i got your number

I have always been terrible at math. I struggled with math classes from elementary school through high school. I find numbers intimidating. After high school, I attended an art school that did not offer any academic classes. That’s the one I chose specifically because I would never have to deal with a math teacher again. However, a small aspect of my job requires a rudimentary understanding of the most basic of math skills. In those instances, I use a calculator or my fingers or an entry-level equation scribbled on a piece of scrap paper. I hate math and I try to avoid it as much as I can. Numbers and I just don't  seem to get along. 

I like to think, with some exceptions (specifically the notorious “dropped cake” incident that, to this day, remains a contentious subject in the Pincus family saga), that I have a pretty good memory. I remember things from my childhood like vacations (because there were so few of them) and toys that I received as birthday presents. I have vivid memories of those birthday parties (at which I received the aforementioned presents). Of course, I remember lots of details from the numerous television shows I watched as a kid. That knowledge has netted me quite a collection of plastic trophies aboard many a cruise ship – a stellar achievement, if I do say so. 

In my current job, I am required to put to use my keen memory and my poor relationship with numbers on a daily basis. This requisite is not technically related to my job, per se, but it does allow me to enter the building in order to do my job. 

 

Every morning, for the past five years, I pull up to my workplace – a commercial printer - at around 6:30. The parking lot spaces are filled with cars belonging to the folks who work the night shift and there they will sit until the shift ends at 7. The entrance to the building leads through a small portion of the printing plant. It’s a space approximately the size of an airplane hangar which houses printing presses so large that the operator has to actually climb inside it to refill ink or clean press rollers. The paper itself, which comes in enormous rolls, is loaded onto the machine with a forklift. But before I am able to witness the final thirty minutes of the graveyard shift, I must punch a code into a small touchpad mounted on the outside wall next to the locked entrance door. It’s a four-digit number and It remains etched in my long-term memory since I first used it in 2021. I press the correct buttons – each one emitting a different electronic tone with each touch – until I hear a low “BEEP” letting me know the door has been unlocked. It is only then that I can enter. 

Once inside, I follow a designated safety path – delineated by bright yellow painted lines – that skirts the perimeter of the plant. At any given time, a speeding forklift, toting fresh rolls of printing paper or wooden pallets stacked high with printed material, could be crisscrossing the plant floor. These unwieldy drivers rarely yield to their pedestrian co-workers, so sticking to the painted walkway is wise. The path leads to an electronic timeclock. I never would have thought that, at nearly 65 years old, I still be punching a timeclock much in the same way I did at my first part-time job as a teenager. But, life is funny and career paths are funnier, so here I am. The timeclock also requires a four-digit code to start the process of logging my daily work hours. This is a different code than the one that allows me entrance to the building. This code is also stored in the “very important section” of my long-term memory alongside the entrance code. The VIP section is in a different part of my brain from the repository that catalogues such things as “Who played Grandmama on The Addams Family and “What song did Queen open with on the first night of the News of the World tour stop at the Philadelphia Spectrum.” No sir, those four-digit numbers need to be front and center, as they are extremely important and employed regularly. 

 

After I punch in at the timeclock, I turn on my heels and approach the locked access door to my office area. This door is also protected by an electronic lock that is deactivated by a similar keypad as the one outside the building entrance. It also uses the same building entrance four-digit code. Sometimes, if the many printing presses are running, it is difficult to hear the individual button tones as they are pressed. I have to rely on the green light at the top of the keypad to let me know that I touched the right buttons in the right order. If that is done correctly, I still have one more hurdle before I can begin work for the day. 

Just inside the office door is an alarm keypad. Why there is an alarm guarding the design department is beyond me. Aside from a bunch of outdated computers, a pile of cables and power strips and someone’s day-old lunch lying forgotten in the community refrigerator, there ain’t too much to steal. Nevertheless, the alarm is set long after I leave work for the day, so I’m not sure whose responsibility it is, but it's always set. Well, nearly always. Over the past five years, I have been surprised once or twice by an unarmed alarm. On most mornings, however, I have to punch in yet a third unique four-digit code to prevent the obnoxious wail of a siren from sounding off and summoning local law enforcement. That is a very unwelcome situation, especially before the clock strikes 7 AM. So, I enter the correct code until the comforting phrase “DISARMED CHIME” glows assuredly across the green LED display. Much like Indiana Jones navigating his way through a series of obstacles that are keeping him from his ultimate reward, I am ready to begin another productive day at work. That is after I fish around in the darkened hallway for the light switch. 

