every time my wife makes Beyond Burgers®, I stare at those patties sizzling away and I say: "Those are soooooo meat."

We have purchased and eaten Beyond Burgers®. They are good. They are very good. They have introduced other plant-based, meat-free, meat-mimicking products, including breakfast sausages, meatballs and little cut-up nuggets that my wife has prepared in a version of the renowned Philly cheesesteak. Recently, after seeing this option on a few different cooking shows, I have requested a fried egg to be added as the crowning glory of my Beyond Burger®. I know people have been doing this for years on their hamburgers. It seemed interesting and I have always been an adventurous eater. In my meat-eating days, I have sampled alligator, conch and buffalo. I have eaten eggs in many forms, so why not add one to a burger. Oh my gosh! It was sloppily delicious, adding a new flavor combination to a tried and true favorite. (I have to stop watching the Food Network. I'm beginning to sound like them!) Now, I can't imagine having a burger without a fried egg.

As long as Beyond Burgers® exist and fried eggs are plentiful, I don't see myself lapsing back into the ranks of carnivores any time soon.

Please... don't make me turn off commenting.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

try to remember

I have loved television for as long as I can remember. I had my favorite TV shows that I watched episodes as often as possible. Unfortunately, at the time, "as often as possible" was usually twice. Back in the 60s and 70s, TV shows produced as many as 26 episodes per season — some even more! After the initial broadcast of an episode, it was usually rerun one more time in the summer when production went on hiatus until the fall season, if the particular show was renewed. If the series was canceled, that was it, that show would never see the light of day again. Of course there were exceptions. The Monkees, which originally ran in primetime on NBC, enjoyed a three-year stretch as part of the Saturday morning line-up on CBS and later for a year on ABC. But, for the most part, after a series was canceled, that was it! You never saw that show again... until syndication packages began popping up on local UHF channels in specific markets. (Hey kids, ask your parents to explain "UHF" to you.)  

In 1985, Nick at Nite changed everything. Boasting a kitschy line-up of television favorites from the 50s and 60s, Nick at Night kicked off a nostalgia trend and spawned a variety of other cable channels to purchase the rights to beloved — and forgotten — shows and rerun them over and over and over again. Nick at Nite showed Mr. Ed, Donna Reed, Dennis the Menace and Route 66. Soon, they were supplementing their library with The Andy Griffith Show, Get Smart, The Dick Van Dyke Show and others, allowing the fledgling network to expand its broadcast day from a few hours at night to a full 24-hour schedule. Nick at Nite's rivals were showing Leave it to Beaver, Burns and Allen, Jack Benny along with other forgotten favorites like My Favorite Martian, Mayberry RFD and other popular shows with a surprisingly limited number of episodes like The Munsters (70 episodes) and Gidget (32 episodes). With other "retro" networks showing up on cable line-ups, series that were long forgotten found a new home, new exposure to a new audience and a new lease on life. Hey! Who are we kidding? There was no new audience. These revivals were geared exclusively to folks who watched them in their original run. Being the trivia fan and nostalgia enthusiast, I loved watching shows that I watched — or barely remembered — in my youth. I saw a show called Good Morning World for the first time when Antenna TV brought it back for a short run a few years ago. The series surrounded a morning radio show and the wacky antics of its hosts (played by Joby Baker and sitcom vet Ronnie Schell.) The show featured Billy DeWolfe, exercising his classic uppity fussbudget character, as well as an early career performance by Goldie Hawn. It was the creation of Sam Persky and Bill Denoff, the creative team who got their start under Carl Reiner's wing on The Dick Van Dyke Show. Good Morning World was the pair's follow-up to the success of another of their creations — That Girl. You've no doubt heard of That Girl and you probably never saw an episode of Good Morning World. There's a reason for that.

As technology advanced and the act of watching television evolved from three networks to a variety of streaming services offering original content and old favorites, more and more "forgotten shows" have surfaced — whether we like it or not. A whole new generation is enjoying The X-Files. Sitcoms like Seinfeld (whose infamous final episode was broadcast over thirty years ago) still can be found in syndication and ready to binge on Netflix, thanks to a lucrative, long-term licensing deal. Sure there are plenty of shows that have not been seen in years and probably will never be seen again. But, thanks to the internet and the good people at YouTube, a quick search will have you wallowing in the nostalgia of your youth with one or two episodes of a "Oh yeah! I remember this!" show. Recently, my wife and I watched a few installments of the late night music showcase The Midnight Special, which ran for a decade on NBC after the Friday night edition of The Tonight Show. I never thought I'd ever see this show again, but... here we are getting misty-eyed while viewing a performance by Loggins and  Messina and scratching our heads while an obviously stoned Paul Williams trips over his lines.

