if a picture paints a thousand words

I draw. I draw a lot. If you follow my online antics, you already know this about me. A little while ago, I decided to see if I could turn my drawing ability into some cash. I posted a little "ad" on my website offering my "alleged" talents to my alleged "legions of fans." For a small, reasonable fee, I will draw a portrait of the person of your choosing in that "Josh Pincus" style you've come to love (or revile, depending on your particular taste in art). I've been taken up on this offer a few times. More recently, I have branched out in the sticker and t-shirt business, but my portrait proposition has remained open and available.

On Friday morning, I was posting my daily celebrity death anniversaries (as one does) on Instagram. Then, as is my habit on Friday mornings, I posted my weekly "Dead Celebrity Spotlight." This is a drawing of a recent or not-so-recent celebrity, accompanied by a little story about why they were significant. Sometimes it's someone of worldwide renown. Other times, it's a long forgotten name, whose claim-to-fame endeavors are unsung and usually forgotten. Once posted, I get a smattering of "likes" and comments from a tiny, online faction who share my fascination with death, celebrities or any degree of combination of the two. As I settled back to finish a cup of coffee and figure out the plot points of the My Three Sons episode that was flashing across my television screen, a notification of a private Instagram message popped up on my phone. It was from someone with whom I was not connected. I get these a lot. After I post a photo of my son's cat, I will get inundated by unsolicited offers to become a "brand ambassador" for a line of cat toys. Just this week, I got a message from someone noting my affinity for singer Orville Peck and asking if I'd like to promote their similar-sounding songs. Both of these types of messages were deleted by me.

However, the message I received on Friday morning — the one that drew my attention away from a 60 year-old episode of the Fred MacMurray sitcom — asked if I was available for commissions.

I quickly responded that I was indeed and sent a link to the area of my website that details the steps to make one of my portraits your own. This person — who we'll call "Jimmy" — immediately and anxiously responded. He said he'd like me to draw his kids and sent me a photo of two young men standing on a driveway and looking like they'd rather not have their picture taken. I said I'd be happy to draw them once I received payment of $100 (the reasonable fee I mentioned earlier). I sent my wife's PayPal account info, reiterating that I would begin the drawing after I received payment. He asked for the PayPal user name on the account. I replied with an explanation that PayPal does not really employ "user names" like other payment apps and that the email address would be enough to accept payment.

He pressed for an account user name... somewhat relentlessly.

I spoke with Mrs. P, who assured me that — as I already knew — an email address is all that is required for PayPal payments. But, this guy Jimmy wasn't convinced. He pressed again and he pressed harder. Each of my explanations were met with an angry-toned "WHAT IS THE USER NAME" reply. Finally, Mrs Pincus logged into her PayPal account. She saw that PayPal recently added a "user name" that is essentially meaningless. It seems this useless addition was created to pacify those folks who were used to the "user names" associated with online payment upstarts Venmo and CashApp. I informed Jimmy of this new-found information and repeated the $100 fee and the proposed start time for his drawing. He asked if this was my first commission. I replied: "No. I have been doing this for forty years."

Then, I should have ducked to avoid the monkey wrench that Jimmy hurled at me.

"I am willing to support your artwork to the sum of $500," he said via text message in the Instagram app.

SCREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!!!!! The biggest red flag began waving in my head! A red flag so big that it could bring the participants in the Indy 500 to a grinding halt. No one — and I mean no one offers five times the agreed-upon price to an artist whose name is not Picasso, Renoir or Dali. And especially one of questionable notoriety and named Pincus.

"Thank you," I quickly replied, "but $100 will be just fine. Please do not send more than $100 for a drawing."

"I am doing this willingly," Jimmy replied aggressively, "so don't worry about it, hun."

This sounded really, really fishy. "If you'd like me to do a drawing, please just send $100.," I repeated.

That was the last of our exchange. That was last night. So far, no PayPal payment has been received from Jimmy... nor do I think there will be.

The internet is filled with weirdoes. And they all know how to find me.

If you'd like a drawing and you're not a weirdo, you can contact me HERE.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

stop right there, I gotta know right now

Ever since I unceremoniously lost my job in Philadelphia, I have worked in New Jersey. It is not unusual for people from Philadelphia (and its immediate surrounding area) to work in New Jersey. As a matter of fact, Philadelphians consider New Jersey to be a suburb of Philadelphia. 

My commute to work is about forty minutes and, understandably, I have to cross a toll bridge. Actually, I have my choice of two bridges that span the Delaware River. My preference is the Tacony-Palmyra Bridge, a nearly 100-year old drawbridge that, at any given moment, halts traffic to open up and allow passage of a ship. This operation can interrupt my morning and/or evening drive by up to a full hour. My alternative is the Betsy Ross Bridge, a more modern but less traveled truss structure built high enough that it doesn't need to open. Ships just scoot right under it and so far no ship has been too tall for passage. The Betsy Ross Bridge, however, is difficult to get to and out of my way. It also sports a toll of five dollars as opposed to the Tacony-Palmyra's EZ-Pass-discounted three bucks. Most mornings, I take the Tacony-Palmyra Bridge. I subscribe to a texting alert system that lets me know when the Tacony-Palmyra Bridge is scheduled to open. If I get that message before I leave for work, I change my route and head, reluctantly, towards the Betsy Ross Bridge. If I get that text en route, well.... then I'm fucked.

Once I cross one of those bridges, I navigate towards Route 130 and soon I find myself at work. Route 130 is an 83-mile stretch of busy Interstate thruway of which I only employ a small portion. One day, while driving along the route I drive every morning, I saw the flashing light of a local police vehicle in my rearview mirror. I obligingly slowed down and pulled to the curb to allow the officer to pass. But he didn't pass. He pulled right up behind me. Panicked, I steered my car into the parking lot of one of the many businesses on Route 130 and shut off the engine. The police car came in right behind me and parked. The officer stayed in his car for a few minutes before approaching my car. In those minutes, I tried to think of what I could have possibly done to warrant a traffic stop. I wasn't speeding. It's kind of hard to speed on Route 130 that early in the morning. As far as I knew my brake lights were in working order. The officer appeared beside my car and I lowered my window.

