will the circle be unbroken

Mrs Pincus and I spent the first couple of years of our marriage living in a small townhouse apartment in Northeast Philadelphia. We had accumulated a small savings in the bank with regular deposits of our meager paychecks. One day, Mrs. P, who maintained and monitored our finances (because we certainly didn't want me taking on that responsibility, seeing as I have difficulty with any equation whose answer is more than double digits), brought up the possibly of purchasing a house. I was puzzled by the idea at first. After all, I was just 24 years old and buying a house was something that adults did. Even though we were married, I still viewed us as two crazy kids. For goodness sake, we still frequented Chuck E. Cheese, despite not having any children of our own. We attended performances of Disney on Ice. We even went to the circus in full clown make-up. Are these the kind of people who buy a house? Well... we would soon find out.

We did things in the proper order. We looked at a number of houses in Elkins Park, the suburban community where Mrs Pincus grew up. Elkins Park is a lovely little area known for its classic architecture, close proximity to public transportation and ridiculously high property taxes. After seeing a few potential homes, we chose one and made an offer... which was promptly accepted. Our next step was to gather all of the required forms and receipts and paycheck stubs and tax returns to prove to a financial institution that these two youngsters could be responsible for a mortgage. We submitted everything that was asked and we waited. Eventually, we were approved for a mortgage and we had to go to a big, sterile looking office to sign the final paperwork.

A young woman — a secretary — led Mrs. P and I to a room and we were offered seats at a large table. The secretary returned with a comically huge stack of paper, which she plopped down on the table's surface. She then informed us that the mortgage officer would be joining us momentarily. True to her word, the doorway was soon breached by an expressionless man in a very conservative business suit. (If I recall correctly, he resembled actor Joseph Maher, who portrayed a drunk airplane passenger in a Season Three episode of Seinfeld.) The man introduced himself as "Mr. Cassidy" and he extended his hand for the the obligatory shake. As Mrs. P shook Mr. Cassidy's hand, she smiled and proudly stated that we have a cat named Cassidy. (Our "beloved" pet was just one in a long line of cats that we would own whose names were inspired by the titles of Grateful Dead songs. Cassidy was a beautiful tabby cat with very distinct striped patterns on her sides. She had the disposition of someone with a perpetual toothache and she liked to sit on high shelves and push knick-knacks off to watch them shatter on the floor.) Our assigned mortgage officer — in his starched white collar and equally starched demeanor —was less than thrilled to hear about his feline namesake. With the exception of an ever-so-slight grimace, Mr. Cassidy did not acknowledge my wife's comment. Instead, he removed the top sheet of paper from the stack and pushed it in our direction, pointing our where we were to sign. This procedure was repeated over and over for the next 90 minutes until the stack of paper was reassembled in reverse order, now boasting the Pincus signatures on the majority of its pages. Mr. Cassidy thanked us, begrudgingly congratulated us and left the room. We were now officially members of that exclusive club and heretofore would be known as "homeowners."

Flash forward to today — forty years after two crazy kids signed on to become homeowners. Today, we were just approved for a home equity line of credit. This procedure differed greatly from the very tactile experience of gathering hard-copy documents to present to an actual face-to-face person at a desk in a brick-and-mortar bank. This time around in the age of the internet, electronic documents were uploaded to a secure website with instructions from faceless people working from various locations across several states. We were assigned a specific online portal with passwords and two-step verifications and several other security measures that weren't even dreamed of when we applied for our mortgage. During this application process, Mrs. Pincus received an actual phone call from an actual human being. In this rare case, she needed to clarify some minute piece of information that was previously submitted. The woman on the phone identified herself as "Cassidy" before proceeding to explain the reason for her call. Mrs. P laughed and interrupted. The woman asked what was funny.

Mrs P told her about our mortgage application. She told about the staunch gentleman who presided over the mass signature process on the day of closure. She told the woman on the phone — Cassidy — that the man's name was "Mr. Cassidy." Mrs. P explained that — at the time we had a cat named "Cassidy" and the little anecdote about name similarity did not amuse Mr. Cassidy in the least. The "Cassidy" currently on the phone, however, giggled. She said she thought the story was sweet. She even momentarily dispensed with any sort of financial conversation to find out more about the origins of the "Cassidy" name. Mrs. P was only too happy to expound on the Grateful Dead connection. She mentioned that the song "Cassidy" is a beautiful acoustic ballad that was rarely performed by the band (339 times as opposed to "Playing in the Band" which was performed nearly 700 times. This is for your benefit. These facts did not make it into the Mrs. Pincus/Cassidy phone exchange.) Cassidy thanked Mrs. Pincus for the information. She also said that she would seek out the song on YouTube during her lunch break. Quickly, the conversation switched back to the request of clarification of some financial document. Before the call ended, Mrs. P noted to Cassidy that our experience as homeowners had come full circle — beginning and concluding with a "Cassidy."

