dreamin' is free

You know what you can add to the long list of things I hate? Dreams.

I look forward to going to sleep at night. I look forward to a restful night of sleep, but, it is usually disrupted by fleeting scenes of nonsensical, imagined narrative over which I have no control. I don't like that. Dreams are stupid and non-productive and frustrating and, lately, distressing. 

Over the past few months, I have had some fairly distressing dreams. Now, I'm not going to bore you with lengthy tales, detailing the disjointed and stupid scenarios of my dreams. I don't like to hear about other people's dreams, so I'm sure sure you don't want to hear about mine. Hell, I don't even want to hear about mine. Let's just say, my recent dreams have featured people I haven't thought about in years, and a series of frustrating situations that make no sense.

I hate when people start of a conversation by saying "I had a really weird dream last night" and then proceed to relate the made-up events that unfolded in their sleep-induced subconscious as though they were delivering an important news report..... and as though I care. I am not interested in hearing a fairy tale that has no resolution. Actual writers — those that make their living from telling stories — throw away stories like the ones I have heard from people who kicked things off with those eight dreaded words at the beginning of this paragraph. And I certainty am not interested in the meaningless analysis or interpretation of dreams. I don't know what they mean and neither do you,.

My wife has a friend who regularly makes online posts filled with multiple paragraphs expounding intricacies of a dream as though it was chapter of an autobiography. These stories are told in earnest, like they are accounts of real events, rather than ones that took place in her head the evening before. As Ebenezer Scrooge told the ghost of Jacob Marley: "You may be an undigested bit of beef, a blot of mustard, a crumb of cheese, a fragment of underdone potato." That's about all dreams are worth, in my opinion.

I recently watched a 2023 film called Dream Scenario starring Nicolas Cage at his Nicolas Cage-iest. The movie presented an interesting premise — a boring college professor is suddenly (and unwelcomely) thrust into the public eye when he begins to show up in people's dreams. The movie was good... until it wasn't. It took a decidedly poor turn in the third act. Any solid and clever storytelling up to this point began to slowly unravel until it just became a disjointed, ridiculous mess.

Hmmm.... maybe it was a good movie, after all. Because, now that I think about it, doesn't that pretty much sum up dreams?

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

while a dark-eyed girl sang and played the guitar

I have been going to concerts for over fifty years. The concert experience has changed considerably in that time. My early concerts were at one of two venues in the Philadelphia area — The Spectrum and The Tower Theater. The Spectrum was originally built as the home of the Philadelphia Flyers. Someone had the bright idea to use the facility for concerts during the four months when no hockey games were played, along with the time that the Flyers were playing as the visitors in another venue. This left the Spectrum empty for a good portion of the year. In order to keep the revenue flowing, the Spectrum was used for other, non-hockey events, like the circus, the Ice Capades and concerts. Events like the circus and Ice Capades were fine because they were suited to the vastness of the open venue. However, each concert presented at the Spectrum further proved that the Spectrum was not made for concerts. The acoustics were terrible. Most of the permanent seats did not present ideal views of a stage that was set up at one end of the oval-shaped floor. The rest of the floor was filled in with uncomfortable folding chairs that were laid out on one level. Any seat beyond the first few rows from the stage offered a view of the evening's performance equal to that of watching a concert on a crowded bus.

As time went on and my musical tastes changed, I began to see shows at smaller, more intimate venues. I suppose I began to be more interested in bands who couldn't possibly dream of filling a venue the size of the Spectrum. A room that held just a hundred or so fans was more suited to the singers I gravitated towards as I got older. Luckily, Philadelphia was filled with smaller venues that offered a performance space for those acts that were just beginning to gain a following or to those who once experienced huge fame but were now on their way down the "popularity" ladder. 

I liked the smaller venues. They gave fans a close-up show as opposed to watching a tiny speck of a band on a huge stage that you were sitting a zillion feet from. The problem with a smaller venue is people. That seems to be the root problem of a lot of things. People don't know how to behave. They are selfish. They don't consider the feelings of those around them — those who also paid for a ticket. People talk with a loud voice. People sing along — loudly — with the performer. For non-seated shows, people push and shove and lean over other folks who got to the venue early to stake out a good spot for the show. "People" who arrive a minute before showtime want the same accommodations without the logistics or situational planning. The worst offense committed by "people" is shouting out requests and trying to engage the performer in one-on-one conversation, as though they are a traveling minstrel and you are royalty.

