strange days indeed

In May 2020, I joined the thousands and thousands of people across the country who lost their jobs due to the global COVID-19 pandemic. Losing a job is tough to begin with, but under these circumstances, a bad situation has been made more complicated. First, with businesses closing left and right, who is hiring? Second, what are the logistics of starting a job, what with the majority of the workforce who have managed to keep their jobs working from home. Am I really comfortable going into an office environment at this time? Add that to the fact that I am approaching my 60th year among folks charged with doing the hiring that weren't yet born when I took my first job. Well, let's just say that the stars aren't exactly aligning in my favor.

I have many, many years of experience in all aspects of graphic design, marketing, publishing and a few other fields whose technical description would just bore those unfamiliar. The problem is the process for finding a job has changed drastically since I was knocking on doors and passing around my then-sparse resume. Everything is done through the cold, faceless, impersonal internet. You upload your resume. You fill out a brief, identifying form and then you wait. And wait. And wait. Hoping that one of these offers will contact you for an interview. I have had a handful of interviews since May — some via Zoom and others on the good old-fashioned telephone. I have sent my resume to literally hundreds of posted job offers with only a few replies.

Just a few weeks ago, I saw an ad for a graphic designer at a local printing company. The abbreviated description of the position was very similar to positions I had held in the past. I sent my resume and, surprisingly, I got a response the next day. Via email, we arranged for and confirmed a time to speak on the phone. The agreed-upon time came and went. No call.

I emailed this "prospective employer." In my most polite manner, I sheepishly apologized  (as though I was my fault) for not being able to speak and asked if there was time that was more convenient to his schedule. This is his reply:

Please excuse me if I was difficult to get hold of. I've been swamped with applications, while at the same time needing to keep up with my customers and preparing for a changeover with my outgoing, very capable associate.

Have I viewed your portfolio? Do you have a website or a social media site which I can refer to? Have you visited our website? If you want to write me a short story as to what type of position you're looking for, and your present status, that would be one way for us to keep in touch. 

Any chance that we could talk this evening, around 6:30? 

Of course I was agreeable, despite 6:30 on his suggested evening was right smack in the middle of my wife and I attending to "guests" getting their curbside pickup at the pandemic version of our annual "Night Before Thanksgiving" dessert party. But, securing a job takes priority in my book, so I planned to sneak away for a bit, while Mrs. Pincus attended to our guests. I sent this "prospective employer" a link to my online design portfolio (as is done in these times) and told him I was anxious to speak at 6:30 that evening. He replied with this somewhat odd email:

Checked out your website. Interesting. Can I trouble you to please call me at 630 - 215.725.XXXX. I'm relaxing at that time after dinner, and I don't usually think about business matters. I might just forget. But on the other hand, I'll be happy to chat with you when you call.

Please take a look at our website beforehand, so you'll see what we do.

I visited his website. It appeared that he had merely filled in a supplied template with information pertaining to his specific business. It was minimally informative, but, honestly, nothing special. While I perused his website, he sent me another email. In this one, he noted the high school from which I graduated and asked if I grew up in Northeast Philadelphia. I found that to be an odd inquiry, but I replied that I did, but I now reside in a suburb just outside of the city limits.

At 6:30 that evening, I slipped away to the quiet second floor of my house and dialed this "prospective employer" at the number he supplied. After a few electronic rings, he answered. I introduced myself. He asked if I went to his website and I replied that I did. "So, whaja think?," he spat out, with a tinge of indignancy in his tone. I explained that he appeared to be a commercial printer and I have dealt with and worked for commercial printers over the past thirty years of my career. He interrupted me with a gruff correction. "We are a print broker." (A print broker is sort-of a "middle man." He does not own or operate an actual printing company. Rather, he uses actual printers to supply his orders, selling them to his own customers at a price marked up from the wholesale price he receives from the printer. A print broker is a glorified salesperson.) I happily expounded on my understanding of the "print broker" concept as well as my experience in design and project management. He interrupted me again. This time, he pressed the previously undisclosed "sales" aspect of the position. I flatly told him that I was not a sales person and that I would not be comfortable in a sales position.

He was quiet for a moment. Then he spoke.

"The real reason I wanted to speak to you, " he began, "was I when saw your last name, I figured you were Jewish. I am getting up in years and was hoping to sell my business. Jews are very entrepreneurial. Maybe you'd be interested in buying my business?"

I looked down to see that my jaw had fallen and was now laying of the floor between my feet. I was speechless. Speechless. Thoughts scrambled in my head. 

"I am not interested in buying a business at this time." I managed to get those eleven words out of my mouth.

"Okay." he laughed. "I have been swamped with applications. I wonder why so many artists are out of work and can't keep a job?" I surmised that this was a rhetorical question. He ended with "I'll be in touch. Send me some references." I said goodbye and he said goodbye.

I haven't heard from him and he hasn't heard from me, either.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

the final countdown

My favorite radio station just wrapped up a week-long countdown of the two thousand and twenty "greatest songs of all time." A few months prior to beginning the playback, they solicited listeners to compile a list of their ten greatest songs of all time. These lists were then tallied and calculated and counted and sorted. On December 10 at 8 AM, they played "Time is Tight," a 1969 release by instrumental funk band Booker T & The MGs. This song, ranking at Number 2020, kicked off a non-sequitur musical marathon that would — over the course of eight days — span decades, artists and genres. The countdown promised (or threatened) to continue non-stop — burgeoning on 24 hours a day — until the Number One song was revealed. Social media immediately lit up as, in the first 24 hours, the station defiantly — and consecutively — played "I Keep Forgettin'" by Michael McDonald, "Just Like Honey" by The Jesus and Mary Chain, "Louisiana 1927" by Randy Newman, "The Breaks" by Kurtis Blow and "Open My Eyes" by Nazz. This made for one of the early examples of unusual and awkward segues. As the on-air hosts divulged each song (in reverse order), Twitter was a-twitter with hash-tagged conversations, proclamations and overtly possessive browbeating. With each new song disclosure, a new volley of discussion would erupt, fraught with more speculation, contempt and even a bit of bullying. And this is how things played out until the single digits were reached.