Our "Cassidy" — gone over thirty years — would be happy. She'd knock something expensive off a shelf in celebration. Then, she'd bite me.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

out of touch

This is my favorite time of year! No more snow. No more cold weather. And a whole season of free concerts in nearby Camden, New Jersey. 

For the past few years, Mrs. P and I, along with some friends, have been going to this free outdoor concert program sponsored by the good folks at the Camden County Board of Freeholders... or something like that. Although Camden gets a bad rap as one of the most dangerous areas in the region, these free events are peaceful get-togethers where folks can enjoy a wide variety of musical genres in the throes of balmy weather at several easily-accessible outdoor venues. The acts presented range from local performers to nationally-recognized names... although some of them haven't had a hit record in years and often evoke head-scratching inquiries of "Are they still alive?" Over the past several seasons, we have seen Sheila E., The Sugarhill Gang (though the "gang" now just consists of Guy "Master Gee" O'Brien, the self-described "baby of the bunch"... who is 64 years-old), Arrested Development, Joan Osbourne, Richard Thompson and a Barenaked Ladies-less Steven Page. Also included were a bunch of bands whose names slip my mind at the moment. But they were free to see... so we saw.

It's all free, kiddies! All free!

This year's line-up boasts a similar array of old and new, famous and not-yet-famous. The music ranges from classical to classic rock to folk to Polynesian and island melodies to jazz to boy bands. And, once again... it's all free!

On Thursday evening, with the almost summer sun still high in the evening sky, we met up with our concert-going buddies Consuelo and Cookie, where we descended upon the grassy section of the Cooper River Park running track for a night of free entertainment. We set up our chairs alongside hundreds of other attendees. A pre-show DJ was playing selections that appeased the crowd. As I scanned the area, I noticed that the overwhelming majority was comprised of women at least twenty years my junior. But, of course! Tonight was another stop on the current Pop 2000 Tour, a multi-band bill featuring big names from the hey-day of boy bands. As a 64 year-old man, I am about as far from the target demographic for this tour as you can get. But.. free is free. So, here we are.

A different O-Town.

The show kicked off with the first of several performers whose body of work is foreign to me. A young man (at least from where I was sitting he looked young) with a high pompadour and a tank top revealing some heavily-inked biceps stepped up to the sole stage microphone and introduced himself as Ryan Cabrera. I can tell you more about Miggy Cabrera, the celebrate Detroit Tigers infielder whos name is spoken in the company as Hank Aaron and Willie Mays... but Ryan? Sorry, I never heard of him until he identified himself to a throng of squealing 40 year-olds. Ryan strummed a big acoustic guitar, cracked a few self-deprecating jokes and serenaded the audiences with a short set of innocently-poppy tunes (which all sounded the same — pleasant — but the same) before yielding the stage to a band called O-Town.

Confession

O-Town — according to a lengthy Wikipedia entry entitled "O-Town" — is a vocal group formed as a result of the first season of the reality show Making the Band. The group was originally assembled and managed by piece-of-shit par excellence Lou Pearlman, the sleazebag behind the development and marketing of Backstreet Boys and *NSYNC. They eventually ditched Pearlman in favor of new, less scummy, representation. I am not familiar with O-Town's musical output. Their debut was released in 2001, the same year they won the coveted Teen Choice Award for "Favorite Breakout Artist." In 2001, I was listening to Nick Cave, eels and Wilco. My only familiarity with "O-Town" was as the hometown of Nickelodeon cartoon wallaby Rocko. Even my then-14 year-old son steered clear of the whole "boy band" scene. As O-Town took the stage, I texted my son (now almost 39) to ask if he ever heard of them. He replied that he knew exactly one O-Town song. It goes "something something ALLLLL OR NOOOOOTHING at all." I think they sang it. They did perform a lot of very cute choreography, much to the approval of the shrieking soccer moms scattered across the grass.

The great O-Town debate was followed by another band — heretofore unknown to me — LFO. Formed as a trio in 1995 and now performing as a duo since the death of founding member Rich Cronin, LFO's two albums and seven singles are totally off my radar. However, true to my belief that "every band is someone's favorite band," I caught nearly everyone around me mouthing the words to "Summer Girls," their Number 3 hit from — fittingly — the summer of 1999. Via more texting, my son said he heard that LFO like girls who like Abercrombie & Fitch, a reference I didn't get until I heard those particular lyrics blasting through the PA speakers mounted on either side of the stage.