YouTube is a treasure trove of content for those — like me — seeking long forgotten shows available for a curious viewing. I stumbled across one such show a few nights ago, one I had never heard of before. The show was called Normal Life and it ran for 13 unremarkable episodes from March until July 1990. It was a 30 minute sitcom starring Cindy Williams, giving television another shot after the embittered end to her successful role on Laverne and Shirley. Her costar was Max Gail, looking vastly different from his youthful "Detective Wojciehowicz" on the critically-acclaimed Barney Miller. The series was very loosely based on the homelife of eclectic rocker Frank Zappa. It even starred two of Zappa's children — Moon Unit and her brother Dweezil — essentially playing themselves. There is one episode of Normal Life available on YouTube, thanks to user "VHS Captures" who uploaded it, noting they discovered it on an old VHS tape. A little research revealed that the episode — entitled "It's Only Rock and Roll" was the fifth episode in the series, originally broadcast on April 18, 1990. So, we watched.

It was awful.

It was typical 90s sitcom fare, chock full of unnatural acting, trite dialogue, terrible jokes, exaggerated physicality and a lot of mugging for the camera. Poor Cindy Williams looked as thought she really wanted to make this show succeed. Max Gail looked as though he needed to have a firm talk with his agent. The two Zappa kids rolled their eyes and acted as though they had signed on for something different. The entire show ran for the standard 22 minutes with commercials. Ten minutes in, my wife asked if the show's runtime was an hour, as she felt that how long we had been subjected to it.

Look, I love television and I will watch things that most people will not. I will watch Gilligan's Island. I will watch Hazel (even though I do not like it). I watch Dragnet to laugh at the purposely stiff acting, as well as nostalgic vistas of 1960s Los Angeles. I even like to watch little curiosities like Normal Life. But, one episode was enough to satisfy my curiosity.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

the sound of silence

After I got my haircut, I ran over to Walmart to pick up a few things from their grocery department. I have a "love/hate" relationship with Walmart. I love their prices and I hate everything else. But, honestly, their price on most grocery items are so cheap, I feel stupid buying those items anywhere else. The problem is, you have to go Walmart to get those prices and, sometimes, going to Walmart is a chore.

On this particular day, I just needed a few "fill in" things. This wasn't going to be a full-blown, "we're out of everything" shopping trip. I saw that were were down to our last few bags of frozen vegetables and I was running low on cereal. That's all I had to pick up. Otherwise, our shelves and refrigerator were pretty well stocked. 

I parked in Walmart's massive parking lot. Every time I go there, no matter what time of day or day of the week, Walmart's parking lot is packed. I found a spot quite a distance from the store. I didn't mind the walk and I grabbed a shopping cart from one of the corrals on my way in.

Once inside, I headed to the cereal aisle and selected a box of store brand Honey Nut Cheerios (or "Honey Nut O's," in this case). I also grabbed a large box of Kellogg's Rice Krispies, because, even though I have no issue with buying store brands, Walmart hasn't quite nailed down the same quality and consistency in duplicating the Kellogg's product. My next stop was the frozen food section were I filled my cart with an assortment of frozen vegetables. In this case, Walmart's own brand would be just fine and at 98¢ a bag... well, how much better could the the most expensive, national brands be? I mean — come on — vegetables are vegetables. When my shopping cart was sufficiently filled, I made my way up to the self-checkout lanes.

I lucked out. I had my choice of open self-checkout lines. This Walmart location recently remodeled to add almost double; the amount of self-checkout cash registers than they offered previously. I parked my shopping cart alongside an open register and began to unload my items, scanning each one and placing in the designated "already scanned" area. When I finished, I filed the reusable tote bag I brought in with me with my purchased items. (As is the trend in a lot of municipalities, this Walmart is in a geographic area that has outlawed single use plastic bags. Customers must either bring their own bags or purchase paper bags at a dime a pop from Walmart. Or, of course, you can go bagless and juggle your purchases — unencumbered — to your car.) I placed my laden bag into the cart, swiped my credit card, grabbed my receipt and headed out of the store. 