I planned to steer clear of the countdown and, to be honest, I only heard approximately sixty or so minutes of it and that didn't come until Day Five. It was on the radio in my wife's car as we took a ride to my son's house to deliver some cookies that she made. We talked during the drive, so I really wasn't paying close attention to the songs. I heard approximately 26 songs in the time it took to drive to his house and then return home. When each song began, I asked the same question: "Is this the 'Greatest Song of All Time?'" I asked the question — out loud — 26 times... until Mrs. Pincus (rightfully) told me to shut up. On the final day, I blew off my planned "avoidance" and I sat with my wife on our sofa as we listened to the last 100 songs play back through our stereo. To add to the fun, we participated in the social media fervor that accompanied the countdown. It was sort of a running commentary, like those second audio tracks on DVDs that nobody listens to. Because I am who I am, my tweets were dripping with sarcasm and faux ignorance (in keeping with my online persona). I tweet strictly for my own amusement and, sometimes, I find the results funnier if the folks on the receiving end don't know me and take everything I say to heart. I was careful to include a healthy dose of my "disdain" for Ringo Starr, as well as a "put on" misunderstanding of particular artists. (For instance, I expressed my love of jazz great Dave Brubek when his classic "Take Five" checked in at the Number 54 position. However, I punctuated my tweet with a photo of David Ruprecht, the host of the 90s game show Supermarket Sweep. I got the joke and that was all that was important.)

I love music. I hate countdowns. I did not compile nor submit a list for inclusion in the countdown. I hate ranking anything — movies, television shows, foods — anything. I don't care to hear other people's lists and I especially don't need to hear two thousand and twenty songs in reverse order of greatness. It's all opinion. There is no definitive answer. There are no bad choices. There are no good choices. It all means absolutely nothing. Months and years from now, when this countdown is a mere memory, will it make any bit difference that "Day Tripper" by The Beatles ranks as the 1,164th Greatest Song of All Time the next time they play it? 

I like what I like. I don't like what I don't like. The specifics of those things, of course, will differ from person to person. But people seem to get really possessive and defensive about the songs they like and the songs other people like. People want other people to like the same songs they like. I don't know why? I don't understand the insecurity that surfaces when someone says they don't like a song or band that you like. It appears, though, that my generation insists on keeping the flame burning for the music of their formative years. This phenomenon doesn't seem to exist in the generations that followed. The Top 25 songs, as "determined" by the Countdown results, were an embarrassing reflection of my contemporaries, boasting primarily white guys with guitars... with just a few exceptions. People my age, in 2020, are still hanging onto their beloved "Layla" and "Stairway to Heaven." I could just picture graying men with bad backs struggling to pump their fists in the air as the opening chords of Bruce Springsteen's "Jungleland" emanated from the smart speaker that their grandson set up for them.

Sure, I like to hear the music I grew up with. I also like to hear the music my parents grew up with and the music my son grew up with. It makes for a much more enjoyable variety of soundtrack to my life. I don't try to "school" anybody. I will not make a convincing argument to persuade someone half my age that Elton John, in his heyday, could run musical circles around Taylor Swift. That's just stupid. Elton John was a talented singer and songwriter and Taylor Swift is a talented singer and songwriter. And what difference does it make if you or I feel otherwise. There's no need to take music so seriously. It's supposed to make you feel good. Let it. And let different music make someone else feel good.

So after eight days and nights, the 2020 "Greatest Songs of All Time" came to a close. And this is what I learned:

1. People my age like to vote in countdowns

2. People my age don't seem to be aware of any music that was released after 1977

3. People my age really need to lighten up

4. I still know the words to all twenty-three minutes of Genesis's "Supper's Ready"

And we will never know what is truly "The Greatest Song of All Time."

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

troll the ancient yuletide carol

I have always loved Christmas music. I'm not sure why. After all, we didn't celebrate Christmas in my house, so there wasn't a "feeling of Christmas" that, I suppose, makes those who do celebrate Christmas want to break out in song as the 25th of December approaches. I loved watching all of the special Christmas programming on television, from the animated A Charlie Brown Christmas (with its sweet and simple "Christmastime" melody) and How the Grinch Stole Christmas (with its faux-menacing title song) to the stop-motion "Animagic" Rankin-Bass productions that mixed original Christmas songs with the traditional and established ones with which I was already familiar. I remember that the now-defunct Philadelphia Bulletin would include an "assemble-it-yourself" Christmas song booklet with the color comics section in the Sunday edition just prior to Christmas Day. It was from these annual, illustrated, 8-page supplements that I first learned the words to beloved Christmas carols like "Silent Night," "Away in a Manger" (having no idea what exactly a "manger" was. Actually, I'm still not certain), and "O Holy Night." I tried to master the Latin lyrics to "Adeste Fideles" once I was sure I memorized the words in the English version, "O Come All Ye Faithful." I was so familiar with these songs, that I recall getting excited as a teenager when, during a 1978 Jethro Tull concert, flutist Ian Anderson broke into "God Rest Ye Merry Gentleman" in the middle of a rousing version of their classic instrumental "Bourée."

As I got older and started buying albums, I made sure that I had a good amount of Christmas music in my collection. Whether it was a current band cashing in on a holiday release or a reissue of a famous crooner singing well-known carols — I had to have 'em. And the more unusual, the better. Aside from the classics, I like original Christmas songs that spin tales of off-beat scenarios while still keeping with the holiday spirit. Not necessarily "novelty" songs, but ones that stray from the standard Christmas images like mistletoe, sleigh bells and Jesus's birth. I like the slightly skewed songs like The Pogues' "Fairytale of New York," that creates a holiday scene through the eyes of two drunk Irish immigrants in a New York lockup. My wife's favorite song — not specifically holiday song, but song in general — is The Waitresses' bouncy 1981 rhyming tune "Christmas Wrapping." 

Despite my love for Christmas songs, I am still taken aback by some of the unsettling lyrics that folks blindly sing, parroting words they heard over and over, year after year, not quite understanding what it is they are singing.... yet still teaching these songs to their children and grandchildren. One of the creepiest lyrics is from "Holly Jolly Christmas," a holiday favorite written by Johnny Marks in 1962. Marks wrote a bunch of your favorite Christmas songs. This one gained fame when it was included in the first Rankin-Bass Christmas special Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer, sung by actor/folk singer Burl Ives. Near the end of the first verse, just before the chorus, Ives' deceitfully friendly tenor says: "Oh, ho the mistletoe/Hung where you can see/Somebody waits for you/Kiss her once for me." Don't let that avuncular "Sam the Snowman" persona fool you. Burl Ives is gunning for your girlfriend, pal. Behind the warm sentiment of this catchy little ditty, this leering stalker is tipping his hand. He's letting you know he's making a move on your honey at the first opportunity. Turns out that "Holly Jolly Christmas" was the forerunner to "Say 'Hi' to your mom for me!"