"Hello, officer.," I said

"Good morning," he replied and he asked for my driver's license and car registration. He walked around to the front of my car and leaned down a bit. Then he returned to my driver's side door. "You don't have a front license plate." he said.

"Yes," I explained, "They are not required in Pennsylvania, where I live." He nodded. I went on to say that I worked in nearby Pennsauken, New Jersey and I was on my way to my job.

The police officer squinted at me and said, in his best "Sergeant Joe Friday" voice, "I ran your license and there is a New Jersey plate with the same number that was reported stolen." I didn't know how to reply. Obviously my license plate — a blue, yellow and white plate with "PENNSYLVANIA" printed across the top — is not now, nor has it ever been a New Jersey license plate. It does not look like, nor could it be mistaken for a New Jersey license plate. I decided on the best response... and that response was "Oh."

The officer examined my driver's license and registration for a moment or two before handing them back to me. He said, "Okay. Have a good day, sir." He turned on his heels and walked back to his car. He got in, fired up the ignition and sped away, no doubt on his way to break up a murderous and desperate crime ring in the Greater Pennsauken area. I started my car once he was out of sight. As I continued on my drive to work, I played the whole incident over in my head. My explanation of the lack of a front license plate to an officer of the law in a neighboring state just stuck with me. That is until I re-thought about his nonsensical reason for stopping me in the first place. Look up there. There is a side-by-side comparison of the current Pennsylvania  and New Jersey license plates. Can you tell the difference? If you can, perhaps a career in New Jersey law enforcement is not right for you.

Ever wonder why New Jersey is the butt of so many jokes? Wonder no more.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

jam up and jelly tight

By the time you read this, we will be in the throes of Chanukah... probably the seventeenth or eighteenth day by now — I kind of lost track. Chanukah, as you may or may not know, commemorates the... um... the... well, something ancient involving the Jews overcoming some massive obstacle only to come out of it with flying colors and go on to face another obstacle. Or something like that, I'm not a biblical scholar and I make most of this stuff up anyway. Besides, this story isn't a history lesson. it's the story of a particular business in my neighborhood.

There's a little bakery around the corner from my house. It's tucked away in an awkward spot, occupying the bottom floor of a block of houses the fronts of which face the street on the opposite side. The bakery looks like the basement access to these houses and, at one time, that may have been the case. But, now, it operates in a tiny space jammed with glass display cases that only allow for one of two customers in the store at a time. There is barely enough room for customers exiting the bakery to pass customers entering the bakery without bumping elbows or — worse! — upsetting wrapped boxes of recently-purchased baked goods.

Sure, there are other options for baked goods in the area. Several nearby supermarkets have full in-store bakeries whose selling floors are twice — or three times — the size of the little bakery. The main draw of the little bakery is its kosher certification. There is a fairly large Orthodox Jewish population in my neighborhood and a kosher-certified bakery is an integral part of their day-to-day life. The little bakery prepares traditional baked provisions to meet the needs of this specific faction of the community. They bake and sell cookies, and cakes and other assorted pastries. Every Friday morning, the cramped shelves are packed with golden challah breads to be used as the centerpiece for familys' Shabbat dinners. On special holidays, hamantashen and taiglach are prepared to aid in the celebration of Purim and Rosh Hashanah respectively. As tradition dictates, the bakery offers sufganiyot — jelly-filled doughnuts — for the marathon that is Chanukah. As a special treat for my in-laws, Mrs. Pincus stopped by the little bakery to pick up some sufganiyot for her parents' dessert. She even secured a couple for us, as well as a couple of themed and decorated cookies. (I think there were supposed to be menorahs, but I was not fully convinced.)

Now, one would think that a small, specialized, neighborhood bakery would be run by a friendly, avuncular, gregarious character greeting customers with a smile and a cheerful demeanor and well as a grateful sentiment for browsers and purchasers alike.

One would think.

The guy that owns and operates this little bakery is a belligerent, angry, nasty, condescending jerk who berates his customers and loudly complains about his employees — in front of his employees and his customers. He's the last person you'd imagine as someone would own a bakery. A bakery! A place where cookies and cakes and happiness are sold! 

Mrs. P entered the bakery on Friday morning. She walked into a tirade from the owner. He stood behind the tiny service counter, blocking the doorway to the working bakery room behind him. He was barking ultimatums to the few customers. As his staff was busily stuffing jelly-filled sufganiyot into boxes, the owner defiantly announced that he would not make jelly doughnuts again until next Chanukah, adding that it's too difficult. My wife asked him, "If someone wished to order 500 jelly doughnuts in July, you wouldn't make them?" He frowned and scowled and growled, "No! No, I wouldn't! They are just for Chanukah!" Mrs. Pincus, who after years of hanging around Josh Pincus, has become something of an instigator, continued to needle the bakery owner. "You make hamantashen throughout the year, not just for Purim." The owner frowned again and grumbled, "That's different!" and he trailed off with no real answer to my wife's question.

A young lady in an apron appeared with a large tray of cream-filled doughnuts. As she fitted the tray into the glass display case, the owner warned, "The cream-filled doughnuts are only for people who placed orders! If you didn't pre-order them, you can't have them!" He put heavy, threatening emphasis on the end of that statement. Mrs. P eyed the cream filled doughnuts and asked the young lady if all of them were already spoken for. The young lady shot the owner a dismissive "side eye" and asked my wife if she would like one or two. Mrs. P asked for one jelly-filled and one cream-filled. She also requested a half dozen of the questionably-shaped cookies. As Mrs. Pincus paid, the owner continued voicing his displeasure with his business, his employees and the hand that life had dealt him. He waited on a customer and licked his fingers to assist in the opening of a paper bag to fill with baked goods.

After our dinner that evening, I made a couple of cups of tea for my wife and I. Mrs. P sliced the securing tape on the bakery box to reveal the goodies she had purchased that morning. The box contained two cream-filled doughnuts, not one jelly and one cream as was requested. Cream was smeared along one of the inside walls of the box, a result of a poorly-packed and unevenly-balanced packing job. The cookies were also defaced with excess doughnut cream.

The doughnuts and the cookies weren't especially good.

Neither is the bakery owner.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

hot diggity! dog ziggity! boom what you do to me

Every July 4th, I park myself in front of my television and watch the Annual Nathan's Hot Dog Eating Contest. Why am I obsessed with this annual summer holiday event? Well....