Bye bye bye bye bye bye bye

The night wrapped up with *NSYNC founder Chris Kirkpatrick at center stage, backed by members of all of the other bands. As the 54 year-old Chris wailed what I can only assume were beloved favorites from the *NSYNC catalogue, the boys/men behind him vogued and posed and pirouetted to the crowd's delight. I actually recognized a song during the set. It's that one where say say "bye bye, bye bye, bye." I think its called "Bye Bye" or "Bye Bye Bye." I honestly thought that was a Backstreet Boys song, but I stand corrected.

After the final number, the performers offered their thanks, as well as several pleas to visit the merchandise tent. Obviously, everyone can't be Justin Timberlake.

We disassembled our chairs, gathered up our trash and looked forward to the next free show... that's free.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

root beer rag

One summer afternoon, we were participating in a blockwide yard sale. The rather quirky kid who lived across the street bounded over to our house and asked if we liked root beer floats. Apparently, he had just discovered the concoction. I, of course, beamed, explaining that I loved root beer floats, but I hadn't had one in quite some time. He offered to make root beer floats for Mrs Pincus and me, but he was just missing a few ingredients. He said he needed vanilla ice cream. And he needed some large glass mugs. Oh... and he had to get some root beer. He disappeared back to his house and we didn't see him for the rest of the day.

I love root beer. I always have. It was such a great alternative to Coca-Cola. With its distinctive sharp "bite" and its creamy, foamy head, it was unlike any other soda. And with a big scoop of vanilla ice cream plopped on top.... boy, oh boy... nothing could compare. Root beer floats were always a favorite of mine. Perhaps it was just me carrying on a Philadelphia tradition (the combination drink/dessert was invented right here in the City of Brotherly Love). Perhaps it was just that it tasted so good! Whatever the reason... I loved 'em.

I have been eating Honey Nut Cheerios for breakfast nearly every morning of my adult life. However, I follow several "new product" accounts on Instagram to keep apprised of new cereals that may appear on grocery store shelves. Although I have no intention of buying any of these new flavors or flavor combinations of cereal or flavor variations of old favorites, I like to see what the test kitchens at Kellogg's or General Mills have up their sleeves. Banana Milkshake Frosted Flakes or Orange Creamsicle Cap'n Crunch are amusing in theory, but I don't think I would start my day with either one. Early this year, I saw that the popular Cinnamon Toast Crunch would soon assault the shelves of Walmart with an exclusive flavor. After such variations as Cinnamon Churro Crunch, Dulce de Leche Crunch and the holiday themed Sugar Cookie Crunch, the innovative folks at General Mills were introducing Cinnamon Toast Crunch - Root Beer Float for a limited run. I was intrigued... and, to my surprise.... I gave actual consideration to buying and trying it.

Last week, I popped into Walmart for a few needed grocery items — bread, ketchup, coffee creamer. I wandered down the cereal aisle. I casually surveyed the shelves, sort-of looking for Cinnamon Toast Crunch - Root Beer Float. I saw several unappealing variations of Cheerios, a mystery flavor of Cap'n Crunch, a Stranger Things themed box of cereal... but no Cinnamon Toast Crunch - Root Beer Float. At least not yet. When I got to the end and turned towards the next aisle, I saw that the end cap was fully stocked with Cinnamon Toast Crunch - Root Beer Float. I looked... I considered... and I grabbed a box.

When I got home, started to put my purchases away in their designated areas of my kitchen. I put the box of Cinnamon Toast Crunch - Root Beer Float in the cabinet with the other cereals. Seven year-old Josh would have ripped the lid off of that box and shoved a fistful of the new cereal into his mouth. But 64 year-old Josh is an adult with self control. My first taste of Cinnamon Toast Crunch - Root Beer Float would wait until tomorrow morning and my regular breakfast time. I will admit, though... I was excited.

My alarm went off. I woke up and began to get ready for work. I washed, brushed my teeth and combed what little hair I have left on my head. I got dressed and descended the stairs to the kitchen to prepare my breakfast. I flicked on the Keuring and set a coffee mug beneath its spout. I set out a bowl (my special "milk splash" bowl for this auspicious occasion) and reached into the cereal cabinet for the star of this morning's breakfast show — my newly purchased box of  Cinnamon Toast Crunch - Root Beer Float.