Andy Williams has a voice I always associate with Christmas songs. He sings two of the most popular ones and they can both be found on his 1963 release Andy Williams Christmas Album. The first is "It's the Holiday Season," a cheerful song penned by no less than seven credited writers. Andy mingles this with "Happy Holiday," written by Chanukah-celebrating Irving Berlin for the film Holiday Inn. "It's the Holiday Season" is an adequate song. It doesn't break any new ground, as far as Christmas songs are concerned. As a matter of fact, it plays out like a Christmas reference shopping list, making sure that it checks all the boxes for things to be mentioned in any good Christmas song — bells, toys, Santa, snow, tree. It even manages to get "peppermint stick" in there. But, "It's the Holiday Season" is also kind of clunky. It's proof that even the most clever lyricist struggles to construct an easy-flowing song. Obviously written with a looming production deadline, this "committee" of wordsmiths, at a loss for words, insert the preposterous line: "With the whoop-de-do and dickory dock" smack in the middle of an otherwise, perfectly good holiday song. This is a reference to nothing and merely a lame placeholder until they could think up a better, more suitable, eight syllables. Well, they couldn't and now, we're stuck with it. C'mon fellas... "dickory dock?" Really? That's the best you could do?

Andy Williams' other signature Christmas song is "The Most Wonderful Time of the Year," written especially for Williams by his musical director George Wyle, best known for composing the theme to Gilligan's Island. This rousing song evokes the warmth of family gatherings and general good cheer among friends. But, again, in searching for a rhyme for "glory," Wyle opts for the set-up line: "There'll be scary ghost stories." He must have hastily written the lyrics over a previously-started composition for Hallowe'en. When he presented the lyric sheet to the publisher, it was too late. Ghost stories are now and forever part of the Christmas ritual. Thanks to George Wyle, you are now free to distribute candy canes to trick-or-treaters.

Bing Crosby famously sang "White Christmas" in 1942's Holiday Inn and in its much-better (and blackface-free) remake White Christmas in 1954. "Der Bingle" sang a lot of Christmas songs throughout his long career and released over a dozen Christmas albums. "It's Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas," written by Meredith Willson (who also wrote the award-winning musical The Music Man) is one of his most popular. Bing lovingly sings about candy canes, decorated trees and eager children wishing for all sorts of toys. But somewhere near the end of the bridge, this song suddenly takes an angry turn as an exasperated Bing expresses his frustration with the aforementioned kids when he laments: "And Mom and Dad can hardly wait for school to start again." Gary Crosby could tell you stories about his father's impatience, especially when it came to his kids. Hey, lighten up, Bing! Christmas is still a few days away, for goodness sake! School will start soon enough and you'll be back to playin' golf and doin' shots before you know it. Spending a few days with the kids won't kill you.

Bing Crosby also makes his own plea in "I'll Be Home for Christmas," written to honor soldiers serving overseas in World War II. In the song, Bing asks for specific things for his family to have when he comes home for Christmas. His list of demands includes: "Please have snow and mistletoe/And presents by the tree." Sure, Bing, there can be mistletoe. We can pick some up when we purchase this year's tree. And presents? Of course, there will be presents, Bing! There have been presents since you were a kid! But snow? Really, Bing? There's only so much your family can guarantee. We can't control the weather, for crying out loud! If there isn't snow, can we just forget your visit? Mom will be so upset! Wait a second! What did you say....? You'll be home for Christmas... only in your dreams!?! Oh, nice one, Bing! You think that's funny, you selfish, inconsiderate holiday tease!

"There's No Place Like Home for the Holidays" also contains some lyrics that make no sense — at least to me. It's been recorded by many vocalists, including Perry Como and The Carpenters, but it's no less weird. The song is all about the trials of travelling in holiday traffic, as is illustrated by the words: "I met a man who lives in Tennessee and he was headin' for/Pennsylvania and some homemade pumpkin pie/From Pennsylvania, folks are travelin' down/To Dixie's sunny shore." But, what is going on here? You're telling me there's no pumpkin pie between Tennessee and Pennsylvania? If you want to get technical, Illinois leads the country in growing pumpkins, most of which is used for pie filling. And Illinois is a lot closer to Tennessee than Pennsylvania (which is fourth in production). Okay, okay... maybe they don't have any relatives they speak to in Illinois. But then the folks from Pennsylvania have their sights set on the South because — what? — they've been eating so much pumpkin pie, they have to get out of here? Then, there's that crack about the traffic being "terrific," as though they are enjoying it!

Don't forget the songs about Santa Claus. "Santa Claus is Coming to Town" is kind of frightening, if you consider the lyrics: "He sees you when you're sleeping/He knows when you're awake." This pretty much describes the plotline for George Orwell's 1984. Not to be outdone, "Here Comes Santa Claus" is downright threatening, warning children to "Jump into bed and cover your head/'Cause Santa Claus comes tonight!" Jeez! It sounds like Santa is coming to kill you!

And then there are all of the songs that, by reason of misinterpretation, have come to be considered Christmas songs... but really aren't. "Winter Wonderland" does not mention Christmas. Not even once! Neither does "Sleigh Ride" or "Jingle Bells" or "My Favorite Things." And "Frosty the Snowman" is just a song about a snowman that comes to life...on a random day in winter... not necessarily Christmas Day. The song "We Need a Little Christmas," technically isn't a Christmas song either. It's from the Broadway musical Mame and is sung to cheer the household up after the Stock Market Crash of 1929. It uses "Christmas" as a metaphor for "happier times." Oh, and stop singing Leonard Cohen's "Hallelujah" as a Christmas song. It's not about what you think it's about.

Nevertheless, I love Christmas songs — no matter how weird or nonsensical or questionable the lyrics are. Hey, aside from "Dreidel, Dreidel, Dreidel" and a couple others in Hebrew, Chanukah offers some pretty "slim pickins" in the holiday song department.

Happy Holidays, everyone. Now, go deck those halls.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

the card cheat

A day or so ago, I was talking to my son on my cellphone. Now, I think I am pretty well-versed in the ins-and-outs of my phone, but every so often, I have one of those mishaps that I accuse "old people" of having. You know, something goes inexplicably wrong with a piece of sophisticated electronic equipment and the elicited response is "It must have done that by itself! I didn't touch anything!" Yes, I have pointed the finger at many an older person for such an infraction, knowing full well that it was absolutely something they did. Cellphones — as well as computers, tablets, remote controls — don't just do things. The user just did something — pushed a button, hit a key, double-clicked on something they should have single-clicked on — of which they were not aware and triggered some unexpected result. That story about Bartlett Finchley, on a 1960 episode of Twilight Zone, was just a story. Machines aren't "out to get us." We're just.... um.... clumsy.