Usually, there is a Walmart employee stationed by the exit. This persons job is to stop customers and scan their receipt before they leave the store. Walmart will trust customers to check out their own purchases, but then — moments later — that trust disappears and they need to make sure that everything is paid and accounted for. However, this morning, no one had been assigned to this duty. The exit was wide open and there was not a Walmart blue vest in sight. I breezed through the exit and strolled to my car. I transferred my bag from my cart to the back of my car. I returned my cart to the corral in the parking lot, got into my car and drove home.

What was the best part about this Walmart experience? I didn't speak to or have any interaction with another human being. While there were certainly other people in the store — several of whom I passed and navigated my shopping cart around — I did not encounter anyone blocking the Item I want to get. No one was standing  — smack-dab — in front of the freezer section doors. The cereal aisle was empty, except for me and a zillion boxes of breakfast staples. The checkout lines were free of folks who had never operated a self-serve cash register. All of my items scanned without a hitch, so I did not need the assistance of an employee to amend my running total. And, as I just noted, there was no one at the store's exit to make sure I didn't steal anything.... thank you very much.

If I could be guaranteed a repeat of this experience every time I come to Walmart, I would come to Walmart more often.

Who can I not talk to about this....?

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

that's not my name

My in-laws owned and operated a hardware store in a rural farmer's market for over fifty years. I met my wife in February 1982 and by our second date, I was working in the store. It was an interesting experience, to say the least. The store was a far cry from the massive, big-box stores like Home Depot and Lowe's. This was a real live "mom-and-pop" operation catering to the specific, niche needs of farmers, carpenters, masons and other craftsmen of various dying breeds. My father-in-law would sell a part of a part just to accommodate his customer. He was regularly asked long, rambling questions by men in filthy overalls who would gesture with weather-worn hands in a effort to explain to my father-in-law what elusive item brought them to his store on that particular day. Most times, after a little bit of clarification, the quest was met and the customer was happy. It was the clarification process where things got.... interesting.

The customer base of my father-in-law's store was made up of hard working, minimally-educated, salt-of-the-earth folks. For the most part, they knew what they wanted, but couldn't always convey that to another person. They were also impatient and were easily frustrated when their roundabout descriptions were met with blank stares and more questions. The trouble was, these folks would sometimes call things by a different name. Sometimes, it was a name for an item or tool that they made up. It's kind of hard to figure out what someone wants if they have secret names for things — names that only they know. After a while, I began to field questions from our customers. Unfortunately, I have even less patience than most people. I began to hear people call common, everyday hardware items by names that were foreign to me. I thought, perhaps, since these guys were professionals and this is how they made their living, these could possibly be the actual names for these things. Nope. Not at all.

I'm not talking about stifling a giggle the first time someone asked for a nipple valve or a bastard file. I mean grown men with livelihoods making up nonsensical names for actual "tools-of the-trade" as though they were embarrassed to say the proper name of the item — like "poopy" and "pee pee."

For instance, one Saturday afternoon, a disheveled fellow with an unkempt beard and a torn flannel shirt asked me for a "Jesus clip." "A what?," I asked, with all the politeness I could muster. After all, I couldn't be the upstart son-in-law who came along to ruin my father-in-law's successful hardware business. The man frowned and repeated his ask — a "Jesus clip." He asked for a piece of paper and a pencil so he could illustrate what he needed. Obliging, I handed over a piece of scrap paper and a pencil. He proceeded to sketch out a rudimentary approximation of an "E-clip," a small metal doo-hickey used as a retaining clip on axles and machinery. I identified his drawing and produced a small box of assorted sizes of E-clips from behind the counter. He poked through them until he found the size he needed. As he was paying, I mentioned that I had never heard the term "Jesus clip" when referring to E-clips. He laughed and confessed that he calls them "Jesus clips," because when they pop off you are prompted to yell "JEEE-SUS" as you watch the arc it makes in the air.

I have had a guy ask for a "habber." Again, I made him repeat what he needed, trying to determine if he was seeking a tool with which he could drive a nail into a piece of wood. Or was he looking for a receptacle into which he could toss dirty clothes for future laundering. I decided it was the former, as I doubted that this guy 1. made a conscious effort to attempt to put his dirty clothes in one central location and 2. ever actually washed his clothes. So, by process of elimination, a tool for driving nails it was!

