night time Is the right time

My son and his girlfriend went away this weekend. Prior to making these plans, he called to ask if my wife and I could feed his cat while he is away. Of course, we explained, we'd be happy to feed his cat while he is away. We have done this before. I go to his home in South Philadelphia on my way home for work. I navigate the congested streets until I find a parking space. I greet little Cecil with a friendly pat on the head (that's me patting his head, not the other way around). I fill his bowl with fresh water and then scoop the previously-instructed amount of kibble into his food bowl. Cecil impatiently winds his way in and around my feet until I place the filled bowl onto his special placemat and he begins to eat, munching and crunching those little nuggets with teeth that are usually reserved for biting my wrist when he's had enough of my affection. This little exercise in repeated several times during the weekend, as Cecil requires two feedings a day as per the established Rules of Cat. On the other days, the starting point is our house, located in the northern suburbs of Philadelphia and a forty minute drive to South Philly. But, honestly, we don't mind. We like Cecil. (By the way, if you haven't already concluded, Cecil is the cat, not our son. We like him, too.)

However, on this particular weekend, I saw that we had previous plans to attend a Bat Mitzvah on Saturday morning at 9 AM. Logistically, this would be tricky. The service was at a synagogue that is further north from our house and — for those of you following along so far — north is the opposite direction from south... as in South Philadelphia. I thought for a minute. "No problem!," I said to no one in particular, "I'll just feed Cecil before the Bat Mitzvah."

Now — once again, I hope you've been paying attention — this would require waking up very early on Saturday morning, driving forty minutes, feeding the cat, driving forty minutes back and getting home with time to get dressed and go to the Bat Mitzvah. I would do it. Happily.

I woke up Saturday morning at 5 AM, the time I usually wake up to go to work during the week. However, during the week, I watch a little TV. I eat breakfast and have a cup of coffee. I post my daily celebrity death anniversaries on Facebook (like most people do). and then, I leave for work. On this particular Saturday, I hopped out of bed, got dressed and was out the door in less than ten minutes.

I fully expected to be the only car on the road. Of course, I was not. To tell the truth, I was actually surprised by how many cars and people were just out and about on Saturday morning — two hours before sunrise! As a matter of fact, when I got into my car, I could see a car parked stopped at the end of my street with its hazard lights flashing! At five in the morning! 

By the time I got out to the main thoroughfare that leads into and crossed the Philadelphia city boundary, I passed a number of cars. I don't know why this surprised me, but it did. I know why I was out at this ungodly hour, but I was sure not everyone was out on a little jaunt to feed their son's cat. As I approached Broad Street, I saw more cars. Not as many as one would see during an average daily commute to work, but more that you'd expect to see on a weekend morning, early enough that the only illumination is provided by street lights. I was also intrigued by the amount of pedestrians just wandering the sidewalks of Broad Street, as well as the number of customers queued up at the counter of a 24-hour Dunkin Donuts. That place rarely has customers at 4 in the afternoon.

I made my way to I-76 for a high-speed ride to South Philadelphia, rather than a long, drawn-out trip all the way down Broad Street, where a newly-enforced 25 miles-per-hour speed limit makes the drive take  f   o   r   e   v   e   r. 

I-76 was no different. At any given time during the day and evening, I-76 — known as the infamous Schuylkill Expressway — is notorious for becoming a parking lot for no discernable reason. Sometimes the culprit in an exorbitant amount of cars converging at the same time to make opening kick-off of an Eagles game or to catch the opening act of a big concert at the Xfinity Mobile Arena. But, a 5 in the morning...? On a Saturday...? Doesn't anybody sleep in on weekends? I know I usually do (when I'm not on cat feeding duty).

When I got to my son's neighborhood, I had to drive around for a longer-than-usual time. I understood that finding an empty on-street parking space would be difficult, as most everybody would be asleep with their cars occupying the space they claimed the previous night. I spotted a space a little further than I would have preferred, but I was in no position to be choosy. Somewhere nearby there was a cat who was probably checking his watch and restlessly tapping his paw as he anticipated my arrival. I parked, locked my car and began the longer-than-usual walk to my son's house. Once again, I was astonished by how many people I passed out on the street  — out and awake and doing stuff. A guy sitting in his car, scrolling through his phone. A woman holding an umbrella, strolling up Snyder Avenue. Someone else giving up a better parking space than the one I found.