I ran a finger under the top flap, breaking the glued seal. I gripped the top of the inner bag and gave it a pull to separate the factory crimp. I expected to be instantly hit with the unmistakable aroma of root beer and vanilla ice cream — or at the very least, a factory approximation of that familiar scent. Instead, there was... nothing. No real smell at all. I poured some cereal into the bowl. It looked like the Cinnamon Toast Crunch my son ate as a kid... which looked like the Cinnamon Toast Crunch I ate as a kid. I added some milk, grabbed my coffee and readied myself for my first (hopefully) tantalizing taste of Cinnamon Toast Crunch - Root Beer Float.

Root beer floats have a very unique flavor. Sharp. Spicy. Creamy. Rich... all in an equal blend of those components that make a root beer float a root beer float. You know what Cinnamon Toast Crunch - Root Beer Float doesn't taste remotely like? A root beer float.

My first disappointing mouthful of Cinnamon Toast Crunch - Root Beer Float exhibited none of the expected characteristics. Not a one. I shoved another spoonful into my mouth and assessed the flavor. I really concentrated on what I was tasting. A third serving really helped me come to a conclusion on the taste. It tasted like Cinnamon Toast Crunch. Regular old Cinnamon Toast Crunch... with absolutely no aspect of root beer, vanilla ice cream or even a glass mug or paper straw. I tasted only cinnamon and it crunched.

I am almost finished the box of Cinnamon Toast Crunch - Root Beer Float. I have had it for breakfast every morning starting with the day after I bought the box. I will continue to eat it every morning until the box is empty. I do not expect the flavor to change.

I look forward to eating Honey Nut Cheerios again. I know they won't try to deceive me.

FOOTNOTE: I bought a package of Maple French Toast bagels at Aldi. Guess what they don't taste anything like....?

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

the masterplan

Laurie Jacobson started following me on Instagram a few years ago. Just out of nowhere, based on our common interests in old Hollywood, dead celebrities, pop culture, she started following me... dumb, ol' Josh Pincus. This struck me as odd, because I'm just a nobody in the vast world of social media. Laurie, on the other hand, is a celebrated author who has appeared on CNN, Entertainment Tonight and The History Channel. She has produced high-profile television programs like Mary Tyler Moore's Twentieth Anniversary Special. She is a noted and respected authority on Hollywood history. If that isn't enough, she was enrolled in a comedy workshop taught by Harvey Lembeck. Among her classmates were John Ritter and Robin Williams. Oh yeah, and she's married to Jon Provost, the star of over 250 episodes of Lassie. And me? I'm just some yutz who draws pictures of dead celebrities and posts pictures of things that make me laugh. But, Laurie likes my sense of humor and we've enjoyed lively on-line exchanges centered around our shared passion for Hollywood trivia. However, we have never met.

But I had a plan.

Laurie and Jon make appearances at various fan conventions all over the country. Laurie talks about her books, the latest of which is an exclusive, behind-the-scenes look at the Beatles iconic performance at Shea Stadium in 1965. Jon signs photos and cheerfully greets fans who grew up watching his adventures with the world's most famous dog (no, not Scooby-Doo!) Because Laurie and I are "Facebook Friends," I saw that the couple were going to be at the Lehigh Valley Heritage Museum on Memorial Day weekend, as part of the society's celebration of America's 250th anniversary. Situated just an hour outside the birthplace of America (Philadelphia, for those of you who flunked history), the Lehigh Valley Heritage Museum presents a sort of mish-mash of history. Its permanent displays highlight people and events that impacted the germination and growth of our country. Some are specific to Allentown, Pennsylvania (the actual location of the museum). Most, however, are not. It's as though someone from the Lehigh Valley Historic Society visited the museums in Philadelphia and said to themselves: "Fuck this! We'll start our own museum!" Their hearts are in the right place. It's just their actual history isn't. (In their defense, in September 1777, the Liberty Bell was hidden in a church in Allentown for nine months to prevent the advancing British soldiers from melting it down for weapons. Oh, and Billy Joel sang a pretty disparaging song about Allentown.) 

I presented the idea of driving up to Allentown to Mrs. Pincus. My wife, who is also a Facebook connection of Laurie Jacobson's, is always up for any sort of long car trip. I also decided not to tell Laurie that we were coming. Again, we have never met and the pending surprise would be... um.... surprising!

My day started early. I had an appointment to have my car inspected. So there I was, in the waiting room of a Subaru dealer, scrolling through Facebook while I waited for my friendly Subaru  service representative to let me know my car was ready. On Facebook, I saw pictures of a smiling Laurie and Jon buckled into their airplane seats, along with the caption: "On our way to Allentown." This sort of excitement, of course, is the sentiment of folks who have never been to Allentown. 