So, during my conversation with my son, I must have pressed my face hard on the screen, essentially "clicking" an icon on the home screen. This brought up my Contacts. Then, unknown to me, I dialed a number at the top of the list. It was an acquaintance from high school named Adam*. What Adam's name and number is doing in my Contact list, I am not quiet sure. I haven't spoken to him in over forty years. And even forty years ago, I had very little to say to him. My son was in mid-sentence and suddenly he was interrupted by a muffled ringing. I looked around the room and saw nothing unusual. I pulled the phone away from my ear and saw Adam's name in big letters across the screen along with the words " Dialing...." Panicked, I hit the red "end call" icon and continued my conversation. I didn't mention what had just transpired to my son, lest I be subject to a little finger-pointing myself.

I knew Adam in high school. He was a friend-of-a-friend. I wasn't especially fond of him. If I remember, he hung with a different group than I did. (There were a lot of students in my high school.) Our paths crossed very infrequently. Our few encounters were not pleasant ones. He was one of those "one-up-you" kind of guys. Every comment was met with his attempt to do you one better. If you said your father just bought a car, he would counter that his father just bought a better and bigger car. If you told of a restaurant you went to, he would belittle your experience and tell you of a fancier and more expensive restaurant he went to with his family. His face was twisted into a constant sneer and you could just feel him looking down on everyone.

When I was in high school, I got together with a group of friends on a very irregular basis to play cards. It wasn't a "high stakes" game. We played for nickels and dimes. Some of us didn't have jobs and those that did, didn't have a lot of expendable income. It was a friendly, often silly, game and more of an excuse to congregate to talk, eat and listen to records. If we got in a few hands of poker, well then the evening was a success. One weekend evening, I showed up at a friend's house to play cards and Adam was there. I guess my friend was his friend, too, although I don't think I was aware that they even knew each other. This was the first time that Adam was included in our card game.

We all sat down at the table, making sure that we were properly surrounded with soda and chips and other assorted — yet very important — snacks. Someone made sure that the stereo was pumping out an album side that we all agreed on. We were ready to begin. Adam, of course, spoke up first. He suggested a bunch of variations on poker that we could play. Everyone at the table turned to him and frowned, opting instead to play the games we were used to — five-card draw, seven-card draw and something with a specific card or suit designated as "wild." Nothing too complicated. Adam scoffed at our plebian decision and reluctantly went along with majority rule, his signature sneer forming across his lips.

We played for an uneventful hour or so... until Adam got a little squirmy. Then someone spotted a few cards under Adam's wrist. He was unsuccessfully trying to conceal them from his fellow players. Someone angrily stood up and alerted the other players.

"What are those cards?," he yelled. Those who were not immediately aware of what was going on, were certainly aware now. Adam had been caught cheating! In a nickel-and-dime card game! Among friends!

Adam hemmed and hawed and made a million different excuses. I stood up. I began to put on my coat. I thanked my friend for hosting the game that evening. Then I turned to Adam and told him that I would never ever play cards in a game that included him. I left. In the ensuing weeks and months of high school, I avoided Adam as much as physically possible. I never spoke to him again.

Many years later, my wife ran into Adam at a merchandise trade show. He was working as a salesman for a local wholesaler from which my wife often made purchases. Adam was showing my wife some new item and they got to talking. Through their conversation, he discovered that she was married to me and that we knew each other from high school. Later in the evening, my wife mentioned running into Adam. I hadn't heard his name in years! Many, many years! As soon as my wife spoke his name, I told her that he was caught cheating in a card game when we were teenagers. She frowned and the conversation ended.

After I "cheek-dialed" Adam on my cellphone, he called me back and left a voicemail for me. I listened to his message. He said he saw I called and he looked forward to my returning his call... as though we were best friends and our friendship was a strong bond that had remained strong for all these years.

I deleted his contact information from my phone.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

* His name is not "Adam."

once you get started

My first real job in the world of art was in the main office of a local chain of popular ice cream stores. Officially, I was the "art director." In reality, I was the entire art department. I sat in a little cluttered office, churning out ads and signs and displays — all without the aid of computers or the sophisticated printers I have used in more recent employment. After many months of service, I was rewarded with a token of thanks as the holiday season approached. No, it wasn't a bonus check or monetary compensation of any kind. It was big turkey made out of ice cream. The owner of the company was the slimiest, most conniving and deceitful person I had ever met. When he bestowed this misshapen frozen gift to me (with his nicotine-stained hands), it was as though he was handing me a gleaming gold brick — at least that was the impression I got from his wide, nicotine-stained smile.

So, I drove home with that frozen turkey replica on the front seat of my car and soon silently presented it to my wife of just over a year. She frowned. It was the Tuesday before Thanksgiving and we had plans to celebrate the holiday at my in-law's house. My wife's parents keep a strictly Kosher home and — without going into the intricate edicts involved in the observance of kashrut — a meal that includes meat may not be capped off with anything that includes dairy. Period. 

Faced with several pounds of turkey-shaped ice cream and no where to pawn it off, the ever-resourceful Mrs. Pincus hatched a grand idea. ("Hatched!" Ha ha! Get it? — Uh... on with the story.) She decided to use her stellar baking skills to whip up a few supplementary additions to the frozen faux fowl. Then, we'd invite a few folks over to our tiny Northeast apartment to help us consume the whole shebang. This would all go down the night before Thanksgiving and after everyone had eaten dinner at their own homes.

And so, a tradition was born.

Our very first dessert party was an impromptu gathering of a dozen or so family and friends crammed into our narrow townhouse apartment on the night before Thanksgiving 1985. It has become an annual occurrence that has since blossomed into a warm and beloved (by most) affair — bringing together family, extended family,  friends and, in some cases, strangers. The venue has changed to our much larger suburban home, which is able to accommodate more guests more comfortably. But, we haven't missed a single one since that first one in '85.