I don't know why I am surprised by what goes on in the world while I am asleep. I sure it's not as bad and malevolent as the goings-on depicted in the 1985 Martin Scorsese comedy After Hours. That was just a silly movie. But, sometimes, I'm not so sure.

In the meantime, I'm going back to bed.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

new to me

Have you ever been in a public place and you hear someone's voice rise above all ambient noise? Someone speaking loudly, way too loud for the surroundings? Someone who doesn't know how to use their "inside voice?"

As long as I am asking questions.... have you ever encountered an idiot? I mean someone who says something so stupid that it makes you wonder how they make it through an entire day without injury?

Well, I just experienced both of those in Aldi this afternoon. Kind of like a "two-for-one" special.

I was standing in a rather lengthy checkout line in Aldi with under a dozen items in my shopping cart. I was about five or six shoppers back in the line, still a few checked-out orders away from putting my items up on the conveyor belt. Suddenly, a very loud voice bellowed out, filling the front part of the store with tones that rose above and blotted out the piped-in music and quiet conversation among the other customers. I quickly scanned the checkout area and zeroed in on the source of the voice. It was a security guard, all decked out in a very official-looking jacket embellished with official-looking patches representing the contracted security agency which supplied Aldi with fearless protection from baked goods pilferers and parking lot loiterers. His ensemble was capped off with a very official-looking military style hat that sported some kind of shiny badge just above the lacquered brim. He was engaging in conversation  with the customer at the very front of the queue. When I began to hear the actual words he was speaking, rather than just the loud, cacophonous tone of his his voice, this is when I heard....

"I never even heard of them! What are they? Nectarines?!? What are nectarines? I never heard of no nectarines!" I looked to see that he was holding a clear plastic bag filled with nectarines at eye level, examining the contents of the bag as though it contained an alien life form. "What are they anyway?" he continued, "I heard of peaches, but I never heard of no nectarines!"

This fellow was easily in his middle twenties. He could have been thirty. And, according to his booming public confession, he had never crossed paths with a nectarine in his entire existence on earth. He expounded on his doubt that something called "nectarine" was even real. I would say, if the security company that employs this guy goes searching among their ranks for someone to take duty at Fort Knox, they will be recruiting from a different division. I'm not so sure that he was qualified to handle someone shoving a Twix bar in their pocket at the checkout counter.

Oh... but he was not finished. He elaborated on his vast knowledge of the produce world as well as his capacity for dialects, colloquialisms and regional nomenclature.

"Nectarines? Hmmm... Maybe I know them by a different name. Y'know like some people say 'sesame seeds' and some people say 'poppy seeds.'"

It was right then and there that I stopped listening.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

beach ball

My wife and I just attended another three-day, outdoor music festival put on by our favorite Philadelphia radio station. It's a fun event and we have enjoyed enjoyed these festivals year after year. The two of us are veterans of many concerts — both indoor and outdoor. Having been to so many, there are certain things we expect to see at concerts. Of course, you'll see people dancing and singing along with the band — even if they don't know all of the lyrics to a particular song... or even if they don't know the songs at all. More recently, you'll spot folks taking video of the performance — a video that they will never ever watch... kind of like taking video of fireworks. Every so often, a beach ball will appear out of nowhere and will get batted around the crowd. It's a fun bonus as people become momentarily distracted from the music as they track the path and trajectory of the colorful inflated orb, hoping it'll make its way to their area where they can thwack it back into the crowd. It feels as though you are part of the show.

In preparation of our weekend at the music festival, my wife purchased some inexpensive, glitter-filled beach balls to bring along with us — secretly hoping to recreate those carefree concert experiences of our youth. So, along with a bag of pretzels, some pita chips, a tub of hummus and some bottles of water, I packed the dozen beach balls that Mrs. P had purchased.