With my car all serviced, I drove home. Mrs. P was getting ready for our little adventure. She gathered together a few small Philadelphia-centric items from her Ebay store stock to give to Laurie and Jon as a memento of their friends in the City of Brotherly Love. I grabbed a few "Josh Pincus"-branded pins and keyrings as a reminder of the evils of the internet. I loaded the address into the trusty Waze navigation app on my phone and we were off. We followed Route 309 North, which is a straight shot to Allentown from our house. As we got closer to our destination, Waze led us through a few small, congested neighborhoods dotted with shopping centers and housing developments — hardly the place one would expect to find a museum... speaking as a spoiled Philadelphian who is used to museums being sprawling architectural marvels placed along side other architectural marvels. But, as we turned a narrow corner, there it stood — the Lehigh Valley Heritage Museum — just like it looked on its website. We found a convenient parking spot right on the street out front. I gathered up a little gift bag with the goodies we planned to present to Laurie and Jon and we headed in.

A fair amount of folks had gathered and queued up in the facility's auditorium to have a quick chat with Laurie and Jon, as well as getting some memorabilia signed. I purchased Laurie's TV Dinners book and joined Mrs. Pincus in line. Ahead of us, Laurie and Jon were seated at a long table. They were chatting and laughing and posing for pictures with a crowd comprised of people mostly around my age. There were a few youngsters (around eight or nine) who seemed bored with being dragged along on grandma and grandpa's little jaunt. The line crept along at a pretty steady pace until we found ourselves in the coveted "next" position. As Laurie was speaking with the woman in front of me, she shot me a glance and, I could tell that she did not recognize me from any picture I may have posted on Facebook. I interjected a smart-ass comment into their conversation and Laurie smiled. Then it was my turn.

I stepped up to the table and said to Laurie: "I just wanted to make sure that you've been getting my holiday cards.*"  Laurie looked at me with a half-smile and a puzzled expression. Then I spilled it. "I'm Josh Pincus," I announced and I dropped a handful of JPiC buttons and stuff  — all emblazoned with my 5-yerar old redheaded visage — on the tabletop in front of her. Laurie lit up! She jumped from her chair and exclaimed: "JOSH PINCUS! You're Josh Pincus!"... and she threw her arms around me. I introduced her to Mrs. Pincus and she gave my wife's hand a warm embrace. Mrs. P offered her Philly souvenirs and Laurie smiled and beamed with appreciation. It was so humbling to see Laurie express such excitement to meet dumb ol' me... but it was very sweet. Laurie signed my book. She told me that I keep her laughing all day with my Facebook posts. I thanked her several times and Mrs. P and I took seat at the back of the auditorium for Laurie's and Jon's presentations.

After some brief introductions, Laurie delighted the room with stories of Hollywood acquaintances. She revealed secrets of what it took to stage the Beatles show at Shea Stadium at a time when rock concerts at a ballpark was just not a thing.  She talked about meeting and marrying Jon and then spooked the crowd with an eerie tale of the last days of Marilyn Monroe. Laurie was followed by Jon Provost's account of life as a working child actor in the 1950s. His compelling stories were both informative and amusing, as he spoke of working with the likes of Jane Wyman (his mother's idol), Natalie Wood and Robert Redford. He offered heartfelt memories of the late June Lockhart and humorous anecdotes concerning Kurt Russell. At the conclusion of the presentation, my wife and I made our way down to the front to say our "goodbyes." before leaving for home.

Laurie was cornered by three women who were gabbing non-stop about classic television. They weren't having a conversation as much as they were droning pointlessly. They peppered their dissertation with memories of long-forgotten stars of black-and-white series, some of whose names slipped their minds. But, they weren't headed towards any apparent conclusion. Mrs. P and I politely hung back, waiting for these ladies to wind down their time. But, they showed no sign of stopping. Laurie smiled politely and offered me a wink and silent plea of "help!" Finally, she courteously attempted to bring their filibuster to a halt by saying she had to say goodbye to some friends. The women would not relent, so Laurie just stepped past them to greet Mrs P and me. We said our farewells and Laurie posed for a quick picture before reiterating how happy she was to finally meet us in person. It was truly sweet. We waved to Jon, who was busy with a couple of fans. He smiled and gave us a wave back.

My plan was successful. 

www.joshpincusiscrying.com.