Over the years, the guest list has expanded and evolved from family and friends to friends of our son to new-found friends, a changing parade of co-workers and — curiously — less family. Also the number of guests has increased considerably. One year, we had nearly 75 people jockeying for even a spot to stand in our living room and dining room. One of my favorite games to play every year is "Who is This in My House?" I like to quietly scan the crowd and pick out a person whom I have never seen in my life, standing in my house, happily shoving a piece of my wife's celebrated pecan pie into their smiling mouth. We have also had guests — unfamiliar with the houses on my street — wander into a neighbor's house, before realizing that they transposed some numbers in my address.

The menu has also evolved. I only worked for the ice cream company for a year, so I never got another frozen, year-end confection for free again. For a few years, we purchased an ice cream turkey elsewhere, until we realized that no-one was eating it and the widening chocolate puddle it was reduced to was spoiling the layout of the rest of the table. It was soon eliminated from the bill of fare. The real draw is my wife's baking, which has rightfully become the centerpiece of the evening. She spends a surprisingly little amount of time preparing an overflowing tableful of delicious bakery-quality treats for our eager guests. After an hours-long trip to the supermarket, where two full shopping carts is not unusual, Mrs. P knocks out dozens of perfectly baked goodies with the impeccable precision of a ballet company — usually in just one day. She has even experimented with recipes — adding new ones and tweaking tried-and-true favorites. While multiple items are in the oven, I have assisted (minimally) in decorating our home, transforming our everyday living space into a close approximation of a 1930s winter season cover of the Saturday Evening Post. Mrs. Pincus lays out the table, the utensils, the decorations — everything — while I stand idly by, like a lunk and marvel at her accomplishments. The evening truly belongs to her.

Of course, over a span of 35 years, we've had our share of mishaps. One year, with a kitchen counter covered with various ingredients and our then-infant son reclining in a baby seat, one of the cabinets just dislodged from the wall, sending its contents — coffee mugs and dishes — crashing into the sink and eventually the floor. Another time, I had assembled our newest addition — a real, two-tier chocolate fountain — incorrectly. When I turned it on, it spewed melted chocolate all over our kitchen like a delicious Mount Vesuvius.

Mrs. Pincus and I are the only two people that have attended the dessert party every  single year. Some longtime guests missed a few years here and there, due to illness, other logistic complications or, sadly, death. Others have been stricken from the guest list for one reason or another, replaced by new friends or newly born-family members. Our son missed the first few because he had not yet been born. But, he was not present at a few during his teenage years, as he attended a conflicting annual dance held by an organization of his contemporaries. A few days prior to last year's party, my brother noted that he had never missed a year. Sadly, due to an emergency within his family, he was forced to skip the 2019 gathering. 

Which brings us to 2020. Goddamn 2020.

Back in the spring, Mrs. P and I mulled over various scenarios that would enable us to continue a decades-long tradition in the time of a global pandemic. We optimistically envisioned this whole thing being over by September, leaving plenty of time to make arrangements in the same manner in which we were accustomed. But as summer became fall, it was clear that COVID-19 wasn't going anywhere and was determined to ruin our tradition. Mrs. P alternately cried and fumed. She was determined to have a "Night Before Thanksgiving" dessert party and inject a bit of normalcy into the near-chaos that this virus wreaked on our lives. The problem was that our house tends to get fairly crowded at the peak of the evening, with guests standing elbow-to-elbow not the least bit unusual. In the time of "social distancing," this was going to be tricky. Mrs. P proposed staggered admission, assigning small circles of guests different arrival times and asking them to leave after a pre-determined period to allow for the next group to safely enter. My wife's older brother (who has chosen to live outside of the day-to-day tedium of family concerns and remains a mysterious entity to even some of our close friends) volunteered to drive all the way in from his remote location to serve as a bouncer. He cheerfully offered to kick people out of our house who have overstayed their allotted timeslot. We passed on his gracious offer.

Together, my wife and I conceived a "Plan B." Taking a page from the current safety practices of the retail business, our "Night Before Thanksgiving" dessert party this year would be a curb-side pick-up version. It was ingenious, if I may compliment ourselves. We sent out electronic invitations including an option to select which type of pie you'd like — pecan or pumpkin. Mrs. P set out to compile a modified menu, featuring only items that would travel unscathed in a take-out container. Then, she bought takeout containers and autumn-themed carry bags. Our excitement grew as affirmative replies began to roll in. Mrs. P kept careful track of  who was coming and which pies they requested. She wrote and rewrote and re-rewrote the menu, refining it until she was satisfied with a good sampling of dessert favorites from past years' parties — sort of a dessert party greatest hits.

The replies we received energized Mrs. Pincus. A lot of the responses were accompanied by a heartfelt message of surprise and gratitude for keeping up a tradition in the midst of a discouraging global situation. On Tuesday, Mrs. Pincus did her usual phenomenal job of turning out hundreds of tempting little morsels from our kitchen's magical oven. Refrigerated items were refrigerated. Other items were left to cool in what looked like an abstract jigsaw puzzle on our dining room table. The morning of the "event," we turned into a two-person assembly line. We filled small take-out tins with pies. Then, we filled larger versions with an assortment of a variety of baked goods — each one slightly different in its contents but no less appetizing. Our dining room looked like the stock area of a commercial bakery with plastic-lidded tins piled in neat little stacks, ready to be distributed to the bags and delivered to its waiting recipient.

At 4 o'clock, the first guest pulled up. It was my father-in-law, who lives around the corner from us. Just like he was keeping a scheduled appointment for a curb-side pickup at a supermarket, he called my wife and explained that he was checking in for his order. We didn't consider creating an app for the evening's procedure, but we played along with my wife's father. Properly masked and insisting he remain in his car, Mrs. P opened the rear passenger door and placed the dessert-filled bag on the seat. My father-in-law waved as he pulled away. And this is how it went for the next three hours. At irregular intervals, friends and family, who otherwise would have gathered around our extended dining room table or clogged accessible walking space in our house, were now parallel parking at our driveway and trying to identify themselves from behind a cotton facemask through a rolled-down window in a car we didn't recognize. A few folks — who shall remain nameless — exited their cars to chat, seeing that no other guests were around. Mrs. P indulged these "violators" in conversation. I, however, was a little more forceful, as I attempted to direct them back into their cars, so as not to encourage others to react similarly. I was gently reprimanded for my actions. Overall, everything worked out smoothly and better than we could have imagined. Several curbside interactions resulted in a few tears shed, as my wife expressed her wholehearted gratitude. The whole experience was pretty emotional, if one were to dwell on it for a bit. The final guest to arrive was our neighbor from across the street who walked over in the dark, traversing our lawn approximately 90 minutes after I had shut off the porch light.