I have completed the above procedure approximately 1200 times over the past five years. On several occasions, I will sheepishly admit, I have totally blanked on one or all of the three unique four-digit codes. I have found myself staring at the outside keypad, looking at the ten buttons and the zillions of numerical combinations they present. Sometimes, it takes me several minutes to bring the correct information to the “immediate action” part of my brain. Sometimes it happens at every step of my entrance process – the front door, the timeclock, the office door and the alarm. Sometimes, I stare at each piece of equipment as though I have never seen it before, as though I have no inkling of its purpose or how to activate it. Sometimes, I instinctively lift my index finger, ready to punch in a number that I just plain cannot remember… and I stand there, frozen, finger extended, brow furrowed, trying to force the correct four-digit sequence to my frontal lobe where it would be useful. Sometimes, I can remember the code, but I enter it into the wrong device. Sometimes, I need to refer to a note I have stored in my cellphone – a sort of “cheat sheet” with all of the codes and the corresponding electronic instrument.

Other days, I knock out those numbers like I was tying my shoes.

When you reach a certain age, daily routines seem to make life boring. But for me, every day is an adventure.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

the sporting life

I am not particularly athletic. My brother — now, there's an athletic guy! He has played on various softball teams. He has participated in several marathon runs. He has bowled. He has golfed. He was on the wrestling team in college. He bikes. Me? Not even close. 

Except that one time.

Back in the early 90s, I worked for a legal publisher. I was a layout artist, responsible for the composition of several dozen newsletters dealing with specific aspects of the legal industry. This was the first job I had that could be considered as part of the "corporate" world. Prior to this, I was employed by small companies with a client base that did not stretch beyond the Philadelphia area. At this job, however, I dealt with coworkers in several different states, across many departments and sub-departments. My department itself, was divided into different divisions, with each one made fully-aware of their responsibilities and how they were to interact with the other divisions. It was very regimented and very structured. I got used to the culture and, to my surprise, I enjoyed it. It was also the first job in which I actually socialized with my coworkers. Previously, at other jobs, I came in to work, did my job and went home — with little to no interaction with co-workers. At this job, there was a very close camaraderie among co-workers. I ended up going to after work "happy hours" with co-workers, as well as other friendly, so-called "morale building" extra-curricular activities.

I was hired in March and as spring rolled around, I was recruited to join the company softball team. Although I was a pretty avid baseball fan, I had zero skills on the field. I worked with a group of guys who rivaled my brother in athletic ability. Of course, there were also a few who were at my level of ineptitude, so the playing field was evened, so to speak. But, everyone was very enthusiastic about the upcoming softball season. We would be playing other teams comprised of employees from neighboring office complexes. Once the team was assembled — a co-ed group, as dictated by league rules — we decided to get in a little practice before our first scheduled game.

Oh, man, did we suck. We were terrible in the field. With a few (very few) exceptions, we were terrible at bat. All that was missing was the mocking tones of Bizet's Carmen serving as the accompaniment to our version of the beleaguered Bad News Bears. Nevertheless, we all had fun and, I think, that was more important than anything. Actually, a cooler full of beer. That was most important.

On the day of our first scheduled game, the team spoke excitedly throughout the day. After work, we gathered at a nearby public park, where a ballfield had been reserved for us to play a team from a computer software company from our industrial park. As we lazily batted balls around and half-heartedly fielded grounders, a van pulled up and a group of guys claiming to be the software team exited. We collectively stared as these guys looked like professionals, right down to their matching jerseys and well-worn spikes. An impartial umpire, hired by the corporate league, called for the game to commence. And commence it did... much to our dismay. We got our asses handed to us, as ball after ball flew over our outfielders' heads and each infield grounder was played in an uncannily accurate recreation of Bill Buckner's infamous play in Game 6 of the 1986 World Series. By the third inning, the ten run "mercy rule" was implemented and we all got to go home early.