I don't know.

The contest began in the early 1970s, although a Nathan's marketing promoter named Morty Matz told of an impromptu contest held at the famed Coney Island hot dog stand in 1916. The alleged first contest was held between four men boasting over who was the most patriotic. They decided that eating hot dogs - America's beloved main dish - would prove their love of country. The story went on to claim that the contest was judged by then-popular entertainers Eddie Cantor and Sophie Tucker. However, in 2010, Matz revealed that he had made the whole thing up.

So, the actual date of the first Nathan's Hot Dog Eating Contest was July 4, 1972. It received little to no fanfare. The following year, a fourteen-year old boy won the contest, but due to a nationwide meat shortage, the gluttonous contest was downplayed and eventually denied by Nathan's that it ever took place.

But, Nathan's was determined to make this contest a media event, generating interest as well as  business. They were successful, with the contest gaining national attention in the mid-1990s. Under the regulating eye (or mouth) of the IFOCE (The International Federation of Competitive Eating), the Nathan's Hot Dog Eating Contest has grown to become the "Super Bowl" of competitive eating events. In the early 2000s, the contest was dominated by Takeru Kobayashi, a cocky, young Japanese citizen who would swoop in on July 4th and down over four dozen hot dogs and buns in 12 minutes. Kobayashi did this for six consecutive years until 2007, when upstart Joey Chestnut consumed an unheard-of 66 frankfurters to unseat Kobayashi. Since then, Chestnut has won the contest handily, out-eating his competition by dozens. In 2021, Chestnut wolfed down a whopping 76 hot dogs and buns in ten minutes to set a still-standing world record. There's even a separate women's competition held just prior to the men's event. In past years, diminutive Sonya Thomas, a sweet young lady who looks like a stiff breeze could knock her over, has eaten 45 red hots to earn the coveted "pink belt" of glory. She has since relinquished her title to up-and-comer Miki Sudo, who holds first place status in other competitive eating events like tamales, buffalo wings and spare ribs.

But why.... why? .... am I fascinated by this event? I haven't eaten a meat hot dog in almost twenty years. When I did eat hot dogs, it wasn't more than two or three at one sitting... and certainly not under a time constraint. I think it's the way the contest is presented that I what I enjoy most. First of all, it is broadcast on sports network ESPN as though it is a real sporting event. It draws thousands of spectators who pack the corner of Surf and Stillwell Avenues in Brooklyn's Coney Island to cheer on their favorite eater. The faux pageantry is hosted by the charismatic George Shea, the co-founder of the IFOCE. George is a character, setting the stage for the tongue-in-cheek attitude that contest exhibits. Sporting a straw skimmer, George announces each contestant with a lengthy, often-exaggerated, mostly-nonsensical introduction worthy of a heavyweight boxer or a Greek god. Once the competition begins, he offers play-by-play that rivals Monday Night Football and sometimes sounds like the narrative of a Dr. Seuss book.

The competition itself is downright disgusting. Hand-held cameras provide close-up coverage of every bite, gulp, teeth gnash and swallow. Participants are permitted to dunk the hot dog buns into their choice of liquid (usually water of lemonade). This provides added splashes and sloshes that heightens the excitement. The visuals are so "in your face" that the camera lenses are often splattered with bits of hot dog buns, specks of meat and even a little sweat. Not only do you feel as though you have a front row seat, you actually get a "hot dog's-eye-view" of the action. It's frenzied and fun and — in a word — barbaric. The whole thing plays out like a modern take on the Christians being fed to the lions (with the Christians being hot dogs, in this case).

So every July 4th, while folks are enjoying a day off from work, a family get-together, a backyard barbeque, or perhaps a day at the beach, I can be found gazing at my television at high noon, watching a bunch of guys prove their self-worth by jamming dozens of hot dog into their gullets for a shot at a few minutes of fame and glory... all while trying not to choke to death.

What better way is there to celebrate America?

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

get it right the first time

I recently wrote a story about an age-old incident that has been lingering over my family for years… actually decades. The details of the story – as I recall – have been hotly debated by my brother and me. Since we are the two survivors of the story in question, that debate shows no signs of being resolved. The other two main characters in the story – my mother and my father – have since passed away, so, in the waning years, this tale has been reduced to a “he said-he said” among siblings. Not wanting to stir up an argument with my brother, I have been very careful not to bring up this incident in his presence, as my version of the story differs greatly from his. So, I have told my take to my family over the years and – with no other account for reference – that’s the version they have come to know and believe. I published this story on It’s Been a Slice, with the comforting understanding that my brother never reads my blog. He has better, more productive, things to do than read about my antics in cemeteries and my overblown analysis of The Partridge Family. Knowing that my brother wouldn’t see my “official” published narrative of the notorious Pincus Family “cake-dropping” incident, I was free to make my version the version among the handful of followers who read (and inexplicably look forward to) my posts every Sunday morning. 

I was wrong. And it turns out, I was wrong about a lot of things. 

The pre-disagreement
Pincus Boys

My brother Max, four years my senior, has been enjoying the life of a retiree. He goes to the gym. He reads. He plays card with other retirees. And every once in a while, he casually peruses Facebook. Last Sunday, while wading through the political posts, speculation on the Eagles’ chances of taking the Super Bowl and notifications of the birthday of a long-forgotten co-worker, my brother came upon a photograph that piqued his interest. It was the stock image of a smashed cake that I used to accompany my story of the afore-mentioned incident. Seeing my name associated with the picture, he figured I must have written about "the incident." 

So, with plenty of time on his hands, my brother clicked on the link, arrived at my blog and read my most recent entry. 

I don’t think he was angry. I think he was more confused, if anything. You see, he never thought there was any sort of disagreement over how the events played out. As far as he knew, the story happened one way – the way he remembered it. He never knew that I had a completely different memory of the incident and that I had been telling my version for years. 

Well, Max was about to take matters into his own hands and set the record – and his brother – straight. 

As the time stamp confirms, I published the post on my blog bright and early on Sunday morning. 5:00 o’clock AM, to be exact. Somewhere around lunchtime, I received an alert that a comment had been left on my blog by one “Max Pincus.” I held my breath and thought: “I can’t believe he read my blog. He never reads my blog!” Admittedly, there were a few stray butterflies doing loop-de-loops in my stomach as I began to read my brother’s rebuttal. 