* A few years ago, Laurie asked for holiday cards to cheer up her friend, actor Jay North (of Dennis the Menace fame). Jay was ill and she thought some cards from fans would brighten his spirits. I sent one and also sent a separate card specifically for Laurie and Jon. Sadly, Jay passed away in 2025.

joyful noise

On Mothers Day, Mrs. P, our son and I went out for breakfast. We went to a good, old-fashioned diner in South Philadelphia, not too far from our son's house. Apparently, we were not the only people to have this idea, as the parking lot was full, the place was packed, there was a lot of people waiting to be seated standing in a line that was winding out of the entrance. But we waited. After a surprisingly short amount of time, a hostess grabbed a handful of menus and led us to a cozy booth in the far back corner of the multi-sectioned dining room.

Our little booth was adjacent to a large table, at which was seated a group of women. With little deduction, it was very obvious that the women represented a multi-generational family. There were young women snapping photos on their cellphones. There were older (and by "older," I — of course — mean "my age.") women posing for those pictures, snuggling up to one another and flashing wide and happy smiles. There was one woman seated next to an aluminum walker. She was smiling, silently taking in all of the hustle and bustle going on at her table and the tables surrounding. 

My family perused our menus as a waitress brought over huge plates, overflowing with typical breakfast-y foods and placed them before each woman at our neighboring table. Every so often, the sound of silverware clinking against ceramic plates was drowned out by loud, joyous singing. These women burst effortlessly into song as though they were the cast of a 1940s big-screen musical. They sang a few choruses of Motown classics. They sprinkled in some rhythmic selections from the 70s disco era. A few of the women — those seated at the accessible ends of the table — stood up and danced in place, waving their hands in the air like they just didn't care! When the waitress returned with refills of coffee and a few side dishes that were late from the kitchen, several of the women grabbed the staff member to pose for a picture.

During their meal, they all exchanged colorfully-wrapped gifts and beautiful bouquets of flowers. And there was more singing and more photos and more laughter and more joy. At one point, one of the women asked my son if he could take a group picture of everyone in their party posing with the owner of the diner, as though he was some sort of celebrity. Even the quiet matriarchal woman was included in this shot, her chair turned to face the camera. Her smile grew impossibly larger than it was before.

Our breakfast arrived and our meal was accompanied by the loud elation from our neighboring diners. Their singing, their outbursts, the tone of their conversation erupted in pure delight. It was infectious. I made a quick scan of the surrounding tables and everyone appeared to be enjoying these women enjoying themselves.

While we ate, I shot a look across the table to my wife and she shot the same look back at me. We have known each other for 44 years. We've been married for almost 42 of them. We sort of know each others thoughts at certain times — without saying a word. This was one of those times. The meaning of our "silent glances" was confirmed later during the drive back our son's house. We both believed that my father — who died over thirty years ago — and her father — who just celebrated his 90th birthday — would have both been furious! They both would have complained loudly about the women seated next to us. They both would have felt this behavior was inappropriate, disruptive, rude, undignified and unwelcome. They both would have asked for a different table, far out of earshot of these inconsiderate women. And once moved to a different table, they would have continued their complaints. They both were from a different, less tolerant generation.

But it was joyous! Very joyous! Very very joyous! The thought of complaining never even crossed our minds. If perhaps it was a screaming infant... maybe. But even Josh Pincus can't complain about joy.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

stupid boy

When I'm not drawing pictures of dead people or wandering through a cemetery or watching a fifty year-old rerun of That Girl, I go to an actual job where someone actually pays me (albeit poorly) for my modicum amount of expertise in the very objective field of graphic design.

I work for a large commercial printing company that prints hundreds of thousands of advertisements for retail businesses, mostly supermarkets. One of the customers that has been assigned to me is a small chain of supermarkets that is part of a larger, nationwide franchisor. The four, independently-owned stores are operated by a family. I know this because I see the same last name on a majority of the emails I receive from them. I deal exclusively with the son of the owner. He, apparently, has been put in charge of the advertising for the stores. After dealing with this guy — on a weekly basis — for nearly four years, I have come to the conclusion that he is Fredo Corleone from The Godfather. Remember when Fredo was sent to Las Vegas so he wouldn't get under the feet of Sonny and the rest of the family while they plied their "business?" They made sure he was well out of the way, so his tendency to screw things up was now Moe Green's problem. Well, that's this guy. This guy is a total moron. He so desperately wants to be part of the "cool supermarket business," but he is a dope. Dad passed the advertising end of the business on to "Fredo" to keep him out of the way of day-to-day operations You see, the weekly ad is supplied by the corporate franchisor. The individual stores are free to substitute items or change prices, but the layout and design are predetermined. However, "Fredo" loves to use industry lingo, like "merch" and "chub" (that's the name for pre-packaged ground beef... a term no one really uses). But, as I said, "Fredo" is an idiot, so, while he's trying to be cool and use cool lingo, he often fails to include pertinent information like.... oh, I don't know.... PACKAGE SIZES, ITEM NAMES AND PRICES! 