On Saturday afternoon, with the grassy amphitheater of Camden's Wiggins Park packed with folks around our own age, I fished one of the beach balls out of our tote bag and puffed on the valve until it was fully inflated. The air was filled with the indie rock sounds of S.G. Goodman as I stood up and sent that ball sailing over the crowd with one blow of my fisted right hand. It soared high... then sunk.... hitting the ground between a knot of folks swaying politely in folding camp chairs. And there it stayed. I stared in astonishment. "Don't these people know what to do with a beach ball at a concert?," I thought. No one reached for the ball. One man craned his neck, glancing around briefly, trying to locate the source of the ball, but soon he returned his full attention to the stage. The ball rested on the grass.... untouched.

Disappointed but unfettered, I grabbed a second ball, inflated it, and launched it into the crowd. This one sailed in a different direction, but landed in a grassy section between two blankets where small groups of concert-goers had set up weekend camp. And there it sat. I turned to Mrs. Pincus, shrugged my shoulders and asked, "Hasn't anyone every hit a beach ball at a concert?" My peer group let me down.

On Sunday morning, we set ourselves up in approximately the same spot as the day before. Actually, we spread our blanket in the same place every year. As people began to file in to the outdoor venue, Mrs. P noticed a young couple with a little girl all decked out on a glittery red and gold skirt. They set their chairs out fifteen-or-so feet in front of us. Mrs. P quickly grabbed a glittery beach ball from our bag and hastily blew it up. Then she walked down to the couple and the little girl. I couldn't hear what she was saying but her gestures told me she was praising the little girl's costume. My wife — the Child Whisperer, who captivates and enchants children wherever she goes — offered the glittery ball to the little girl as the perfect accessory. The parents were smiling and the girl — already bouncing the ball in her hands — was happy.

Later in the day, another couple pulling a wagon full of stuff parked just a few feet in front of us. This couple had two children — a little boy toting a large container of plastic dinosaurs (just in case Chicago's Ratboys didn't live up to the hype) and a little girl carrying a spiral bound activity book (on the off chance that Rebirth Brass Band didn't hold her interest). As the family settled in to their newly- claimed area, Mrs. Pincus inflated another beach ball. By the time Mrs. P had puffed the final, filling breath into the ball, the family had disappeared. They had apparently wandered off to see what else besides music the festival had to offer. Nevertheless, Mrs. P left the beach ball on one of their chairs and returned to our little space. When the family reappeared, the boy just started bouncing the ball without the least bit of curiosity regarding where it came from or how it landed on his chair. 

As the afternoon progressed, we saw the boy come across the glittery beach ball Mrs. P had given to the girl in the sparkly skirt. She wasn't around, so the boy grabbed the ball and brought it back to his family's camp. Here, he saw the identical ball already beside his little chair. Realizing that he grabbed someone else's ball, he turned and just batted it back in the general direction of where he picked it up... not expressing any concern as to if it landed on the correct blanket.

It became apparent that this boy was not going to share his newly-acquired ball with his sister. Rather than witnessing a sibling confrontation, I inflated yet another beach ball and brought it over to the family's area while they had once again wandered off. When they returned, Mom dutifully removed the second ball from the chair and placed it in the wagon. Now, each child had their own ball — ones that magically materialized from out of nowhere.

By the time Little Feat, the final act of the weekend, took the stage, the wagon family were packing up to leave. Dad gathered up the chairs. Mom loaded up the wagon. And the two kids held on to those mysterious beach balls as though they had brought them along themselves.

I am never bringing beach balls to this festival again. People don't understand them.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

i see my mary ann walking away

The other night, just after we finished dinner, I asked Mrs. Pincus what she would like for dessert. I'm sure we had some cookies in our pantry or a partial container of ice cream in the freezer. Mrs. P looked at me and — as she has replied to that question a thousand times before — said, "Hot Fudge Mary Ann." That reply may have zero meaning for you, but I knew exactly what she wanted.

Way back in the pre-casino Atlantic City of my youth, there was a little ice cream shop tucked into the first floor storefront of a block of apartments. This little establishment, located just a few blocks before the Ventnor City municipal boundary, was a throwback to a long gone era. Inside were dark wood, high back booths along one wall and a long, sliver-flecked Formica counter — complete with spinny stools upholstered in seafoam green vinyl — along the opposite wall. Between the two seating accommodations was a narrow tiled walkway, barely wide enough to allow tray-balancing waitresses and about-to-be seated patrons to pass each other without someone getting a face full of whipped cream. The laminated menu boasted old-timey treats like ice cream sodas, banana splits and pie ala mode — all hand scooped, hand-assembled and hand-delivered.