Here is Max’s statement. Read along with me… 

Your blog certainly is amusing. Unfortunately, it also happens to be inaccurate. Here is what actually happened... 

I was asked to pick up a birthday cake, although I do not recall whose birthday was being celebrated. Once I got the cake, I returned home in my white 1963 Buick LeSabre, which cost me $325 and got about eight miles per gallon. As always, I parked on the street directly in front of the house. I got out of the car with the cake, took a few steps and somehow dropped the damn cake in the street. 

My mother -- NOT my father -- saw me park the car in from the of house and was on her way outside to greet me. When she saw what I had done, she pretty much lost her mind. She bounded across the lawn to confront me and began screaming -- in a loud enough voice to attract the attention of several neighbors (who gladly will confirm my version of the story) -- "How do you drop a cake? How is that possible that you dropped the cake?" She bent down and picked up the smushed cake out of the street, then began pushing it into my arms, all the while yelling, "Show me how you drop a cake. I wanna see how you dropped the cake." As I made my way into the house, Mom was following close behind, loudly requesting a demonstration of how I managed to drop the cake. 

Fortunately, for the sake of everyone's sanity, my mother was laughing about the incident before she went to sleep that night.

One final note: The notion that my father, who I do not recall being present when I lost my grip on the cake, "knelt down and awkwardly gathered up the cake box in his hands" is absurd. I never saw him clean up a mess of any kind, regardless of the circumstances. Ever. 

I’ll tell you this. He makes a darn good argument. Darn good! With the finesse of a seasoned attorney (he is not), Max presents a detailed description, complete with specific bits of information and precise chronology. He even cites possible witnesses who could corroborate his story if, say, this thing went to trial. Honestly, if it did go to trial, I might be brought up on charges of perjury. 

We agree that a birthday cake was purchased, although neither of us recall who was the honoree. We also agree that said cake was indeed dropped and that Max was indeed the party responsible for the cake’s unfortunate date with gravity. After that, our stories split and split wildly. 

I will say, however, that Max’s story does make a lot of sense. I can absolutely envision my mother’s behavior as my brother describes – at first furious and then jovial as time pacified her anger. I also wholeheartedly agree that my father would never ever make any sort of attempt at cleaning anything up. Ever. That was women’s’ work and it would cut into his cigarette smoking time. Max also elaborated on the subsequent reaction of a neighbor. I could picture that happening, too. 

One of my mother’s favorite adages was: “The six most important words you could ever say were – I admit I made a mistake.” My mother was a very smart person. I will happily – and humbly – repeat those words with respect to my brother. 

Hey, I'm sure I’ve been right about other things. I guess.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

yes, I remember it well

When my mom died in 1991, she took the entire family history with her.

Every family has an unofficial family historian. You know, that one person you can go to and ask any question about any family member for whom you need a little bit of information or possible clarification. How are you related to this person? Who's child is this and when did they get married? Is that guy we call "uncle" really my uncle? For as long as I can remember, my mom was that person. She was the keeper of the Small family (her maiden name) history and she eventually served in the same capacity for the Pincus family when she married my father. (Curiously, there was no one in my father's family that could be relied upon to give an accurate account of family relations. My father's family all shared one common trait. They were habitual liars.)

My mom knew facts about generations that pre-dated her own 1923 birth. She could rattle off names, dates, locations, offspring, offspring's spouses and countless children — some of whom she never even met. Right off the top of her head, she could tell of long-forgotten incidents, including explicit detail, as though they had just taken place the day before. She could sift through a box of mismatched photographs — ones spanning numerous time frames as exhibited by an assortment of black & white and color examples — and identify the subjects, the location and the approximate date on which the photo was taken.

My mom was the youngest of five siblings — her oldest brother being eighteen years her senior. I recall my mom settling many an argument among her siblings. The phone in our house would ring regularly as a brother or a sister would call to confirm with my mom which one of their uncles owned a produce pushcart or which aunt was especially promiscuous. My mom always had the answer. "Call Doris! She'll know!" was a phase that was spoken frequently among the Small clan and eventually the lying Pincuses came to rely on my mother's encyclopedic knowledge.

In October 1991, after a long, up-and-down battle with cancer, my mom died and left her family in a state of confusion. Not only was she beloved among her immediate and extended family, but she one of the few family members (on both sides) that nobody had an issue with. She was always helpful and pleasant and funny. And when she died, family history began to rewrite itself. Surviving family members were left to piece together their vague, mostly inaccurate memories. This left the Smalls and Pincuses with a legacy that resembled a poorly-sewn patchwork quilt.

There is one story that I really wish my mom were here to set the record straight. It's a story that has become a "bone of contention" between by brother Max and I. Max, as is the way of most big brothers, is always right. This story has been discussed many times since my mother's passing and the way I remember it and the way Max remembers it couldn't be more different. It's as though it isn't even an account of the same incident. Personally, I am fuzzy on the exact time frame. I don't remember exactly how old I was when it happened. But I do know that the way Max tells it is not the way it happened. The way I remember it was....

My mother had purchased a cake for an upcoming birthday — maybe mine, maybe my brother's. I don't remember who would be the eventual recipient. The cake was in a bakery box on the second shelf down in our over-stuffed refrigerator. (I always remember our family's refrigerator being packed so tightly that items needed to be constantly rearranged in order to accommodate new purchases from the supermarket or even a plastic container of leftovers. How my mom managed to find space to fit a bakery box in that frigid Tetris game remains a mystery..... but, I digress....)

The box containing the cake had the string that secured the lid removed and it sat on the shelf with the lid just loosely protecting the pasty within. As was typical for the Pincus family, I sat with my mom and dad in our den, watching television — most likely a program of my father's choosing. My brother was not with us. He was upstairs in his room doing whatever it was that he did up there. At some point, he came downstairs and visited the kitchen, perhaps for a snack or a beverage or both. From the den — adjacent to the kitchen in our small Northeast Philadelphia house — we could hear the refrigerator door open followed by my brother clinking bottles and moving covered dishes in an effort to see what sort of after-dinner nibbles were available. Suddenly, we heard a noise — a sort of a bang! — followed by my brother angrily muttering "OH!"