We were very satisfied with the entire evening. It could have been more fuel for the fire of disappointment that has burned through the past nine months. Instead it was a glimmer of hope for what lies ahead in the coming year. This time next year, I hope to be complaining about a house full of unruly people who don't know when it's time to leave.

And be thankful for them, Y'know....just like normal.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

you better shop around

Since the beginning of the global pandemic, our shopping habits and procedures have changed considerably. Going to buy groceries used to be a regular occurrence for the Pincuses (Pinci?) and sometimes, Mrs. P and I would find ourselves at the supermarket a few times during any given week. Now, we (and by "we," I of course mean my wife) go to pick up our groceries from a list compiled online. Our pre-picked, pre-bagged, pre-paid grocery order is delivered by a masked employee right to the cargo area of our SUV. Simple. Convenient. Annoyance free.

Yeah. Right.

There ain't nothing that is annoyance free, especially in a world occupied by humans. Humans always seem to ruin a perfectly good plan, either by saying something inappropriate or stupid or both. Or by doing something that blatantly goes against the policy of the company for whom they enjoy employment. Or they don't do something they should be doing. Or any combination of the above.

Our first choice for groceries is Walmart, the mighty global retail giant that stocks nearly everything. Their prices on most items are so ridiculously low, it makes one wonder how they can sell things so cheaply and why other stores sell the identical item for much more money. Oh... I know the reason! It's because, in order to take advantage of the great prices, you are forced to go to Walmart. Our weekly trips to Walmart started off great. After the first couple of weeks, their ranking dropped from "great" to "pretty good," as the accuracy decreased and product substitution increased. Soon, Walmart's status was at a solid "okay," with the foreseeable potential of dropping further. Right now, thirty-plus weeks into this shitshow, Walmart is holding steady at "adequate." Lately, our orders have been missing items, requiring a return trip. Once, they forgot an entire bag of groceries. We had to go back to the store, well after their curbside pick-up hours had ended for the day. We had difficulty finding someone — anyone — who would venture into the now-closed grocery department to retrieve our errant bag. Now, for subsequent orders, we have begun to perform an inventory before we leave the parking lot.

We have also frequented Target for grocery pick up. Target, while still a discount store, is a noticeable step above Walmart. In the pre-COVID-19 days, when we still went in to stores, Target was always cleaner and more orderly than Walmart. And their customer base was well-versed in the art of tucking in a shirt. These days, Target seems to have a better, more-efficient handle on the "curbside pick-up" procedure. Walmart requires customers to book and secure a time slot in which to arrive. Target will happily accept your online order and merely asks for the time you will be in their parking lot (in a newly-delineated area installed since the pandemic began). When you arrive, you log into their website, enter the space number in which you are parked and within a minute or two, a friendly red-and-beige clad employee will appear with your order — sometimes including a free sample product along with the requested items. (Once, we got a fruit rollup. Another time, we got a small box of Cap'n Crunch!) But, even Target isn't perfect. Just this week, Target experienced its first Achilles' heel. As part of our order, I asked for two bottles of Johnson's Baby Shampoo. (Yes, that's what I wash my delicate scalp with, you got a problem with that?) According to the website, it was available, but we were only permitted to place 'one" in our virtual shopping cart. Just before our selected pick-up time, we were informed, via email, that the shampoo was unavailable. "Really?" I exclaimed, to no one in particular, "There's not a single bottle of baby shampoo in that entire store?" No one in particular remained silent. My wife and I headed over to our nearby Target. We parked and notified the store that we were there to accept our order. However, the option to enter your parking spot was unavailable. Someone was required to actually go into the store. Mrs. Pincus donned her mask and gloves, a practice that has become second nature at this point in time, and grudgingly set off for the front entrance. A few minutes later, she returned, holding a plastic Target shopping bag. While at the "pick up" area, she asked about the shampoo, explaining its alleged unavailability. The employee shook her head and said that baby shampoo is with baby items, not health and beauty. Another employee was sent out on a mission and returned with three bottles of the shampoo. I have a hard time understanding how just one person in Target holds the secret as to the location of baby shampoo... and it's not the person filling the online orders. Is Target slipping? Oh, say it isn't so!

There's one more place that Mrs. P goes for groceries, but visits have been reduced to approximately once per month. I'm talking about BJ's Wholesale Club. BJ's Wholesale, if you are not familiar, is like Costco and Sam's Club, selling common grocery items in quantiles far too big for the average family to fully consume before some of it spoils. They also stock giant-size containers of things that you would normally purchase one of in a lifetime — like nutmeg. Does anyone who doesn't operate a ski lodge need a hundred and twelve ounces of nutmeg? Mrs. Pincus has graciously been doing the shopping for her parents, as well as for us. So an infrequent stop at BJ's Wholesale can be beneficial for stocking up on large containers of orange juice or cereal or other items that we know we'll use in a reasonable amount of time (no... not nutmeg). On my wife's most recent trip to BJ's Wholesale, her purchases were actually pretty modest. A bunch of bananas, a couple of heads of lettuce, a case of Polar seltzer for our son and a couple of big bags of Hallowe'en candy that may or may not be distributed — the jury is still out. When Mrs. P began placing her items on the conveyor belt at the check out, the cashier felt that it was fully within her rights to comment on my wife's purchases. "Boy, you sure have a big order," she announced. 

Now, if you've ever been to a BJ's Wholesale (or Costco or Sam's Club), I'm sure you've seen folks dragging flatbed carts behind them laden to overflowing with cases and cases of various commodities like soda, bottled water, bulk packages of potato chips, giant glass jars of pickles or jalapeno peppers. Sometimes, you'll see people guiding several overstocked carts through the aisles — as though they are replenishing the staples of a small convenience store or sandwich shop. As a matter of fact, some of these people are doing just that. Independent businessmen and women come to BJ's Wholesale often — a few times a week sometimes — to buy what they need to help keep their businesses running. Believe me, they are buying way more that eight bananas and a gallon of orange juice. Heck, there were people in the checkout line with triple the order size as Mrs. Pincus's. Why this cashier chose to marvel at a few bunches of produce and a few bags of candy is beyond me.