 If you grew up in the Philadelphia area and spent a portion of your summers "down the shore" in "America's Playground, you know the place I'm talking about is Lambert's.

I spent many a summer evening stuffing my face with refreshing indulgences from the menu at Lambert's. Sometimes with my parents. Sometimes with my friends and later with my girlfriend, then my wife (the same person!) and eventually our son. Lambert's was always packed. Granted, the place was tiny, but each summer evening, everyone — and I mean everyone — got a craving for ice cream at the exact same time. I believe that Lambert's was open earlier in the day and had an abbreviated menu featuring a few lunchtime staples like tuna salad sandwiches and BLTs, but it was the after dinner and late night crowds that flocked to Lambert's. The desire for a creamy, cold, chocolaty concoction hit everyone along the Atlantic City shoreline at the same time. Lambert's was there to make everyone happy... and boy! did they. Sure, there might be a short wait for a table, but the friendly staff of smiling young ladies and fellows were gently persuasive and didn't allow lingerers to monopolize a table for too long.

Not that one.

But, what about that Hot Fudge Mary Ann??? I'm getting to that! Listed among the ice cream parlor standards like fruit-covered sundaes, triple-thick hand-spun milkshakes and gooey marshmallow sauce dripping over massive scoops of any one of two dozen flavors of ice cream was the celebrated Hot Fudge Mary Ann. Despite its relatively simple components, I never saw it on the menu of another ice cream parlor — anywhere! Ever! And, believe me, I've been to a lot of ice cream parlors! This unique and delightful creation was comprised of a thick slice of pound cake that's toasted. Toasted! Then it's covered with three scoops of your choice of ice cream. Three the same, three different, two the same and one different — whatever! It's your choice. Then the whole shebang is covered — and I do mean covered! — with a generous serving of dense, viscous, delicious hot fudge. If you like, they'll even dust the top with a sprinkling of malt power! When this delectable assembly was deposited in front of you by the waitress as she placed your boothmate's selections in front of each of them, invariably someone (or everyone) would say, "Gee! That looks great! I should have gotten that!" In the case of Mrs. P and I, that never happened because we would both order a Hot Fudge Mary Ann!

Lambert's opened in 1930 and although they made it into the casino era, they didn't survive much past it. The property values in Atlantic City had skyrocketed and a big pile of cash sadly outweighed the appeal of a quaint relic from yesteryear.

What I can't understand is why no one has attempted to replicate the Lambert's Hot Fudge Mary Ann. How come no local restaurant — either in Philadelphia or in South Jersey — has added this fairly easy-to-make dessert to their menus? Not that I have any sort of experience or know-how in the restaurant/ice cream business — aside from the brief time I spent behind the counter of Philadelphia's legendary Hillary's Ice Cream, doling out perfectly conical 4 ounce scoops to drunken patrons on a summer Saturday night at 3 AM. Nevertheless, I'm pretty certain that pound cake is easily obtainable, as is ice cream and hot fudge. You can skip the malt powder, although it would be sorely missed as it completes the whole presentation. As a long time Hot Fudge Mary Ann aficionado and experienced eater of ice creams, I'd say the addition of this treat would cause waves of nostalgia among older (re: my age) patrons and internet buzz among their younger counterparts. Wise up local restaurants, there are plenty of people who still dream of the delights that Lambert's offered. I'm sure you can make a killing and probably overcharge for a recreating a memory.

Or maybe one of these days, on a trip to the supermarket, I'm gonna buy pound cake and ice cream and hot fudge and even malt powder. And when Mrs. Pincus says she wants a Hot Fudge Mary Ann... I'm gonna make one!

It hasn't happened yet.... but it might.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

precious

Your time is not precious. This is very easily confirmed. Just make an appointment with someone — a doctor, a contractor... anyone. Most often they will keep you waiting or be very late or cancel your appointment or not show up at all. Their time is special. Their time is valuable. Your time is worthless.