The store stocked several models of a fearsome device boasting two giant hooks, a set of gears and length of braided aluminum cable, technically called in the industry a "wire rope hand ratchet puller." Now those were some pretty complicated words for someone with a third grade education to pronounce, let alone remember. Colloquially, however, this apparatus was referred to as a "come-along." Not a weekend would go by where someone didn't ask for a come-along. At first, I thought the customer just wanted me to follow him. After a while and numerous requests for such an item, I understood the term "come-along" and pointed the customer in the right direction.

Of course there arose a bit of confusion when actual names were used, especially when those name were homophones. A customer asked me if we carried "garden hoes," a long-handled implement used by gardeners and farmers for tilling soil. I innocently asked if he was looking for "garden hose," a long rubber tube through which water will pass once it is connected to a spigot. (And by the way, I heard "spickit" way more often that the actual name.) I was met with puzzled looks by folks who had no skills in abstract thinking.

As every competent mason knows, that flat aluminum square with the handle protruding from the center of its underside is called a "hawk." This handy little tool holds an easily-accessible amount of  mortar or plaster. As any pop culture collector who lives in a sheltered rural area knows, the alter-ego of gamma-ray exposed Dr. Bruce Banner is also called the 'hawk" — more specifically "The Incredible Hawk." Yes sir! You read that right and — believe me — it is not worth the argument. It is better to nod in agreement and try to figure out if the customer wants to lay bricks or wants to re-enact the events that took place in Tales to Astonish Issue #102.

Yes, a weekend working in my in-law's store was always a surreal adventure. It was a glimpse into a world that not many people get to see. A world that — incredibly — existed into the 21st Century. After 92 years, the farmer's market shut its doors for good. By that time, my in-laws had closed up shop ten years earlier.

I don't miss it for one minute.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

That picture at the top? Not my in-law's store.

I wanna be with you

Eric Carmen died this week. He was a singer, songwriter, musician and founding member of the power pop band The Raspberries. The band, formed in Cleveland in 1970 from the remnants of local bands The Choir and Cyrus Erie, enjoyed a wave of success from a string of albums and singles. They split up in 1975, with front man Carmen releasing his debut solo album in November of that year. Riding high on — not one but two hit singles (both based on melodies by Sergei Rachmaninoff) — Eric Carmen went on a promotional concert tour in early 1976 as the opening act for America. When it stopped at the Philadelphia Spectrum, I was there... for some inexplicable reason.

In April 1975, I attended my very first rock concert with several of my friends. I had no idea what to expect, but when it was over, I immediately began thinking about my next concert! I began scouring the entertainment pages of the newspaper looking for concerts coming to the Philadelphia area. Concert tickets could cost in excess of eight dollars. As a 15 year old, cash was not easy to come by, so I was pretty discerning about which band would be the recipient of my hard-earned money. Nearly a year to the day after my first concert, I decided to relinquish seven dollars and fifty cents for a floor section ticket at the Spectrum to see America and Eric Carmen. In hindsight — almost fifty years later — I'm still not sure why I chose this show as my second foray into experiencing live music.

I was — in no way — a fan of America. I didn't own any of their albums, or any of their 45s, for that matter. Sure, I was familiar with their songs. How could I not be? They were a fixture on the radio in the 1970s, with such ubiquitous and non-sensical songs as "Horse with No Name," "Sister Golden Hair" and "Ventura Highway." In 1976, however, I was listening to Pink Floyd, Jethro Tull, Queen and Elton John. America's easy going, acoustic guitar-y, breezy folk-rock stylings were not in the same category as the harder rocking flamboyant bands I was partial to. Why, then, did I fork over almost eight bucks to see them live? I honestly don't know.

With tickets in hand and the concert date still a few months off, I broke down and purchased History, a greatest hits compilation America released in late 1975. I already knew most of the songs on the album from hearing them — repeatedly — on the radio. I may have listened to the album all the way through once, before switching back to my old favorites. History sat — unplayed — at the very rear of my blossoming record collection. I could hear America's songs on the radio at any given moment. I didn't need to play them by choice. I'm still not sure why I bought the album in the first place.

The date of the show rolled around. I honestly don't remember too much about the show. I don't remember who I went with. I don't remember how I got there. I do remember that America's performance was boring, especially when compared to the theatrical antics of Alice Cooper, my only reference for concerts at this point. Alice and company danced and cavorted with eight-foot-tall tarantulas and a menacing Cyclops. America — Dewey Bunnell, Dan Peek, and Gerry Beckley — with their close harmonies and three acoustic guitar attack, barely moved a muscle during their show. They ran through hit after familiar hit with little to no between-song banter or audience acknowledgment or even movement. They never moved out of the front-and-center positions they took at the show's start. Their final song — "Sandman" — was about a raucous as they got... which was not at all.