Oh, we will get through this dark pall that is hanging over us. COVID-19, I mean. Stupidity we're stuck with.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

that's me in the spotlight

I know some famous people. Some are local celebrities whose fame — whether or not they acknowledge it — only reaches to the very real boundaries of the Delaware Valley*. Others have achieved widespread nationwide success — even worldwide in a few well-deserved cases. These people fall into many categories. Some are singers. Some are actors. Some are media personalities. However, I will not divulge the names of any of them. I don't want to brag. I don't wish to use my acquaintance with a famous person in an attempt to impress you. (Some of them, I will admit, are far from impressive.) I won't do this, because it was done to me many years ago. And I was not impressed.

When I was in elementary school, I was pretty close friends with a boy named Mitchell Rosencrantz‡. Mitchell was a nice kid. He was somewhat awkward and quirky and not one of the "cool" kids. Well, neither was I, but I was able to ingratiate myself among that clique-y, elitist group without much backlash. Mitchell, however, was not so savvy. He experienced his share of bullying. He was the unfortunate target of schoolyard epithets on a fairly regular basis. It was sad, but I was his friend because I thought he was a nice guy, not because I felt sorry for him.

Mitchell and I hung out at recess with a few other kids who didn't fit in with the top tier of the popular hierarchy either. But that was okay. We had just as much fun. We discussed our favorite television shows, often debating the logistics of actually kissing Marcia Brady. We traded baseball cards that we collected, although none of us was really that interested in the actual sport of baseball. Mostly, we ran around and did "kid on the playground" stuff until the bell rang and we filed back into our classrooms. Every once in a while, on a weekend, I would go to Mitchell's house or he would come to mine. (To be honest, he would rarely come to my house, because that would've required my mother to straighten things up and possibly vacuum... and she wanted no parts of that.) At Mitchell's house, we'd do almost the same things that we did in the schoolyard except it was just the two of us.  (I remember that Mitchell had a little brother who was the spitting image of Mitchell. He also had a little sister who looked like Mitchell with pigtails.) After a few hours, my mom would pull up to Mitchell's house in her giant station wagon. I'd say "goodbye" and "thank you" to Mitchell and my mom would nudge me until I remembered to thank Mrs. Rosencrantz as well.

There was one thing that Mitchell did in an concerted effort to be accepted. He bragged about knowing a celebrity. He would find an opening in the conversation to remind everyone that his father was the manager of a celebrity. Now, we all knew that short, balding Mr. Rosencrantz was a lawyer. With his pen-filled plastic pocket protector, he looked nothing like any of the managers we saw on TV, like the guys in sequined-covered suits who escorted hulking professional wrestlers into the ring or the often-harried but coolly-coiffed Reuben Kincaid who called the financial shots for The Partridge Family. Granted, the celebrity that Mitchell talked about wasn't Adam West or Bobby Sherman or Karen Valentine. Hell, it wasn't anyone we even heard of. But he swore up and down of his celebrity status, so who were we to argue. We weren't worldly and we knew it. Mitchell insisted that his father represented the one and only Eddie Holman in all things show business.

That's right. Eddie Holman.

Gold.

New York-born Eddie Holman moved to Philadelphia with his family as a teen ager. At 16, he recorded his first song. It was heavily influenced by the so-called "Philly Soul" sound. He continued to record eventually hitting big in 1970 with "Hey There Lonely Girl," which was a reworked cover of a song originally released by Ruby and the Romantics in 1963. The tune hit Number Two on the prestigious Billboard Hot 100 chart. It sold over a million copies, however, Eddie Holman never had another hit.

Mitchell talked about Eddie Holman as though his popularity and recognition rivaled The Beatles. Mitchell's friends would nod politely as he expounded on the vast reaches of Eddie Holman's fame. He got misty-eyed as he spoke of Eddie Holman's talent and renown. Honestly, in 1970, I was 9 years old. I don't remember hearing "Hey There Lonely Girl" on the radio. Granted, the AM pop stations that I listened to were unjustly segregated and featured predominantly white artists. I don't recall seeing Eddie Holman perform on the ubiquitous Ed Sullivan Show, the barometer by which true fame was measured — at least in my young mind. If Ed Sullivan welcomed you to the stage, you were somebody... even if you were somebody I never heard of. I don't believe Eddie Holman ever graced the stage at 1697 Broadway in the Big Apple. But, as far as Mitchell Rosencrantz was concerned, Eddie Holman was celebrity enough to impress his friends.

As the years passed, I still remained friends with Mitchell Rosencrantz. We moved on to a new school after elementary school and the name "Eddie Holman" rarely breached conversations anymore. 

Soon, many of my classmates were anxious and excited about upcoming Bar and Bat Mitzvahs. Invitations were sent and the buzz was constant about how elaborate plans would be†. Sometime in the autumn of 1974, I attended Mitchell Rosencrantz's Bar Mitzvah.

The day began early in the morning, as I fidgeted in my seat at a synagogue in Northeast Philadelphia. I tugged at the necktie that my dad so expertly knotted around my skinny neck and thumbed through the Hebrew-printed pages of the prayer book some bent-over old man with three teeth in his head shoved into my hand as I entered the sanctuary. I adjusted the complementary satin yarmulke on my head (I think the old man plopped that on the back of my skull as well) and whispered to my seatmates that I recognized from school. I'm sure I also ogled the young female guests, marveling how they all looked well beyond their thirteen years, some wearing make-up for the first time and appearing waaaaay prettier than they did in any math class. Mitchell was barely visible at the lectern, peering over the top of those big wooden disks that kept the sacred Torah scrolls properly corralled. We could hear Mitchell's voice stammering out some tuneless chant. We giggled covertly each time his maturing vocal chords hit an unintentional sour note. When the grueling marathon service was over, we adjourned to a banquet room in the synagogue building that was decorated for an adults' version of a children's party. There were people who, though strangers, resembled members of my own extended family. There were two multi-tiered fountains, situated on a table — side-by-side — surrounded by large platters of unidentifiable hors d'oeuvres. One fountain dispensed wine, the other a tamer grape juice. Of course, my friends and I tried to sneak the wine, only to be scolded by a stern-looking older woman in a beaded dress, her mass of hair all done up for the occasion. Some of us danced with unwieldy moves to the typical hired band — a four-piece combo comprised of two accountants, a department store salesman and a guy who sometime, somewhere was passed over for his shot at stardom. Some of Mitchell's friends even mustered up enough nerve to ask one of the girls to dance.

Famous.