My mom, my dad and I scrambled into the kitchen to find my brother standing in front of the refrigerator. The door was open. At his feet was the cake box. It was upside-down and its visible contents were smashed on the kitchen floor — a scattering of crumbs and icing in a small, misshapen arrangement on the linoleum. We all stood silently for a few moments staring at the unexpected scene that surrounded my brother's feet. Finally, my father spoke. 

"What the hell happened?" he bellowed, gesturing with his omnipresent cigarette towards the destroyed baked good strewn across the Pincus kitchen floor.

My brother, with not a lick of fear in his voice, plainly stated, "I dropped the cake."

My father was positively dumbfounded. Dumfounded! He jammed his cigarette into his mouth, knelt down and awkwardly gathered up the cake box in his hands. He frowned and spat, "How do you drop a cake?" He repeated this like a mantra several more times, until he forcefully shoved the unwieldy mess into my brother's hands and screamed — demanded! — "Show me how you drop a cake!"

The words sounded downright stupid coming out of my father's mouth. It was one of those things where your anger is so out of control and over-the top, that your mind can't form coherent sentences to express the serious tone of the situation. My mom and I stifled our laughter knowing it would have made my mad father even madder. My always-defiant brother, however, just rolled his eyes as he accepted the dented cardboard box from my father. He placed it on the kitchen table. Of course, he wasn't about to demonstrate the procedure of dropping a cake for my father. This was a one-time performance. Max just stood by quietly and waited for my father's tirade to wind down. Finally, my father let out an annoyed exhale, lit another cigarette and retired to the den, shaking his head muttering about dropping a cake.

My brother returned to his room with a couple of slices of cheese from the refrigerator.

And that's the story. For years — years! — the phrase "Show me how you drop a cake!" — was repeated in the Pincus household for comedic effect. My son, whose birth came decades after the notorious "cake-dropping" incident, has made use of the phrase from time to time. It's a funny story with all the elements you'd expect in a funny story — a silly accident, an over-reaction from my father, my brother standing his ground and my mom and I hiding our amusement.

My brother, however, remembers the event completely different — right down to the action taking place on the sidewalk in front of our house instead of in the kitchen. Because of this, the story is never ever told in my brother's company.

He may have to start a blog of his own.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

gimme a head with hair

On Sunday afternoon, I was at the supermarket to pick up a few things. I needed a head of lettuce, a bag of radishes, a cucumber. (Not for me, for Mrs. Pincus. I don't eat cucumbers in their natural form, Once they are turned into pickles, though... I'm right there!) I added a few more items to my cart before heading to the check-out line.

I queued up behind a couple who had loaded up the conveyor belt with their afternoon's grocery order. I grabbed a plastic divider, placed it behind the last item in their order and began to transfer my selections from my cart to the conveyer belt. In my peripheral vision, I saw a man take his place behind my cart. I continued my task and — in typical Josh Pincus fashion — ignored everything that was going on around me.

Then I heard the man behind me say.... something.

In these days of cellphones and Bluetooth and wireless earbuds, one can never tell who someone is speaking to. I have seen folks have lengthy conversations — complete with flailing arms and expressive hand gestures — with unseen recipients of these animated diatribes. From a distance of even a few feet, they appear to be performing some sort of pantomime skit or perhaps an interpretive dance. With this in mind, I usually assume that a stranger speaking in my general direction is having a phone conversation and not addressing me. That's what I assumed regarding the man behind me in the supermarket check-out line. However, I unconsciously glanced up while leaning over the top of my cart and looked directly at him.

He smiled at me and said, "I like your hair."

Admittedly, I was taken off-guard and I felt myself involuntarily smiling. Then, I emitted a little laugh. He smiled even more broadly and added, "You certainly have more that I do!" He pointed to the top of his own head — shiny and bald. I nodded and laughed again.

It had been a very, very long time since any stranger had paid me a compliment about my physical appearance. For many years, I colored my hair a striking, yet decidedly unnatural, red. This chosen shade became something of a "trademark" among those who knew me personally. It also served as a point of focus for strangers. I regularly received comments about my hair and its unusual hue — in restaurants, in stores, on vacation, even while just walking down the street. However, after a dozen or so years and the onslaught of inevitable hair loss, I stopped coloring my hair and let it grow into its natural gray. With each subsequent haircut, more and more of my forehead became less and less hirsute. The nice woman who cuts my hair would hand me a mirror with which to view the back of my head and assess the results of her adept scissor work. With every new haircut, the bare spot on the back of my head grew bigger and bigger and barer and barer. She always comments that my hair grows so fast, but I know she's just being nice or, perhaps, looking for a bigger tip.

So, no matter what the guy behind me in the check-out line said, there is no way that he — or anyone — genuinely "likes my hair"... at least not at this juncture of my life.

Or.... maybe.... maybe... he really liked my hair.

After I paid for my groceries, but before I made my way towards the exit, I turned to the man behind me in the check-out line and said, "You... have a good day!," with emphasis on "you."

When I got home, I related this story to Mrs. Pincus and that four-word phrase — "I like your hair" — officially entered our daily conversations, joining such stalwarts as "How was your day?" and "What should we have for dinner?"

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

wind of change

After mulling over my future options, I entered art school in the Fall of 1980.  I had graduated from high school over a year earlier. Although I had expressed interest in drawing at a very young age, I couldn't imagine making it a career. (Forty years later, I still can't believe I made it a career.) I worked in retail for a year while I decided what to do with the rest of my life. I was terrible at math, so that eliminated a lot of possibilities. I wasn't mechanically-inclined, so that eliminated even more. With my choices narrowing, I resigned myself to the pursuit of a rewarding career (?) in the field of commercial art.