As the season progressed, things didn't change. We didn't get any better. The competition, however, did get better, as the "ten run rule" came into play earlier and earlier. But, we didn't care. We were there to have fun. And have fun we did, After a few games, the cooler full of beer went from one to two per game. Our team laughed off poorly executed plays. We snickered at swings made at purposely bad pitches. Our opponents, at times, grew angry at our on-field antics, but we didn't care. We were having fun. 

We adopted the team name "OBI," which stood for "one bad inning. (We even got t-shirts with a logo I designed depicting a hapless fielder watching an easy ground ball pass between his ankles.) That was our typical downfall — one bad inning. It usually came early and it was usually enough to end our games early, too. But, still, we were having the most fun of anyone on the field. 

One game, a few guys from our on-site printing plant showed up to play. They belted enough long balls to rack up a win for our team. (Granted, the other team was playing with a bunch of first-timers, as their regular players were away at a conference.) Our celebration prompted our self-appointed manager to suggest that we — as a team — visit a nearby batting cages to get in some extra practice. The team returned his suggestion with a look of dumbfoundedness and rousing chorus of "fuck you!" We still weren't interested in getting better. Most of us were only interested in getting together and drinking beer.

We ended the season with just that single win, surrounded by a whole bunch of empty beer cans.

But, boy! did we have fun!

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

he rode a blazing saddle

The internet is filled with opinions. There is a recent trend among posts on such micro-blogger sites as X and Threads as far as opinions are concerned. That is the concept of "unpopular opinion." Users preface their unpopular opinion posts with "Unpopular opinion, but..." and proceed to offer an opinion on a particular topic. "Unpopular," however, is a relative term, depending on the circles in which you travel. Statements like "Unpopular opinion but, mustard doesn't belong on any type of sandwich." are just looking for an argument. The ones that say things like "Unpopular opinion but, Charles Manson was an awful person" are just plain stupid. Opinions on things like television shows, movies, books or food are just opinions. They can only be labeled "popular" or "unpopular" depending on who is reading the statement. I have noticed that a lot of "unpopular" opinions reflect the way I feel. So, I will venture into the realm of "unpopular opinions" and register one of my own.

"Unpopular opinion but, I can't watch Blazing Saddles anymore."

I saw Blazing Saddles in its initial theatrical release. I went to the movies with my parents. It was six months before my 13th birthday. I was familiar with Mel Brooks and his brand of comedy. I loved watching Get Smart. I loved seeing Mel and then partner Carl Reiner play out their "2000 Year Old Man" act on the Ed Sullivan Show. I loved staying up to see Mel Brooks give a frenzied interview on The Tonight Show with  Johnny Carson. I got most of the jokes in The Producers, the first Mel Brooks movie I ever saw and one of my mom's favorites. But when Blazing Saddles hit the theaters, my dad couldn't wait to see it.

My dad was a proud racist. He watched All in the Family as though it was a documentary. He spewed out ethnic epithets as part of his normal everyday conversation. He spoke the notorious "N-word" the way some people say "good morning." That word popped up regularly in dinnertime conversation. My father often peppered his rundown of the day's activities with the "N-word" when describing interactions with customers at the supermarket at which he worked. Sporting events broadcast on television were cheered on by my father with phrases like "look at that 'N-word' run!" It was only as an adult that I realized that this was so grossly wrong and — in hindsight — it should have turned my stomach the way it does now.

My father didn't stop at African-Americans. His vitriol was hurled at Asians, Italians, those of Polish extraction, the Irish, Catholics and even Jews... despite the fact that we were Jewish! So, when my dad read the early reviews of Blazing Saddles, he couldn't wait to be a part of the experience. And when we saw the film... boy! oh boy! did my dad laugh. To be honest, everyone laughed.