Once Mitchell's friends were finally seated at the long table reserved for the younger set (and far removed from the rest of the tables at which more important guests were seated), Mr. Rosencrantz hijacked the microphone from the tuxedoed band leader. He delivered a solemn double-shot of HaMotzi and Kiddush over a hefty loaf of challah and a full goblet of wine. Then, he cleared his throat, waved his hand and, through a wide smile, announced a "very special guest" of the afternoon. The double doors at the rear of the room opened and a tall, handsome African-American man appeared — impeccably dressed in a maroon velvet tuxedo, his barrel chest festooned with contrasting powder-blue ruffles. He smiled and waved to the guests as he made his way to the microphone offered by Mr. Rosencrantz. The man accepted the mic and, after warmly embracing Mitchell's dad, began to sing in a smooth tenor. His selection? Why, that 1970 near-chart topper "Hey There Lonely Girl." As he serenaded, whispers carried through the room. "That's Eddie Holman!," was the general consensus. 

Mitchell sat at the center of the long table with his arms crossed and a satisfied smirk on his lips. He was surrounded on both sides by his school friends and he beamed! I mean visibly beamed! Finally, he must have thought, everyone will see that I really know Eddie Holman. It really didn't matter that his friends still didn't know who he was. By the thunderous applause at the song's conclusion, Mitchell was fully convinced that he knew a celebrity. 

And that was all that mattered.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

*A colloquial term for the area surrounding Philadelphia, Southern New Jersey and the tip of Northern Delaware.

‡ This is a fictitious name. Don't bother trying to figure out who it is.

† I did not have a formal, traditional Bar Mitzvah. The explanation for that can be found here. 

best thing I never had

According to the signs posted outside of Joe Italiano's Maplewood Inn, you are looking at a plate of the "World's Best Spaghetti." Think about that for a minute. The world's best spaghetti. The best spaghetti in the entire world — out of all of the restaurants on this planet that offer spaghetti as an entrée on their menu. This is the best! Stare at it. Bask in its glory. The. Best. Spaghetti. In The. World.

My wife and I have been traveling to Atlantic City for a good portion of our lives. First as children, chauffeured by our parents on family vacations to the famous New Jersey shore destination. Then as adults with our son to create our own beloved memories of the storied seaside burg known as "America's Playground."

In more recent years, Mrs. Pincus and I would drive from our suburban Philadelphia home to Atlantic City to... enjoy?.... encounter?.... experience all that the Harrah's Casino Resort has to offer. For a time, Mrs. P was a favored patron in the eyes of Harrah's. She was showered with gifts and trips and free rooms and complimentary meals, as well as literally hundreds of dollars in "free play" for use in their casino slot machines. We traveled to Atlantic City several times a week to take advantage of all of the perks that came our way... until it ended, of course. Yep, one day, the marketing algorithms caught up and Mrs. P was cut free. Until, of course, it picked up again. In hopes of recouping some lost income due to closures during the COVID-19 pandemic, Harrah's apparently dug deep into their mailing list and suddenly Mrs. Pincus was back in their good graces. She began receiving offers to come down and collect a modest gift card or household appliance of some sort. These offers were made to encourage folks to gamble a bit while they were there to get their free gift. But they don't know my wife very well. We took the ninety-minute trip, Mrs. P ran in (properly masked and gloved while I — also masked — waited outside), got her gift and we left. We spent approximately fifteen minutes at Harrah's including the walk from the parking garage. Mrs. P didn't drop a single nickel in a slot machine. Oh, they'll cut her off soon. Don't you worry.

So, while we are still on Harrah's "good list," we have found ourselves Atlantic City bound on that two-lane blacktop road that bisects the rural-looking communities of South Jersey more often than we ever figured. Considering how often we traverse Route 30, colloquially known as "The White Horse Pike," I still marvel at how it still seems unfamiliar and its landmarks very forgettable. The landscape is dotted with a smattering of weather-worn, single-story houses that — I am convinced — all have one of those brick-walled dry wells in the basement, like Buffalo Bill's house in Silence of the Lambs. I'm also sure that they each contain a senator's daughter pleading for her life. Oh, there are a small amount of recognizable businesses along the way, too — like local supermarket chains and big-box stores like Wal-Mart. (I think we pass three.) But, for the most part, it is a repetitive tableau, like the one Fred and Barney pass as they tool through Bedrock. There are dozens of car repair places, their yards piled high with rusted husks of years-old vehicles in various stages of disassembly. There are numerous strip centers with empty stores. There are a number of restaurants, some looking closed at the dinner hour, some lit up with no customers. But among those restaurants, shining like a beacon, its parking lot jammed with cars, is Joe Italianio's Maplewood Inn.

An otherwise nondescript building situated in a cleared lot along an unremarkable stretch of the White Horse Pike in Hammonton, Joe Italianio's Maplewood Inn has something its competitors (if any) are lacking. Joe Italianio's Maplewood Inn has the world's best spaghetti. They even have two signs proclaiming the title. The most noticeable is perched on the roof of the building, backlit at night, reinforcing what the world (in the aggregate mind of Joe Italianio's Maplewood Inn) already knows. If you are in search of the best spaghetti in the entire world, search no more. Within this unadorned brick structure, your quest has come to an end. The great pasta salons of Rome, Venice and Bologna have resigned themselves to the fact that despite centuries-old recipes and preparation processes, a little red masonry structure in the tiny hamlet of Hammonton, New Jersey has bested them all. The best! In the world! Wow! Just wow! They don't have enough room on their signs to spell out Joe's first name in its entirety, but — damn! — they need the space to alert the 14,000 residents of Hammonton and beyond that within these walls the best spaghetti in the world can be found. There are highly regarded restaurants and establishments boasting the coveted third star from the revered Michelin Guide. They are concocting delicate gourmet recipes from exotic ingredients to tantalize the discerning palate. But, when it comes to spaghetti — forget it! They hang their collective heads. Because, as we know now, none of them serve the world's best spaghetti. That, of course, can only be gotten from the kitchen of Joe Italianio's Maplewood Inn. 

During the pandemic, Mrs. Pincus and I are being very cautious in our actions. Yes, I know. Going into a casino seems like the last place we should be going. But, Mrs. P is diligent in her precautionary measures... and when my wife is diligent about something, watch out. In the meantime, we are eating all of our meals at home and we have not ordered from a restaurant in eight months. When the time comes when we feel it is safe for us to venture out and re-enter the world of "dining out" again, will we make a beeline to Joe Italianio's Maplewood Inn for a sampling of the world's best spaghetti?

Nah.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com