I turned 65 a month ago. Turning 65 qualifies me for a few benefits. I am now eligible to enroll in the nationwide Medicare program — which is the closest I'll ever get to the level of subsidized healthcare offered by nearly every other country on the planet. A little closer to home, I am now eligible to received a free SEPTA senior pass which allows me to enjoy (enjoy? riding SEPTA?) free rides on public transportation that is operated by SEPTA in the Philadelphia area. All I have to do is stop by SEPTA's main office, supply them with some basic information, show proof of age and they will give me an ID card right then and there. However, getting to SEPTA's office is terribly inconvenient. It requires a drive into center city and finding parking or taking public transportation which — ironically — I'd have to pay for. Also, SEPTA only has office hours at the same time as my working hours, which means I'd have to take time off from work to accomplish all this. As an alternative, I could go to my local State Representative's office. There, I can submit the same information, but I'd have to wait approximately four weeks for my card to arrive.

I had an upcoming follow-up doctor's appointment for which I had already taken a half-day of sick time from work. I figured that I could pop over to the State Representative's office before my doctor's appointment and get everything done in one day. I consulted the State Representative's office website and saw that their daily hours began at 10 AM. My wife had just applied for her SEPTA pass a few months ago at this office and they told her, if need be, they could come in at 9 AM, if that would be more accommodating. So, I called the State Representative's office one day prior to my doctor's appointment top confirm their promise of meeting me earlier. The friendly woman on the phone assured me — assured me — that the office regularly opens at 9 AM, regardless of the posted hours. She further assured me that I could happily come in at 9 AM and have everything taken care of in a matter of minutes. Before I ended my conversation, I very plainly made sure that I could come in at 9AM the next morning and the woman said — and I quote — "Absolutely!"

I was not convinced.

The State Representative's office is just a short drive from my house, no more than ten minutes. I arrived at the office at 8:55 AM. I parked, walked around to the front entrance and tugged on the door. It was locked... and through the front window I could see there was no signs of life inside. I paced the sidewalk out from for a little while, then I retreated back to my car. After fifteen minutes of still being the only car in the small parking lot, I walked back to the front door. It remained locked I checked the time on my phone, calculating in my head how long I could wait and still make my 10AM doctor's appointment. As I paced off my annoyance, a couple with a small child came up from the path leading from the parking lot.

"Are you waiting for them to open?," the woman asked. "Yes," I replied, then, despite not being asked, I continued, "They told be they would open at 9 this morning." I checked the time. It was now 9:30. The couple thanked me for the information and said they would return at 10. I, too had to leave in order to arrive on time for my doctor's appointment (because I am courteous in that way). In disgust, I walked back to may car.

I arrived at my doctor's office a few minutes before my scheduled 10 AM appointment. I checked in with the receptionist and took a seat in the waiting room... for my 10AM appointment. I waited. And waited. My name was finally called at 10:20AM — a full twenty minutes past the time I was expected to be there. When I arrived, I spotted my doctor wandering around the office and patrolling the hallways back where the exam rooms are. I was led to an exam room where I was instructed to take a seat and that the doctor would be with me shortly — which translates to more waiting.

Finally, the doctor came in and asked me how things were. I told her (she is an otolaryngologist) that I was having some difficulty hearing in my left ear. She took an otoscope and examined my left ear. Then, with some unseen tool, she extracted something from my ear canal that immediately allowed for all sound to be heard.  "Wow!," I said, "What a difference!" The doctor smiled, handed me a printout to give to the receptionist and promptly exited the room. The whole thing took less that ten minutes... that was half the amount of time I spent in the waiting room.

Seeing that I had some extra time, I headed back to the State Representative's office. There were two cars in the parking lot, possibly letting me know that they were, indeed, open. I walked around to the front entrance and it opened. I was greeted by a woman behind a desk who, if I didn't know better, was Amy Sedaris. I told her that I'd like to apply for a Senior SEPTA pass. She smiled and asked for the required information. When it came time to take my picture for inclusion on the card, the camera failed to operate. After several tries and  several comments of "Oh, this darn thing!," she led me back to another office and another woman (who resembled Aunt Bee from the Andy Griffith Show) who would continue to process my application and — hopefully — was equipped with a working camera. Her camera worked, but she was clueless as to how to access my already-started application. Amy returned and the two of them pondered the computer screen for a good long time. They also made chit-chat with me about the Phillies (prompted, I suppose, by my Phanatic sneakers) and the weather. Eventually, they figured things out and my application was submitted to SEPTA.