Following Labor day 1980, I joined a small group of other budding artists as part of the freshman class at the renowned Hussian School of Art (Well.... "renowned" in Philadelphia, anyway. Well.... sort of renowned.) I met and eventually formed friendships with a majority of my classmates. Just like any school or other inter-personal situation, I didn't get along with everyone. There was one guy in particular who was.... what's the word?.... oh yeah.... an asshole. He was a sullen, angry, insulting, belligerent jerk. He openly criticized his colleagues' work, whether or not his opinion was requested. (It was not.)  He sat in class with arms folded tightly against his chest, head down, surveying his surroundings through strands of greasy hair that hung limply over his forehead, dipping into his line of vision. Mostly he would mutter to himself, huffing a "this sucks" or "you blow" under his breath. Every so often, he would raise his voice to make sure everyone was apprised of his negative opinion. "Sucks!," he'd spew and punctuate his statement by tossing a crumpled piece of paper at the artist whose work was being actually critiqued by the class instructor. Between classes, this guy would walk the halls and deliberately bump into people with the grace and finesse of a hockey defenseman. He'd offer his favorite, all-purpose, all-encompassing "pet name" to any and all that crossed his path. "Shit stain" he'd call them.

This behavior continued for the entire four years that I was a student. It never let up for one minute. After graduation, I figured I never see this guy again.

Nearly a decade into the 21st Century, an effort was made by some of my art-school classmates for an extremely informal twenty-fifth anniversary class reunion. Plans were made to meet at one of our old haunts — a small Irish pub in one of Philadelphia's narrow alleys. In our younger, more rambunctious days, many a Hussian student downed many an alcoholic beverage at this establishment, so it was the perfect venue. (Although I no longer drink alcohol, I myself ended up on the floor of this pub more times that I'd care to admit.) When the designated date rolled around, I hopped a train from my suburban home. I headed for the tiny bar with the hopes of reconvening and reminiscing with classmates and friends I had not seen in a quarter of a century. Many things had changed in that time. I was married for twenty-five years, having tied the knot just two months after my graduation from art school. I had a son that was about to turn 22. I was working in the marketing department of a large law firm in Philadelphia. I was genuinely anxious to see the paths my various classmates' lives had taken.

I arrived and entered the bar through the familiar heavy wooden doors. In the dim light, I immediately recognized some faces that had strangely not changed in twenty-five years. Sure, there were plenty of folks who I did not recognize, but after some awkward guessing I was able to make identification. As for my appearance, at the time, I had been coloring my hair a vibrant and decidedly unnatural red-orange, so I was subjected to a certain amount of scrutiny by those who knew me with mousy brown locks. 

The conversation was lively. I honestly dread events like this (I haven't attended a high school reunion since my first one — a five year milestone), but I was really glad I came. I talked with people who had not entered my thoughts for years... and it was very nice. During the course of the afternoon, a fellow approached me whom I did not recognize. He knew me, though. The first thing he did was offer an apology. As he spoke, hanging his head and expressing regret over his past actions, I realized who he was. It was my belligerent asshole classmate. He looked totally different, but once he began talking, it all came back to me. He acknowledged his poor behavior and asked for forgiveness for his less-than-amiable personality. He explained that he had grown as a person and turned himself around as his life progressed. He never pursued a career in art, but found a satisfying and rewarding vocation elsewhere. I shook hands with this former asshole. I had never shaken hands with him before.

As I became more active on social media, I have reconnected with a number of people with whom I attended art school. I see their vacation activities and their acquisitions of new pets and sad passings beloved ones. I see what they've eaten for breakfast. I've seen the marriages of their children and births of their grandchildren. I have received comments on my various silly posts and welcomed well-wishes on my birthday. Somewhere along the way, I reconnected with my asshole classmate. He has made comments here and there, although Facebook activity does not appear to be a priority in his life. Recently, however, he has made a few comments that harken back to his art school days, each one dripping with the same venomous loathing once so prevalent in those early 80s classrooms. Several consecutive comments — on different posts relating to different topics — smacked of that dismissive "you blow" and "this sucks" that I remember hearing an apology for.

What's that they say about old dogs, new tricks and a leopard's spots never changing?

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

come to me for service

I bought a new car this past May. I am enjoying driving around in a car that isn't 20 years old, not worrying about that new strange noise that I didn't hear yesterday and how much it's going to cost to make that new strange noise stop. 

A week or so ago, I came home from work to find that I had received a Safety Recall Notice from Subaru Corporate Headquarters. This recall includes my five-month old Subaru Crosstrek. Receiving a recall notice is the equivalent of your car being selected for jury duty. First off, it's an inconvenience. A day off from work has to be scheduled. A day sitting in the waiting room at the service area of a car dealership isn't most folks idea of a productive day. Personally, I dread the thought as well as the actual experience. (Same goes for jury duty.)

Following the instructions in the recall notice, I called the dealership at which I purchased my car. Once connected with the service department, I explained about the notice and the fellow on the other end of the phone asked "The wire harness recall, right?"

"Is there another recall?" I thought. What the fuck? What kind of bomb-lemon-reject did Subaru sell me? Instead, I just replied in the affirmative. "Yes," I said, "the wire harness recall." I briefly scanned the recall notice before making the call to schedule a service appointment. It seemed that a manufacturing flaw was detected and a plastic wire harness that sits atop the steering column could melt, thus short-circuiting the car's electrical system. The text explained that an inspection of my car would alleviate the problem, if caught in time. If left unattended, it could involve an all-day repair. None of this, however would incur any cost to me.... except for my time. I scheduled an appointment for a Saturday morning and told the service tech that I would prefer to wait during the inspection. He assured me it would take approximately forty-five minutes. The anxiety that accompanies waiting at a car dealership began.

A few days before my service, my friend Consuelo posted an account of a very positive experience with a Subaru dealer. Consuelo has a Crosstrek a few years older than mine. There was an issue with one of the car's tires. She took it to a Subaru dealer, not the one from which she purchased the car. The mechanic sent a video record, showing the repair. She was treated with respect. The service was efficient. The whole experience reinforced the "family" reputation that made me want to purchase a Subaru in the first place. My nerves were put at ease and I no longer had that sense of trepidation about my upcoming appointment.

Saturday rolled around. I had an earlier appointment for a haircut, but would have plenty of time to make it to the Subaru dealership in time for my recall inspection. I had only been to this dealership three times - once to buy my car. Once to pick up my new car and take possession of it and once more to have a little orientation about the sophisticated on-onboard computer system that controlled everything in the car. I was not familiar with the process of showing up for car service. I pulled into the dealership parking lot and parked in the customer parking lot. I walked in to the building and was greeted by a smiling young lady at the reception desk. "Hi," she beamed, "Welcome to Subaru! How can I help you?" Her smile took up most of her face. This was encouraging. I explained about the recall notice and that I had never been here for service. She stood up from behind the desk and escorted me across the lobby to the service department. This was also encouraging. She pointed to a space near the service counter and told me someone would be with me shortly.