Eric Carmen, as I recall, was pretty entertaining. In addition to his two monster radio hits — "All By Myself" and "Never Gonna Fall in Love Again" — Eric peppered his set with some pretty upbeat numbers from the Raspberries catalog, including the sly and bawdy "Go All The Way" and the power ballad "Let's Pretend." He also joked with the audience and moved about the stage with his bandmates. When Eric Carmen concluded his performance, the night took a palpable nosedive. (A quick check on the internet revealed that America didn't have another Top Ten hit until 1982.) I didn't buy a T-shirt that night and I didn't buy anymore America albums.

Eric Carmen's solo career slowed down after his first album. He had success writing songs for other artists. His inclusion of "Hungry Eyes" on the soundtrack of the film Dirty Dancing showed promise of a possible comeback. But when the film's popularity waned, so did Eric Carmen's. More recently, Eric Carmen showed himself to be a tin foil hat-wearing, QANon-following conspiracy theorist on social media.

But, boy, could he write a pop song.

And I'll never know what I was doing at that show.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

ghost town

I was perusing my favorite website — findagrave.com — and I stumbled across something unusual... and a little upsetting. Actually, a lot upsetting.

The place I discovered — a small cemetery —  is just a few blocks from where I work. It sits just off of bustling Route 130, between a nondescript apartment building and a laundromat. Well, it's not actually a cemetery any more. It's a park. But technically, it's still a cemetery.

Jacob Johnson founded this small cemetery in East Camden, New Jersey in 1854. It was specifically and exclusively created for interments of middle-class African-Americans who were turned away for burials at other, larger cemeteries (re: whites only cemeteries). It is the final resting place for an estimated 300 remains, including over 100 who served in United States Colored Troops (USCT) regimens during the Civil War. Most of these soldiers joined the Union's efforts at Pennsylvania's Camp William Penn, established for African-Americans who wished to serve their country. New Jersey did not offer such a service, so those wanting to join the military had to cross the Delaware River. Under the leadership of all white officers, the troops from Camp William Penn were given mostly menial labor assignments — cooks, drivers and similar — rather than infantry. Those African-Americans from the Camden area who were killed in the war were interred at Johnson Cemetery. Along with Civil War veterans, Johnson Cemetery is the last reward for William Butts, Camden's first African-American police officer, as well as Peter Postel, the city's first African-American firefighter. It is also where convicted murderer Nicolas Lambert is buried. He was hanged for the 1893 murder of William Kairer, a Camden baker.

Over the years, Johnson Cemetery became neglected. The trees and grass were overgrown. Grave markers were damaged by either weather or acts of vandalism. It became a "needle park," the site of drug deals. Trash began mounting on and around graves. Between 1975 and 1980, under the administration of Mayor Angelo Errichetti (later convicted in the notorious ABSCAM bribery case), the city of Camden decided to convert Johnson Cemetery into a municipal park. Workers began to remove and relocate headstones. The stones were laid flat and embedded in the ground in a semi-circular pattern along the rear of the park. Headstones that were not part of the pattern were discarded, some used as breakwater along the Camden side of the Delaware River. The graves themselves were left undisturbed. The remains were not moved. So, while the headstones create a pleasing pattern, they no longer mark any graves. Benches were installed around a cement "welcome" area and a large sign was placed curbside on Federal Street, facing the laundromat. Eventually, the abandoned cemetery became an abandoned city park.

In 2015, volunteers from a nearby charter school took it upon themselves to clean up the park. Local filmmaker Kevin Walker produced a documentary entitled The Lonely Bones that traces the history and eventual fate of Johnson Cemetery. There was a rededication ceremony on Memorial Day 2015 with city officials turning out for a photo opportunity along with a good amount of pomp and circumstance. Local news reported on the rededication. But soon, the park reverted to a home for the homeless and a place to dump trash.