Years ago, my son and I saw Inara George at a small (now defunct) venue called The Tin Angel. The Tin Angel was on the second floor of a popular restaurant. The place was accessed from a narrow staircase that led to a seating area that was roughly laid out like a bowling alley. It was long and narrow with a full bar along the rear wall. On the opposite end of the room was the tiny stage, barely large enough to comfortably accommodate a solo performer or, possibly, a duo, A three or four piece band found themselves jockeying for position, especially if one of the band members was accustomed to playing a full drum kit. Between the bar and the stage was a bunch of tables and chairs, all closely-placed so as to ignite instant friendships among the evening's audience. In an effort to fit as many people into a performance, there was a single line of chairs pushed up against the wall next to the stage, leaving a very narrow walkway to the restrooms and backstage area. Anyone wishing to answer the "call of nature" would have to deftly avoid elbowing a performer or stepping on the feet of a seated audience member. When my son and I saw Inara George, we occupied two of those stage-side seats. Before the show started, the seat next to me was taken by a sort-of disheveled man about my age who didn't take off his ratty coat or threadbare hat for the entire night.

Inara George is a very talented singer-songwriter. Her music can only only be described as "indescribable." She crosses genres from folk to electronic and a variety of others in between. She has released a number of solo albums and has been a member of several bands, including The Bird and The Bee with Grammy-winning producer Greg Kurstin. Inara is an engaging performer whose stage shows are filled with conceptual presentation. I've seen Inara George a few times and her shows are always delightful and always surprising. Plus, she's very friendly and very personable. She makes it a point to maintain her own merchandise table and greet each fan after the show. Inara is the daughter of the late Lowell George. Lowell was the founder of the pioneering rock band Little Feat, who were an early entry into the "alt-country" genre before it had a name. Lowell dabbled in country, folk, jazz, fusion and was a early purveyor of the "jam band" genre, often lumped into the psychedelia of The Graceful Dead and New Riders of the Purple Sage. As influential as Lowell George was, Inara George's musical output sounds nothing — nothing! —like that of her father.

Before the show began, I chatted with my son. I could sense that the disheveled guy next to me was not-too-stealthily listening in on our conversation. During a pause in my conversation with my son, the disheveled guy tapped me on the shoulder to inform me that Inara George was the daughter of Little Feat founder Lowell George. I looked at him and nodded, replying, "I know." I would say that, judging from the average age of the audience, most of the people at tonight's performance were aware of the disheveled guy's "insider information."

The show began. Inara danced around the stage with a couple of back-up dancers, all were wearing matching  diaphanous tops and were carefully aware of their footing to avoid tumbling off the stage. In between songs, Inara spoke to the audience, relating a story about how a particular song came to fruition or a humorous anecdote about touring the country.

Or, so I assumed.

Despite my close proximity to the stage, I had a hard time hearing everything Inara was saying. The reason was that the disheveled guy was screaming — screaming! — titles of Little Feat songs at the very top of his voice during every break in the music. Inara and her accompanists would sing a few songs in a row, then stop to introduce the next number. The disheveled guy would lean forward and shriek "FAT MAN IN THE BATHTUB" or "SAILING SHOES" or any number of other Little Feat compositions written and sung by Inara's father. During every single break in the music, my immediate air space was peppered with a running repertoire of Little Feat songs, as though the disheveled guy was reading the track listing from the back of the Waiting for Columbus album.

At the show's conclusion, Inara and company thanked the crowd and exited the stage. The approving applause didn't let up, in hopes that it would convince the band to return for an encore. The disheveled guy joined in, punctuating his applause with more, previously unmentioned Lowell George songs. (He did release a solo album just prior to his untimely death in 1979.) Inara et al  returned to the stage and — Surprise! Surprise! — her encore did not include a single Lowell George song.

I've been to other shows where audience members screamed at the performer, either a song request or some undiscernible string of words. The performer usually ignores such outbursts, either out of politeness of seeing there is just no point to acknowledgement. Every so often, a performer will berate such an audience member on behalf of the entire audience. 