I debated with myself about telling them that I was assured they would open the office at 9AM and that, based on that assurance, I was at their front door at 9AM. I ultimately decided not to bring it up. It was pointless and would accomplish nothing after the fact. Well, it may have accomplished pissing them off.

After all, my time is not precious. Theirs is.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

dazed and confused

I ordered dinner from the Chinese restaurant that is around the corner from my house. Mrs. Pincus and I have been ordering food from this restaurant on a semi-regular basis for many many years. It's gotten to the point where I walk in and the nice young lady behind the counter says, "You're getting the all-vegetarian order, right?" when she sees me.

So, approximately thirty minutes after I placed my order, I hopped in my car and drove over to the restaurant to pick it up. When I walked though the entrance, the small area in front of the counter was filled with a group of people — which is actually a rarity. For years, I have always been the only person picking up an order, although there are usually five or six neatly packed bags, perfectly lined up on the counter, waiting for a hungry patron — one that I never see — to bring it on home. This particular day, the compact "lobby area" was alive with anxious energy.

The group was comprised of two older women (and by "older," I, of course mean "of  my own age") and two young ladies, perhaps in their late teens or early twenties. (Once you reach my age, people are either "older" or "kids.") The foursome were very busily and very intensely perusing a now-unfolded paper take-out menu. Based on their conversation (which because of my close proximity, I heard every single word), I quickly surmised that these folks had never set foot in a restaurant in their lives and they were completely baffled as to how the ordering process works. The young woman behind the counter was overly and commendably patient as she tried to gently coax a cohesive order out of these... these... um... people. The two women ordered first — hesitantly — stumbling over nearly every word in their brief directive. The two young ladies squinted their eyes and screwed up their faces as they, apparently read words they had never before encountered. Finally, one of the girls announced, "I want chicken and rice."

I have been to countless Chinese restaurants in my life, both pre-vegetarian diet and post. I know, as I'm sure you do too, most neighborhood Chinese restaurants offer — pretty much — the same things, save for maybe three or four "specialties of the house," which are often just a re-working of some other item on the menu. I know — for a fact — that "chicken and rice" is not a standard entrée on any Chinese restaurant menu. A Mexican restaurant's menu, perhaps, or the punchline to a sequence on an episode of I Love Lucy, where the irrepressible redhead is clueless on how to prepare "arroz con pollo" for her Cuban-born husband. But on a Chinese restaurant menu...? Oh, no sir-ee.

The young woman behind the counter tried to clarify the order, as the girl was offering no further explanation. 

"Do you want chicken fried rice?," she asked, as she pointed to the words on the menu. The girl made no attempt to look where she was pointing, instead, she directed her attention to one of the women and repeated "chicken and rice." This time, the tone of her voice grew angrier and more impatient. One of the women asked "Is the fried rice made with white rice?" You and I and every one in the Chinese food-eating world knows that fried rice comes out brown no matter what color it starts out as. We also know that if this girl has her heart set on "chicken and rice" that she ain't gonna be satisfied with anything that doesn't look like the picture of "chicken and rice" she has in her mind — even though she really has not described what exactly she envisions. The young woman behind the counter named all of the components of "chicken fried rice" and the girl frowned at the mention of each ingredient.

One of the women took the menu in her hands and gave it the ol' "once over." She pointed to a photo of chicken with broccoli listed under the heading of "CHICKEN." "Is this what you want? Chicken with broccoli over white rice?," she asked. The girl grit her teeth, now getting very annoyed by the additional questions. She finally spat out, "Yes! That's what I was saying!" Her words were filled with vitriol and she stomped her foot hard on the carpeted floor and folded her arms across her chest in a final gesture of "This conversation is over!" By the way, this was the very first time that the concept of "broccoli" was introduced into the ordering process.

I skirted the foursome and paid for my order. I was not planning to be there when the wrong configuration of "chicken and rice" emerged from the kitchen.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

I just had to laugh, I saw the photograph

If there's one thing I've learned about the internet, it's I'll never learn.