Not a week goes by where I don't have to ask — three or four times! — for prices on at least five items in an ad. He also has a propensity for adding eight or nine additional items after the ad has been composed. Sometimes he will make additions after having seen three proofs of an ad. I regularly explain that the ad only has a limited amount of space and adding items — especially that many items — will greatly reduce the size of the existing items in the ad. This is a weekly conversation. The concept of "limited ad space" has yet to sink in to his empty head.

In the past, I have also created two-sided store hand-outs with a unique design that differs greatly from the designs distributed by the corporate office. These hand-outs are, by no means, anything I am proud of. They are gaudy, garish pieces with giant prices and big logos and stars and balloons and lots of other bullshit. But, the customer loves them and that is what's most important. This week, I received the weekly ad layout with these additional instructions: "We like the weekly hand-out design, but we also like the way the corporate ad is laid out. Can you combine the two?"

These two designs could not be more different. They share no design elements except for the company logo. I explained this to the sales rep (he is a co-worker at the printing company and serves as sort-of a liaison between me and the customer... when he actually does his job). I told the sales rep: "I'd like to go to this guy's store and tell him I really like his deli case, but I also like his parking lot. Can he combine the two?" The sales rep — who is also an idiot — didn't get it.

Perhaps, now you understand why I enjoy wandering through cemeteries. Nobody speaks to me.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

get out the map

Among the many interests that I share with Mrs. Pincus (my wife of nearly forty-two years), is a love and appreciation for kitsch. We like pop culture, especially roadside attractions placed along our country's interstates and throughways for the sole purpose of quaint entertainment for families crisscrossing the land and looking for a little distraction — and perhaps a place to grab a bite to eat and a needed visit to a rest room (not necessarily in that order).

While traveling by car on our honeymoon (almost four decades ago), we stopped at arguably one of the most famous "roadside attractions" on the east coast — the notorious South of the Border. Taking up roughly 350 acres across the intersection of I-95 and US 301, South of the Border has been a welcome respite for harried vacationers and weary truckers since it opened its faux Mexican door over 70 years ago. I had never been to the Hamer, South Carolina refuge before this stop with my new bride in 1984. I had only been aware of the day-glow bumper stickers I'd seen plastered on cars that advertised the campy oasis. My father, who wouldn't dare drive further south than Cottman Avenue, would never ever afford his family the pleasure of an out-of-state excursion (Atlantic City, New Jersey being the sole exception). Mrs. P, on the other hand, was an experienced patron of South of the Border, having stopped countless times on car trips to Miami Beach in her youth.

In reality, South of the Border's popularity and staying power is a true headscratcher. Comprised of crappy gift shops, crappy convenience stores, crappy motels, crappy fast food counters and a store the size of a supermarket that only stocks the most dangerous of fireworks, South of the Border has questionable appeal. However, with clever billboards placed hundreds of miles before a single neon light is visible, South of the Border has made itself a "must stop" destination — by way of appealing to your kids' sense of curiosity and ability to whine. The first time I visited South of the Border (and every subsequent time), I've had the same feeling. "What on earth am I doing here?" And, if you look around at the other folks, wandering aimlessly across the parking lots and through the various retail outlets, they all appear to be asking themselves the same thing. Yet, people have been stopping for years, so they must know what they're doing. In recent years, South of the Border has faced financial difficulty and has been forced to sell off land and property, yet, every day, cars filled with travelers flood Instagram with duck-faced selfies posed before a backdrop of brightly-painted buildings and giant fiberglass "Pedros" (South of the Border's suspiciously-racist mascot).

On the same trip, a little further south, Mrs. P and I chanced upon our very first Cracker Barrel. This corporate recreation of the old time general store was also brought to our attention by a series of homey billboards placed enticingly along the roadside of the narrower portions of I-95. Cracker Barrel was kitschy in a different way than South of the Border, but kitschy just the same. Boasting the promise of authentic Southern cooking (including pork ribs, cornbread smeared in bacon drippings, a puzzling dish called "chicken fried steak" and other selections that were off-limits to a couple of kosher-observant Yankee newlyweds), Cracker Barrel featured a retail area chockful of tchotchkes that looked as though they were absconded from Drucker's General Store or Aunt Bee's living room. Although we didn't actually eat in a Cracker Barrel until years later when we were assured that their "world famous" pancakes did not come in contact with sausages during the cooking process, we did make several small purchases from their store and did partake of their surprisingly clean bathrooms.

