the weeping song

I have been visiting, photographing and blogging about cemeteries for twenty years. Being a taphophile (yep, there's even a name for it!) is not easy. Aside from the odd looks and cocked heads often received when my little "hobby" is revealed in conversation, the actual act of visiting a cemetery takes a fair amount of preparation. Despite my best efforts of mapping out an efficient and accurate plan for a particular cemetery excursion, I often find myself wandering around in dizzying circles trying to find a specific burial plot. Most cemeteries are poorly marked. Some are difficult to navigate. Even the invaluable website Find A Grave falls short in pinpointing accurate GPS coordinates. I'm not blaming anyone. Sometimes my own carelessness results in missed opportunities. I will peruse the Find A Grave entry for a cemetery from which I recently explored, only to find that I was mere feet from a grave that I should have added to my original agenda.

At the end of 2024, I set out early on a Saturday morning to visit four — count 'em four! — cemeteries in Delaware and Chester Counties, the first one about an hour's drive from my house and the others further south. I spent the entire day wandering and crisscrossing my hand-drawn map, as well as consulting Find A Grave on my cellphone until the battery indictor warned me it was time for a recharge. I was relatively successful in three of my four destinations. I spent way too much time at Oaklands Cemetery in West Goshen Township aimlessly searching for the grave of Miami Dolphin's celebrated kicker Garo Yepremian, who is allegedly interred on the grounds.... somewhere. Exasperated, I angrily sped off to my next destination — Longwood Cemetery, located just across the street from sprawling Longwood Gardens, a well-known and well-visited tourist spot in the Philadelphia area. (I've never been there.)

I had hoped to find the grave of author/poet/orator Bayard Taylor, who has called Longwood Cemetery his eternal home since the winter of 1878. The Taylor Family plot is — curiously — the only plot at Longwood that is fenced in. I took photos of Taylor's monument and that of his brother Charles. Then, without a second glance, I followed the narrow paved road out of the cemetery and back onto Route 1. It wasn't until I got home that I started kicking myself.

Aside from chronicling the graves of famous (and not-so-famous) people, I like to see unusual or interesting monuments that family members have commissioned to mark the graves of departed loved ones. I've seen headstones shapes like Mickey Mouse. I've seen laser-etched portraits of the deceased. I've seen musical instruments or the logo of a favorite sports team sandblasted into the granite of the grave marker of a guitarist, pianist or rabid Eagles fan (Go Birds!) Other graves have sported elaborate sculptures, like the elegant but melancholy figure that graces the plot of Broadway impresario Florenz Ziegfeld and his wife, actress Billie Burke or the bronze woman that sits as a silent sentinel at the gravesite of Civil War general Samuel Thomas. Of course, there's the striking likeness of entertainer Al Jolson, down on one knee beneath an enormous mosaic dome and multilevel waterfall that can easily be seen by cars speeding along the 405 in Culver City, California.

In 1894, renowned sculptor William Wetmore Story created a memorial to be placed upon the grave of his beloved wife Emelyn. The sculpture depicts a life-size female angel in a palpable state of anguish. Her head is down, resting on her right forearm while her left arm is extended outwards, the hand drooping lazily, weakened with sorrow. The figure's greatly detailed wings are slightly collapsed and drawn, creating a comforting refuge under which the distraught angel unashamedly expresses her deep heartbreak. The sculpture is formally titled "The Angel of Grief Weeping Over the Dismantled Altar of Life," but it is known among taphophiles as "The Angel of Grief" or "The Weeping Angel." Story's original is located in Rome, but it has been reproduced — in various forms, using various materials — all over the world. There's one on the campus of Stamford University, placed in memory of Jane Stamford, co-founder of the university. There are three different versions at Green-Wood Cemetery in Brooklyn. The one at  Prairie Lea Cemetery in Texas sports a mane of long flowing hair that obscures the figure's face. I was fortunate enough to see a Weeping Angel at the locked mausoleum that houses the remains of New Orleans philanthropist Chapman Hyams in Metairie, Louisiana. I managed to get a profile photo through the tinted window of the building's shackled doors. I snapped another through a small break in the stained glass on the structure's side. 

On the great lawn of  the Sunny Slope section of Inglewood Park in California, the grave of Mary Ertl, one of the first women to practice medicine in Los Angeles, is marked by a figure that is obviously inspired by Story's original. I have become fascinated by this sculpture. It is beautiful, filled with emotion and elegance and at the same time.... a little creepy.

So, when I returned home from Longwood Cemetery, I was disappointed to discover that there is a Weeping Angel that I missed. Longwood Cemetery is not that big. I was there to see the grave of Bayard Taylor. Once I got the pictures I wanted, I just left. I didn't even think to look around. (I will never do that again. I have learned my lesson.) Had I just looked around — even just a quick glance — I would have spotted the ethereal glow of white marble visible above the gamut of identical gray headstones on the far side of the property.