A few days ago, I posted the above picture on my Facebook page. If you are not currently my Facebook "friend" or if you are unfamiliar with the weird, wonderful and often wacky world of Josh Pincus, let me tell you... I post a lot of stupid shit on Facebook. I know, I know — everyone posts stupid shit on Facebook. But, the stuff that I post has only one purpose — and that's to make me laugh. Not, necessarily to make you laugh, but to make me laugh. If you happen to laugh along the way, well good! But, believe me, that was not what I set out to do. I find a lot of things funny and they may not be the same things that you find funny. Honestly, more often that not, you won't find them funny. But, as long as I do... well, mission accomplished.

So, as I started to say before I interrupted myself, I posted the above picture on Facebook. It is allegedly one of the last pictures taken of The Beatles as a group. Supposedly, it was taken as part of a photoshoot at John Lennon's home on August 22, 1969. The caption I wrote to accompany my post read:

When this photo was taken...

John Lennon was 30.

George Harrison was 27.

Paul McCartney was 28.

The drummer was 30.

Now, the purpose of this post — as I have previously stated — was for my own amusement and it covered a few of my... um.... uh... shall we say "obsessions." First, there's my long-standing fascination with people's ages. I am constantly confounded by old photos of stalwart-looking celebrities or actors on television sporting gray hair and wizened features, only to find out that they were twenty or even thirty years younger that I am now. I still can't get over that fact that Carroll O'Connor was just 46 when All in the Family premiered. 46! Or that Brad Pitt and Art Carney were the same age when they won their respective Oscars — and that age was 56. I just discovered that Julie Andrews was just 28 when she filmed Mary Poppins. 28!

Secondly, this photo plays into my long-running, exclusively one-sided nonsensical feud with beloved (by some) Beatles drummer Ringo Starr. I have have a completely unfounded disdain for the left-handed Liverpudlian stickman. I regularly post jabs at Ringo for no other reason than it makes me laugh and it pisses Beatles fans off. Folks who know Josh Pincus personally and have kept up with my internet antics, know of my feelings towards the probiscusly-endowed percussionist — and they know (I think) that's it's all just a stupid joke that has gotten way out of hand. Now,  it's too late to stop. It's also too funny to stop.

Speaking of Beatles fans, especially Beatles fans of a certain advanced age — they are a relentless bunch. Beatles fans as a whole, are predominantly old, predominantly white and predominantly uncompromising and very defensive of those four mop tops. They spend a good portion of their time on the internet trying to educate members of the younger generation on how great the Beatles were and how you should not be listening to any band except The Beatles. Never mind the fact that the Beatles' last album of completely original material came out 56 years ago. 56 years ago! That is ancient history to someone in their teens. This was five years before the Vietnam War "officially" ended. To someone currently in eighth grade, the Vietnam War was fought between the United States and England and ended when the Constitution was signed. And Paul Revere announced "I shall return" somewhere along the way. Nevertheless, die-hard Beatles fan love to expound on how there would be no Oasis or Nirvana or Metallica or Taylor Swift or hip-hop or sliced bread or NASCAR if it weren't for the Beatles. But, younger generations (with a few "old soul" exceptions) couldn't possibly care less. To them, the mighty Beatles were just another band that their parent's parents listened to. 

So, I posted that picture and that caption and I moved on. I'm sure I posted a stupid sign or a misspelled headline or the death of some obscure celebrity. By that time, I have forgotten all about my Beatles post. But... the internet would not let me forget. The post got 87 reactions, 5 "shares" and a whopping 46 comments — mostly from people that I am not connected to... or even know. Most of them were furious that I did not identify Ringo by name, with several going so far as to actually tell me his name. Others haughtily corrected me on the date of the photo and the ages of the subjects. A few of those people went on to contradict each other on the actual ages. One of them pointed out that John (in the photo) looks like his son Sean, who is now 50. (Off topic and I don't give a shit.) One commenter felt compelled to leave the single word "Nope" as their assessment. I decided not to respond to any of the comments. Any reply would have set off a lengthy argument and I have learned that no one is wrong on the internet. 

My friend Kathy summed things up nicely by inquiring: "Doesn't anyone here know you at all?"

No, Kathy, they don't. Evidently, I'm not as famous as the Beatles' drummer.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com