Yes, yes... I fully understand that Blazing Saddles was written as biting satire. I know that Mel Brooks collaborated with Richard Pryor, a pioneer in controversial comedy and himself master of topical satire. I get that the way certain words and phrases in Blazing Saddles are used was very well thought out. The jokes are always at the expense of the bigoted ignorant characters. These characters are presented as too stupid to know they are stupid. Cleavon Little, as protagonist "Sheriff Bart," is intelligent and always outsmarts the brainless townspeople. I know that Richard Pryor encouraged Mel Brooks to employ the "N-word" in an effort to "tell the truth" about how racial prejudice functions as a brutal weapon in America. Mel Brooks fought with Warner Brothers over the inclusion of the word. Brooks, whose contract explicitly gave him final content control, stood his ground, making few and insignificant changes to the script.

I get all that. But in 2026, I cringe when I hear that word.

I am reminded of a time when that word was used in sitcoms that I watched. It was used on Sanford and Son, All in the Family and The Jeffersons. It was famously used in a skit on a first season episode of Saturday Night Live, where host Richard Pryor and cast member Chevy Chase played a very racially-charged game of Word Association. I am reminded of a time when that word rolled off my father's tongue like he was asking my brother to "pass the peas" at the dinner table. The use of that word, over time, tapered off on television to the point where now, it is audibly "bleeped" and appears as a line of asterisks in closed-captioning. 

This afternoon, Turner Classic Movies is showing a selection of Mel Brooks movies in honor of his 100th birthday. Wedged between Spaceballs and Young Frankenstein is Blazing Saddles.

Happy Birthday, Mel Brooks. I still can't bring myself to watch.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

famous in a small town

I was a big fan of the Andy Griffith Show. I still am. I have seen the original 249 episodes so many times that it's gotten to the point where I can identify a particular episode within the first minute. (Sadly, I watch so much "classic" television, I can employ this same ability with many shows. Kind of like a trained monkey.) 

Nothing compares to you

The "Andy Taylor" character was introduced on a 1960 episode of The Danny Thomas Show as a back-door pilot. General Foods, the show's sponsor, immediately signed to back the new series and The Andy Griffith Show debuted later the same year. At first, Andy Griffith's character was a scheming, backwoods "good ol' boy," presiding as sheriff over the fictional North Carolina hamlet of Mayberry. But as the show went on, Andy became more of a family man and the voice of reason, gently guiding the citizens of Mayberry in often heartwarming tales. Sure there was an amount of humor — mostly provided by the stalwart supporting cast of Don Knotts, Frances Bavier and Howard McNear — but the stories that involved Andy's relationship with his son Opie proved to be the most memorable. The series placed in the top ten in ratings for its entire eight-season run. Originally, Andy Griffith signed on for — and was only interested in — five seasons. As Season Five drew to a close, popular co-star (and multiple Emmy Award winner) Don Knotts, expecting to soon be unemployed, negotiated a five picture deal with Universal Studios. Meanwhile, CBS threw a ton of money at Andy Griffith and he reluctantly committed to three more seasons. As a result, Knotts left the show, the series began filming in garish color and things took a turn. Although, it remained popular, The Andy Griffith Show — beginning with Season Six — morphed into a surrealistic clone of shows like The Beverly Hillbillies and Green Acres. Andy became the sole normal person in a town filled with unrealistic lunatics. Looking like a forerunner to David Lynch's Twin Peaks, Andy became less of a sheriff and more of a stranger in a strange land. The citizens of Mayberry became one-dimensional cartoonish weirdos instead of the outré but friendly folks of the show's early days. Characters like Emmett the pompous fix-it man, Goober the bumpkin grease monkey and stuffy pseudo-intellectual county clerk Howard Sprague became more prominent and the situations became more slapstick. Eventually Andy Griffith had had enough. As the final season came to an end, genial Ken Berry was introduced as a gentleman farmer, all set to become the focus of the town's subsequent adventures in Mayberry RFD. Berry's "Sam Jones" was a level-headed, even-keeled fellow, cast from the same mold as Sheriff Andy Taylor. Except, Ken Berry was no Andy Griffith. He was close, but he lacked Griffith's large, authoritative demeanor. Andy was funny and frequently sarcastic, especially when it came to ribbing his deputy played by Knotts. "Sam Jones" was very laid back and vaguely humorless.