Yesterday, Mrs. Pincus and I attended a swim meet at West Chester University. No, I didn't just develop an interest in collegiate water sports. We were there to show support for Mrs. P's cousin who is a member of the Salisbury University squad (Go Gulls!), the visiting adversaries at this particular contest. After the day's aquatic activities, we headed south to pick up where I left off two year's prior. Longwood Cemetery ho!

Mrs. P maneuvered her car onto the narrow roadway that snaked through the cemetery. I craned my neck and squinted my eyes to survey the grounds. As we passed the familiar Bayard Taylor family plot, I could see the unmistakable shape of a Weeping Angel at the far end of the cemetery overlooking Route 1. Mrs. P navigated her way to the closest walkway and I hopped out of the car, barely waiting for her to apply the brakes. I beat a direct path to the monument and stared for a moment or two before I reached for my cellphone to take some photos. This version is much smaller than the original and both arms are folded under to support — and conceal — the figure's face. Still, I find myself captivated by this sculpture. It is eerily realistic. I got an uneasy feeling that it could move on its own, possibly lifting its head to reveal an expression of sorrow and cheeks stained with tears of grief. I stared until I caught myself staring, so I began to take pictures. I circled around the figure several times, taking pictures from every angle. I also took photos of a smaller, though vaguely similar, marker located on a plot just a foot or so behind.

The grave marked by the Weeping Angel is that of Blair Aryn Ciallella who passed away in 2007 at the age of 19. According to her obituary, Blair was remembered for "her perpetual smile, her kindness, her warm and giving spirit, her easy laughter and her decency which never wavered." In the plot marked with the smaller angel rests Blair's sister Bryse, who died in May of 2020 at the age of 34. Although her obituary is not specific, donations in her memory are requested to made to a "frontline organization helping in the fight against coronavirus." I can only surmise that she was an early, pre-vaccination victim of the disease. Adjacent to Bryse's plot is the recent grave of Blair and Bryse's mother, Susan. The plot, covered in bleached, dry dirt, validates the May 2026 burial. Susan was just 67. 

I usually reserve my cemetery visits for the famous, infamous and unsung, but a Weeping Angel is hard to ignore. And in this case, very apropos.

* * * * * * * * *  

HERE are the cemeteries I've visited.

Like the Weeping Angel as much as I do? Get a t-shirt HERE.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

don't speak

I do my very best to have little to no interaction with my co-workers. After countless jobs at a vast number of different places and interactions with hundreds and hundreds or co-workers, I like to just go in to work, silently do my job, collect my paycheck and go home. Sometimes, I can't avoid it, but for the most part, I quietly just do my work.

Plus, the overwhelming majority of my co-workers are idiots. 

There's a guy at work who fits that description perfectly. I have written about in office antics before. I am not quite sure what his actual job is, but if you were to observe him on a typical work day, you'd think he was hired to wander the halls, loudly sing the wrong lyrics to classic rock songs and sit in his office and sneeze at top volume. 

For the past five years, I have done the layout and design of advertisements for a chain of supermarkets in the New York/New Jersey area. I work exclusively on their in-store ads. Nothing else for them. They do other promotional pieces — I suppose — that I have absolutely nothing to do with. At least once a month, this guy asks me if I received any of this supermarket's postcard layouts. I explain that I do not do their postcards or any other of their promotional work... just the ads. He asks if I saw any postcard designs on their FTP site and I tell him that I do not access their FTP site. Ever. He then confirms that I have not received any of the postcard designs and I tell him I have not. This week, we had our monthly conversation regarding this market's extraneous promotional materials, except instead of postcards, he asked about calendars. I offered my standard reply — substituting "calendar" for "postcard" in this case. He nodded as though we have never had this conversation before and walked away from my desk singing incorrect lyrics to Heart's "Magic Man."

During the week, I overheard this guy talking (loudly) to a woman who works in my department. They were discussing an unusual amount of large trucks with movie equipment in the Philadelphia area. This guy said he heard that they were filming scenes for the second season of the HBO drama series Task in the area. She said she had never heard of the show. He proceeded to get her up to speed...

"It's that show with that guy. You know, that guy who was in that Hulk movie. You know that guy. Did you see that show Mare? You know, that Mare show?"

"I don't know that show either.," replied my department co-worker.

He continued to enlighten her. "It was that show about people talking with a Philadelphia accent."

Mare of Easttown starred Kate Winslet and Jean Smart. It was a gritty, graphic police procedural series of which Task is a loose continuation. Mare of Easttown followed the interwoven tale of a police detective investigating a murder in her small Philadelphia suburb while simultaneously dealing with troubles in her personal life. When it premiered, it received a lot of buzz locally due to the publicity surrounding British-born Winslet learning and perfecting a very difficult Delaware County accent. Although it was an added novelty among those of us in the Delaware Valley, it was hardly a plot point for the rest of the country who tuned in.

But it wasn't lost on this guy.

And... once again... this is why I don't talk to my co-workers.

 www.joshpincusiscrying.com

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.

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