So, I waited. And waited. And waited. And waited. While I waited, I was ignored by every blue-topped, beige-pantsed employee that walked by. And there were a lot of them.

As I waited, I watched one young man behind the service counter tapping away at a keyboard as he conversed with a worried-looking woman. There were two other customers ahead of me, anxious to step up once the worried woman's issue was satisfied. The keyboard-tapping man left his post and returned several times, leaving the worried-looking woman to grow even more concerned. Once, he passed me and mumbled: "M'll bewithyoo mint." with I deciphered to mean "I'll be with you in a minute." He wasn't. My initial feeling of encouragement was waning.

I watched as more and more people entered the service area through a set of automatic doors that separated the service desk from the actual area where cars were queued up for there various services. Each of the folks who came to the service area were greeted by an employee and asked to take a place at the counter. I stood and watched like an outsider. An invisible outsider. More men and women in Subaru-logoed clothing passed me, hurrying off to tend to a customer that wasn't me.

Finally, I left my assigned post and went to my car. I pulled it around to the service entrance, following posted instruction to "PULL FORWARD SLOWLY. DOOR WILL OPEN AUTOMATICALLY." Sure enough, the door rose and I navigated my car into the building, stopping behind a green Forrester with a decal from a Golden Retriever Club adhered to the rear window. The car's owner exited the driver's door. She opened the backdoor to release a large, rambunctious Golden Retriever from the confines of the backseat. The woman — of slight build and stature — looked as though she could be overpowered by this hulking canine at any moment. She lazily attached a flimsy leash to its collar and the dog paced quickly in circles around her. She followed a serviceman into the showroom.

And I waited. And waited. And waited.

Mohommed, Jugdish, Sidney and Clayton

Eventually, a young man (a different young man) with an iPad approached my car. "Are you here for an oil change?" he asked. I explained the reason for my visit. He directed me to leave my key fob in the car and take my place by the service desk where someone would be with me shortly. I walked back inside and stood where I had stood before - in my spot of being ignored. I was instantly reminded of a scene from National Lampoon's Animal House when smarmy Doug Neidermeyer is trying to ditch prospective pledges Larry Kroger and Kent Dorfman at a Fraternity Rush Party. I felt like Larry and Kent. I was slowly losing my patience and all signs of the "family feeling" reputation at Subaru was slipping away.

After a few more minutes, a man in a button-down Subaru dress shirt stopped and asked if I was being helped. He had passed me several times earlier and I supposed he grew concerned when he saw I had not changed position in nearly twenty minutes. Again, I explained about the recall and he led me to a spot at the service desk at the very end of the counter. He introduced himself as "John" and in an effort to redeem the good name of Subaru, speedily checked me in. He led me to the waiting area, pointing out an array of complimentary refreshments on the way. He aske me to have a seat, assuring me that the inspection should have me out of here by noon. A few minutes after I found a seat by the front window, my phone vibrated with a text message from John. He told me to contact him if he could be of further assistance while I waited.

No charge

True to his word, John returned to the waiting area and announced my name. He led me back to his computer terminal, saying that the inspection was complete, the repair was made and there, of course, would be no charge. He reminded me that a six-month oil change was approaching in November. No appointment was necessary and it was complementary, He led me out to my car, thanked me again for my patience and for choosing Subaru. He waved as I pulled out of the service area.

Although, they did wash my car, I'm not looking forward to that oil change.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

so ya thought ya might like to go to the show

Now that the world seems to be slowly creeping back to some form of "normal" in these so-called "post pandemic" days, I've begun to venture out and experience live music again. I started off slow, first going exclusively to outdoor shows. Luckily, in my part of the Greater Philadelphia area, there are a lot of outdoor shows throughout the summer. The best thing about these outdoor shows — besides being outside — is they are free. I like free. My wife and I saw quite a few free show this past summer. The performances touched on all sorts of diverse genres — R & B, hip-hop, Tex-Mex, folk, jazzy cabaret and even a little bit of surf guitar. Oh, and they were free.

In June, I attended my first indoor show since 2020. I had some initial hesitation about going, but it was a show in a 1300-seat venue with reserved seating. I figured if I kept my mask on and people stayed in their seats, I could enjoy myself and not worry that some drunk hippie would twirl in front of me and cough his COVID-infused droplets all over my face. (No, it was not a Grateful Dead-related band and there was little-to-no twirling.) I left that show unscathed and — better yet — uninfected.

In September, I went to my first general admission, stake-out-your-spot-on-the-floor show since the week before COVID-19 shut down every public performance venue across the globe. I wore a mask and did my best to steer away from close contact with my fellow concert-goers... even this guy. 

Last Sunday, I went out to another show at a very small venue to see a band I had seen before. The headliner was supported by two opening acts, with neither of which I was familiar. After a quick dinner, my son and I went over to the venue and took our place at his favorite spot — a seat by the rail on the balcony, offering an unobstructed panoramic view of the stage, albeit an aerial view. Around 8 PM, the lights dimmed and the first band took to the tiny stage.

Now, I have been to a lot of concerts in my life and I have seen a lot of bands. Some good, some very good and some bad. Some very bad. I've seen some opening acts that I really enjoyed. I've also seen some that had me checking the time throughout their entire performance and trying to figure out how many more songs they would play in their allotted time. When the venue darkened last Sunday, from the opening guitar chords, I knew I'd be checking the time very soon.

The first band was boring... and bored. They appeared disenchanted with performing. Their opening number was dirge-y and tedious and cacophonous. At the song's conclusion, the lead singer, a young lady whose long and unruly hair covered her face, pushed her mouth against the microphone and introduced their next selection.

"Yeah... um.... so, this.... uh... next... um, like song.... is a new song and... like.... um.... its not on like an album or anything... and um... so... yeah... "

Every other song from the 30-minute repertoire was introduced in this fashion. One time, the stage banter was altered slightly to include a plug for the band's merchandise that was available for sale near the venue entrance.