I visited Johnson Cemetery Memorial Park earlier this week, stopping by on my way to work. Neighborhood folks on their way to work passed Johnson Cemetery Memorial Park without a glance. In the dim light of the coming sunrise, I could make out the buried headstones poking through a few bare patches in the grass. While I didn't see any trash, I really didn't see much of anything. Granted, it was early in the morning. But, the place looked as though I was the first visitor in quite some time. As I strolled slowly across the grass, I took pictures and read the names on some of the headstones — Charles H. Brown, who died in July 1891; John W. Hamilton, whose headstone sports a carved anchor, died in 1854; Samuel Hankins, whose date of death has been wiped away by time and weather; Private Edward Custis, who served with K Company of the 2nd Regimen of the USCT. Edward died in March 1882. Some stones (or parts of stones) were so worn that just a few letters and numbers were visible.

I have always considered my little hobby of visiting cemeteries as a living (so to speak) history lesson. Johnson Cemetery is a forgotten chapter of that history.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

another nail in my heart

When did this become the car blog?

One morning last week, I got into my car and pressed the ignition button. This is something I have been doing for years except for the "button pressing" part. It used to be a key, but since I entered the 21st century this past spring when I purchased a 2024 Subaru, I press a button to start my car.

On this particular morning, I spotted a light on my dashboard — a light with which I am very familiar. A few years ago, my family and I were in Southern California. On my insistence, my wife and I went out one afternoon for some celebrity grave hunting... as one does when Disneyland just doesn't cut it. We headed out to Melrose Abbey Memorial Park and Mortuary, just a few miles south of Walt's first theme park. As we pulled in to the parking lot, Mrs. P pointed to a light on the dashboard of our rental car. We determined that it was the "flat tire indicator" and a call was placed to a local AAA service station while I strolled among the graves.

More recently, my wife's car sported the same light. A little closer to home, she took the car to our somewhat suspect mechanic who made the repair... and then some. (You can read about that HERE.)

So, when I saw the same light on the dash of my eight-month-old car at a time when I should have been well on my way to work — I was less than pleased. Among the many things that I hate, I would rank "inconvenience" somewhere near the top of my list. I turned the car off, stomped back into my house, stomped up the stairs, stomped over to my wife's side of the bed to wake her up from a sound sleep.

"My car has a flat!," I grumbled, as I lightly — lightly! — shook her awake. I told her I'd have to take her car to work and I asked if she could call AAA to change the tire. I added that I could not tell which tire was flat, because, after a quick check, all the tires appeared the same to me.

Later in the day, Mrs. P called me with a progress report. She said instead of taking the car to our usual mechanic and be subjected to a probable fleecing, she drove to a small garage just about the corner from our house. This place has been in its location for as long as we have lived in our house, but we never gave them the opportunity to service our cars. But, today was the day! Mrs. P told me the guy at the garage was pleasant and helpful. He assessed the tires and determined that the recent snap of cold weather was causing the tires to lose pressure. He pumped the required amount of air into each of the tires and — sure enough! — the offending light on the dashboard went out. He waved off my wife's attempt to give him a few bucks for his trouble. Instead, Mrs. P returned to his shop with a Dunkin "Box o' Joe" and a dozen donuts. This gesture set her back more that just a "couple of bucks," but it appeared that the problem was solved. No more inconvenience and that was good enough for me. 

This was Friday, so I had the opportunity to take my car to the Subaru dealer for a "just to make sure" check. After driving my car around the block, the tire pressure light didn't come on. I decided to forgo a trip to the dealership.

On Monday, I got in my car to go to work and — goddamn! — if that light didn't come on again. I got out and looked carefully at all of my tires. I even pressed on them. Hard! They felt firm and steady. None looked the least bit flat. So, against my better judgement, I drove it to work. I defiantly drove the 15 miles, spanning a bridge into another state, to my job (as well as the 15 miles home). I did that all week. A couple of those days, it rained. The thought of getting struck somewhere between my house and Pennsauken, New Jersey crossed my mind more that a few times. The thought of how dumb and stubborn I was being also crossed my mind. But, nevertheless, I drove my car — with its low tire pressure light mocking me from the dashboard — for five consecutive days. On Day Six — Saturday — I woke up bright and early and took my car to the Subaru dealership... something I should have done five days earlier.

A friendly service technician asked me what was the nature of my visit. I explained all about the low tire pressure light and the encounter with our neighborhood mechanic. I reluctantly told her that I drove the car for five days before bringing it in. She had me initial a form and then directed me to the waiting area in the service department. I had no sooner poured myself a cup of complimentary coffee when the service technician approached me to say that a nail was discovered in the driver's side rear tire. I authorized a repair and — one hour and twenty-seven dollars later — my car was mine... sans "low tire pressure" alert,

No more inconvenience... and no more visits to neighborhood mechanics.

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