I'll give you two seasons. 

Mayberry RFD premiered on September 23, 1968 with Sheriff Andy Taylor and school teacher Helen Crump getting married. Don Knotts as "Deputy Barney Fife," as well as Andy Griffith Show regulars Ron Howard and Frances Bavier were also on hand as familiar faces to boost series' rating and appeal. As Mayberry RFD found its footing and its audience, Andy and his family moved to Raleigh and were never seen in Mayberry again. Sam, his son Mike and the goofy citizens of Mayberry were on their own to carry the show. Inexplicably, "Aunt Bee" (played by befuddled Frances Bavier) stayed on as Sam's housekeeper, despite being Andy Taylor's aunt.

I watched Mayberry RFD, but I would not classify myself as a "fan." You have to remember, back in the days of "classic television," we only had three networks from which to choose entertainment. We often watched TV shows just because "they were on." If you didn't watch television, you were forced to do something constructive or perhaps even interact with your family. So, folks would slog through poorly written garbage like My Mother the Car rather than help their kids with homework or fix that broken screen door. Not that Mayberry RFD was on par with My Mother the Car, but its production and writing certainly wasn't up to the standards of — say — The Dick Van Dyke Show... or even The Andy Griffith Show. Mayberry RFD just continued the silly sitcom-y writing of late seasons of The Andy Griffith Show that brought the series to a sad demise.

The Three Shumuck-skateers

First of all, no matter how nice a guy Sam Jones was, there was no way — no way in hell! — that he'd be friends with Goober, Howard and Emmett. I understand that Mayberry was a small town and the pickin's were slim, but Goober was an uncouth, loutish moron who wasn't remotely aware of the limits of his limited knowledge. Sure he could change an oil filter, but when it came to participating in a conversation, he'd quickly expose his lack of social relevance by quoting Captain Whammo, his favorite comic book hero. Emmett Clark was no better. As proprietor of the fix-it shop, this conceited idiot would treat every out-of-commission item brought to him in the manner — he'd smack it with a ball-peen hammer. Despite his reputation as a "fix-it" man, Emmett couldn't pour water out of a boot if the instructions were printed on the sole, yet he had the Mayberry market cornered in the fix-it business. Howard Sprague, the self-assured, self-proclaimed intellectual, goes out of his way to phrase the most common expressions in a haughty collective of obscure synonyms for the sole purpose of appearing smart (and being an asshole). When know-it-all Emmett mixed the paint color to the wrong shade while graciously painting Sam's house, Howard explained that the "pigmentation was of the incorrect hue." Oh, fuck you and your pigmentation, Howard.

Hutchins? Swanson?

Sam's love interest is clearly the most attractive woman in Mayberry — Millie Swanson, the cheery counter girl at the bakery, as played by the adorably quirky Arlene Golonka. She is so out of Sam's league, but since she is stuck in Mayberry, she has to make due. Curiously, when Millie was a character in the late seasons of The Andy Griffith Show (and her last name was "Hutchins") she came this close to marrying Howard Sprague. That story line was never acknowledged once Millie and Sam became an item. It should be noted that just prior to the series premiere of Mayberry RFD, Arlene Golonka played a feisty prostitute in the Clint Eastwood Western Hang 'Em High. I don't believe that occupation existed in Mayberry, so Millie was relegated to the closest approximation  — working in a bakery. In several episodes, I swear I caught Goober, Howard and even the married Emmett ogling Millie when she popped in to Sam's county office in her little pink bakery dress.

Jodie's bro

Mike, Sam Jones' typically average sitcom son, was played by Buddy Foster.... and he was no Ron Howard. Buddy, whose unsure raspy vocals gave voice to both the little boy in the iconic "How Many Licks?" Tootsie Roll commercial and the "Count's Son" in the Ringo Starr-narrated, Harry Nilsson-scored animated fable The Point, learned nothing from his Academy Award-winning sister Jodie. His on-camera performances were less than memorable and painfully uninspired. He lacked Ron Howard's charm, comic timing and acting capability. Buddy delivered his lines as though he was just handed the day's shooting script and he just learned how to read.