Just this past weekend, Mrs. Pincus and I found ourselves driving south on Interstate 81, traversing the scenic Shenandoah Valley. Our eventual destination was a lovely bed and breakfast in Waynesboro, Virginia. This would be our accommodations while we attended the wedding of Mrs. P's cousin Veronica. If you like to see trees and mountains and trees and mountains — endlessly — for close to four hours, I highly recommend a leisurely drive on Interstate 81. Personally (and I believe I speak for my spouse as well), I prefer a more interesting journey, with stuff to see and places to stop... or at least the promise of places to stop. I-81 has trees. A lot of them. However, somewhere south of Zenda (you know where the Bethel Church of Brethren is?), we spotted a billboard in a clearing behind the proverbial "white picket fence." The ambiguously risqué sentiment announced the location of a Buc-ee's just ahead... well if you call 120 miles "just."  Buc-ee's, from what I have heard, is right up our kitsch-loving alley.

Buc-ee's is the new trend-setter in the competitive world of interstate travel stops. Leaving old stand-bys like Stuckey's, Flying J and Love's in the dust, Buc-ee's has emerged as the place to stop on your way from here to there... especially if your "here" and your "there" are in Texas. Currently, there are 55 Buc-ee's in the United States, with its Luling, Texas location deemed the "World's Largest Convenience Store," taking up a whopping 75,000 square feet. In 2018, Buc-ee's expanded outside of Texas, with its Rockingham, Virginia location (the one we were 120 miles from) welcoming excited travelers in the summer of 2025. We decided to stop at Buc-ee's on our way home... and we did.

After a weekend of nuptial-related activities, Mrs. P and I said our familial "goodbyes," loaded our luggage into our car and headed home — with a stop at Buc-ee's in our near future. Taking the Frieden's Church exit on I-81, Buc-ee's is located on 74,000 square feet on — of all places — Buc-ee's Boulevard (what are the chances?!?) We drove past the 120 gas pumps and selected an unoccupied space in the lot of 600 available spaces. The place was bustling with activity. Groups of leather-clad bikers hovered around their cycles as they enjoyed various edible offerings from Buc-ee's extensive menu. Families with kids in tow breached the entrance and scattered in all directions — Mom perusing the crafty housewares, Dad eyeing up the fresh carved brisket, bro and sis gazing hungrily at the hundreds of flavors of fudge made fresh in the store. Buc-ee's is a happy combination of South of the Border, Cracker Barrel, Walmart and Wawa — all the best of each establishment, but with a decidedly redneck appeal. (That's not an insult. That seems to be exactly the way Buc-ee's likes it.) Under Buc-ee's enormous roof, you can find practically everything you'd want to eat, wear or give to someone to prove you were there. They have shirts, playing cards, bottle openers, stickers, postcards, hair ties, frisbees, dog bowls, party decorations (who wouldn't want a Buc-ee's-themed birthday?), pajamas, socks, license plates, drink bottles, plush characters, key rings and so much more. Hungry? Buc-ees makes sandwiches, tacos, chicken, potato chips, candy, as well as pre-packaged snacks — all emblazoned with the friendly Buc-ee's beaver mascot right on the label. Plus, there's a whole section of national products arranged in easy-access aisles and cooler after glass-doored cooler filled with water, soft drinks and beer. And the place was hoppin'! Everywhere you looked, folks were filling shopping carts with dozens of Buc-ee's branded items. Families were selecting piles of foil-wrapped sandwiches from the massive self-serve stock, debating whether to get the pulled pork with or without sauce. There was an entire wall covered — floor to ceiling — with every possible configuration and flavor of beef jerky imaginable. The restrooms — the self-proclaimed "world famous" ones — were also bustling centers of movement (No pun intended. Well, maybe a little.) Attendants hustled their sparkling, cleanser-laden carts in and out of the discreet entrance as dozens — nay, hundreds — of travelers answered the call of nature with the chain-wide pledge of "the cleanest bathrooms in the world!" 

I stood and marveled at the operation unfolding before my eyes. It was positively fascinating. Everywhere you looked, someone was buying something, There were dozens and dozens of cashiers busily ringing up purchases. There were employees wearing Buc-ee's vests stocking Buc-ee's products on Buc-ee's shelves. It was like watching a ballet being staged by the local Chamber of Commerce.

Mrs. P and I sampled their store-made roasted peanuts. We posed for a photo with Buc-ee himself and tried to remember where we parked our car.

Interested in seeing a spectacle? Buc-ee's is a spectacle.

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