"Um... yeah... so, like we have, like merch for sale. Like over there. We don't have no stickers though. We have t-shirts and... um, yeah... so we have merch and stuff. So, um... yeah... here's like... um... a... um.... song."

The sparse crowd — considerably younger that yours truly — seemed to be okay with this band. This led me to believe that the musical opinion of a 62-year old man is pretty much irrelevant. So, I sat quietly, fiddled with my phone, looked around and waited for the first band to leave the stage. They eventually did, departing with a message as eloquent as anything they previously said.

"So... um... that's our, like.... last song. Thanks for having... um.... us. We have merch. and... um.... so, yeah..."

After a brief rearranging of the stage, the next band came on. They were fronted by a particularly-flexible young lady with dyed periwinkle hair and a short, leopard skin skirt. They delivered a good old-fashioned punk rock show, possibly showing their predecessors "just how its done."

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

happy loving couples

My parents had a group of friends with which they socialized on a fairly regular basis. By "regular basis," I mean whenever my mother made plans with the wife of the couple. Then, those plans were gently divulged to my father upon his return from a "hard day at work." (Every day at work was a hard day at work for my father.) My father would, of course, frown and grumble and express his displeasure at the thought of getting together with "those couples." Then he would relent when my mother would glare and threaten to withhold dinner beyond the unspoken but pre-determined 6:15 start time. You see, the majority of my parents' "couple friends" were my mother's friends from her days as a carefree, slightly uninhibited "party girl" and their husbands. I honestly don't remember any of the storied men from my father's youth making it to the "married adult friends list." 

My mom kept in close touch with her teenage (and beyond) girlfriends. She attended each of their weddings as a still-swinging single. When she became a bride at the unheard-of age of 33, her now-married friends joined her and rallied around to watch the once spontaneous and unpredictably wild Doris become Mrs. Pincus the First. Keeping in step with 1950s society expectations, my mom made regular plans with her friends and their husbands — regardless of how my father felt.

My mom had three very close friends in their early twenties — Annette, Roberta and Bernadette. These three women, led by my mom, would descend upon various Catskill, New York resorts (like the one you saw in Dirty Dancing) and — as they say — "paint the town red." They would swim and dance and drink and flirt and flirt and flirt. My mom was the ringleader of the "Four Musketeers" and her friends were only too happy to follow along. Marriage, however, calmed these ladies down — reducing their frenzied nights of debauchery to quiet games of Mah Jongg. But, my mom liked having friends and, even though my father didn't like having friends, she got together with her friends and forced my father to be as cordial as he possibly could.

Plans were made most often with my mom's friend Annette and her husband Rusty. Annette was a typical quiet, polite, reserved 60s housewife, behaving as though she stepped right out of a TV family sitcom. Rusty was loud and boisterous and wore bold plaid sport jackets and told corny jokes. And, according to my father and repeated regularly, Rusty was cheap. Maybe that's the reason my father never wanted to get together with Annette and Rusty. My father, one of the world's worst handlers of money, had a terrible habit of reaching for the check at the end of a restaurant meal with friends. Always wanting to appear "the big shot," my father would grab the check as soon as the waiter would drop it on the table. Other husbands would protest and argue with my dad that the check should be split — the reaction my father was always hoping for. But not Rusty. Rusty would shrug and loudly exclaim to his wife: "Look Annette! He's doing it again!" Rusty would never argue or reach for his wallet, but he always had the same reaction. And my father still continued to grab the check first. He never learned.

One time, my mom made plans to go to a baseball game at brand new Veterans Stadium, the giant concrete monstrosity in South Philadelphia that was the new home to the Philadelphia Phillies after the closing of the venerable Connie Mack Stadium in North Philly. My father often took my older brother to Phillies games at Connie Mack, leaving my mother and I to stay home and listen to the game on the radio. My mom's plans for a family outing at the ballpark would include Annette and Rusty and their daughter, Cindy Wanda, who was my age. I didn't especially like Cindy Wanda (and I think the feeling was mutual), but a friendship was forced upon us by our parents. And I always thought it was weird that she was always referred to by her first and middle names. As per usual, my father grumbled about plans with Annette and Rusty, but, as per usual, buckled under pressure from my mother. Tickets were bought and we were going.

The day of the game — a Sunday afternoon — we found our seats and settled in. Somewhere around the third inning, my father silently rose and left his seat, never informing anyone of his destination. A few minutes after my father left, Rusty also left and scurried up the aisle of our section. Rusty returned quickly, carrying three hot dogs in his hands. He made his way to our seats and handed a dog to his wife and his daughter and they ate in silence. My father soon appeared toting six hot dogs — one each for his family and for his "friends' family." He was visibly angered by the fact that Rusty and his family where already munching on their own ballpark staples. He grew more vexed when Rusty happily accepted three more hot dogs and opined a familiar sentiment: "Look Annette! He's doing it again!" 

Every so often, my mom would invite her friends and their husbands to our house for an evening of talk, camaraderie and some games — poker for the men in one room and Mah Jongg for the ladies in another room. With the notion of company, my mom would stock up on snacks and such, putting out a spread on our kitchen table of cold cuts, bagels, sandwich accoutrements and condiments, as well as big bowls of potato chips, pretzels and something called "bridge mix," little dark chocolate coated morsels that resembled rabbit droppings. Often these little get-togethers would rotate from house to house and a similar array of food and refreshments would be offered by the evening's host couple. My father dreaded when Annette and Rusty where the "hosts of the week." (Honestly, my father dreaded these evenings PERIOD.) The food at Annette and Rusty's was minimal, consisting of cheese slices and other foodstuffs corresponding to the exact number of people attending the night's gathering. Four couples? Eight slices of cheese. No more. No less. Eight bagels. Eight slices of tomato. Eight napkins. You get the picture. Oh, and eight cans of soda were set out. And no ice bucket.

After a while, my parents didn't get together with my mom's friends and their husbands. My mom began working full time and taking on lots of overtime hours. Her time at home was spent catching up on sleep. My dad was just as happy. he went to work. He came home. He smoked a ton of cigarettes, ate a lot of red meat and watched a lot of television. Friends he didn't need or want.

Especially cheap ones.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com