Know your Alices

In the second season of Mayberry RFD, Aunt Bee was replaced by Sam's ex-Army sergeant cousin "Alice Cooper," played by sitcom staple Alice Ghostley. That's right — Alice Cooper. In 1970, the boundary-pushing shock rocker was still a couple of years away from superstardom. The band (at that time, "Alice Cooper" was the name of the band) had released two albums to mostly negative reviews, but they were slowly gaining attention for their outrageous live performance. However, Mayberry RFD's target demographic was far removed from the burgeoning rock & roll scene. The coincidental character name would only be funny for future viewers of the show's reruns. Alice brought her signature bewildered character to the Jones' household — awkwardly fitting into her new surroundings and, once, even impulsively purchasing an antique harp. (Hilarity ensued.)

Mayberry RFD often resorted to recycling old premises from other TV series, including the Andy Griffith Show. I suppose they hoped that in the pre-VCR, pre-digital recording, pre-streaming services era, no one would notice. But now... oh, I noticed. There's an episode when Mike is coerced by his shitty friends into driving a car. When the underage Mike gives in to peer-pressure and crashes said car, his friends take off posthaste, leaving Mike to take the full brunt of his easy-going dad's wrath. This scenario is straight from the Leave It To Beaver playbook. Another episode puts Millie, eager to break out of the bakery game, in a secretarial position. The ultra-naïve Millie is unaware that her employers are bookies. This is a direct lift of a Season Six installment of the Andy Griffith Show in which Aunt Bee innocently takes a job working for counterfeiters. As the series progressed, more episodes focused on one of the many supporting characters, giving each a full 22 minutes in the spotlight.

Purge

At the end of the 1971 television season, despite wide-reaching popularity and high ratings, CBS president Robert Woods pressured Head of Programming Michael Dunn to cancel all of CBS's so-called "rural" shows. This included The Beverly Hillbillies, Green Acres, Petticoat Junction, Hee Haw and The Red Skelton Show, a variety series with a decidedly older, Midwestern appeal. Dunn personally hated these shows, but was hesitant to cancel them because they still garnered high ratings... and high ratings equaled sponsorship dollars. A frustrated Robert Woods fired Michael Dunn, bringing in Fred Silverman, who had no problem dropping the proverbial ax, thus implementing the notorious "rural purge." (Green Acres star, the venerable Pat Buttram noted: "CBS canceled everything with a tree in it — including Lassie.) Silverman ushered in a new, ground-breaking and influential era of television with shows like The Mary Tyler Moore Show, All in the Family, Cannon, Kojak and The Sonny and Cher Show, a variety show that was way hipper than Red Skelton's folksy revue. Mayberry RFD was also a victim of the rural purge. Its final episode, a confounding tale of Emmett's invention being of interest to an aerospace company, was broadcast in March 1971. 

Not for Buddy

In the aftermath, Ken Berry landed a show more suited to his talents as a song-and-dance man. The Ken Berry Wow Show showcased up-and-coming performers like Teri Garr, Cheryl Ladd and a budding young comedian named Steve Martin. Goober and Emmett (George Lindsey and Paul Hartman) showed up on The New Andy Griffith Show, a short-lived attempt at rekindling the Mayberry spirit. Although Andy was a different character, Goober and Emmett were the same two lunkheads from Mayberry. That show lasted 13 weeks. Lindsey took his "Goober" persona over to the syndicated version of Hee Haw, which in spite of its cancelation by CBS, went on to a successful 23 more seasons. Paul Hartman, however, passed away in 1973. Alice Ghostley, Jack Dodson (who played "Howard Sprague") and Arlene Golonka all enjoyed continued success, showing up in various film and television roles over the next several decades. Buddy Foster....? I suppose his sister invites him over for Thanksgiving dinner. He'll come... as long as she hides her Oscars.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

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