I suppose Inara George was just being polite. After all, she does sing this...

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

mashed potato time

Mrs. Pincus and I had Thanksgiving dinner at our son's house this year. This has all the makings of an annual tradition, as this is the third consecutive year that we have had the holiday dinner there. As plans were beginning to be made, my son's girlfriend requested mashed potatoes as a side dish. My wife usually takes care of preparing and bringing dessert, but this time she happily volunteered to fulfill the mashed potatoes request, as well.

In past years, mashed potatoes were a cinch. Just pop open a box of instant mashed potatoes — readily available at any and all supermarkets in a variety of brands and flavors (well, all are basically "potato" flavor) —  add in some milk and, after just a few minutes of stirring — voila! — you got yourself some mashed potatoes! However, the request for mashed potatoes came with the stipulation that they be actual, real-live mashed potatoes. Like from actual whole potatoes. So, on our weekend shopping trip to stock up on required items for our Night Before Thanksgiving dessert party (now in its 40th year!), we grabbed a big bag of potatoes. Like actual, from the ground potatoes. And we were going to make us some good old fashioned mashed potatoes. Just like the pilgrims and the pioneers and our mothers made! Those cardboard boxes of  dehydrated flakes would be passed over in favor of the "Real McCoy" or the "Real McPotato," as the case may be.

Now, I will happily admit that I don't know the first thing about cooking. I can make toast — that requires a legitimate kitchen appliance, so, in my opinion, that may count as cooking. But anything that takes place on top of the stove and combines multiple ingredients in some type of pot or pan... well, that's out of my wheelhouse. My lack of cooking skills considered, Mrs. Pincus would be preparing the mashed potatoes for our Thanksgiving dinner. First, she peeled a generous amount of potatoes. Then she put the potatoes in a large pot on top of one of the lit burners on our stove top. (The pot was larger than the one I had previously used to make hard-boiled eggs. Hey! Wait a second! Maybe I do know how to cook.... a little!) To be honest, I got bored. I left the kitchen briefly and missed out on what actually took place with the potatoes and the pot and the flame from the stove. I returned to the kitchen to find my wife working the soft, now-boiled, potatoes in the pot. She asked me to "google" a recipe for mashed potatoes to see what other ingredients were to be added. I said, "Why do you need a recipe? Everything you need to know is right in the name! Mashed potatoes! It's right there!"  She gave me a look as she added a few pats of margarine and a splash or two of almond milk. (The potatoes had to remain vegan-friendly.) She continued chopping and mixing... and  mashing. It looked like fun and something I could probably do without risk of ruining them. 

Our kitchen has a lot of gadgets and implements and such, but, curiously, we do not own a proper "potato masher." Instead, Mrs. P was breaking down the boiled tubers with a metal spatula, using its long blade to cut the bulky potatoes into smaller pieces. And it seemed to be working. Very well, as a matter of fact! I wanted in! I gently took the spatula from my wife's hand and began to mimic the chopping motions I had observed. "Are you sure you want to do this?," Mrs. P asked. "Sure!," I replied with all the confidence of a contestant on Chopped who fancies himself the greatest chef in the world. I continued the task of breaking those big potatoes in to small potato pieces. 

After a long period of time — longer than I expected (a time frame based on nothing in particular) — these mashed potatoes looked like the mashed potatoes I had seen over the years. They looked like the ones my mom made often to please my demanding "meat and potatoes" father. They looked like the ones I never ate but was forced to order in restaurants when my dinner order came with my choice of two vegetables and "French fries" was not an option. Goddamn it! They looked like mashed potatoes!

We began to pack up everything we would need to take to my son's house for Thanksgiving dinner. It was decided that the mashed potatoes would make their debut in the very same pot they were prepared in. This way they could just be heated up on his stove. 

The table was set at my son's house and he was busy in the kitchen making last minute preparations. He brought every component of the meal to the table, except the pot of Pincus-style mashed potatoes, which he left on the store. Everyone would have to scoop them from the pot themselves, as his dining room table was now fully loaded with other items. There was just no room for a giant pot of potatoes. Everyone's plate accommodated a big slice of "turkey," (Three of the four people at dinner were vegetarians, so Tofurky was served as the main course. None of your fucking comments, please.) some homemade cranberry sauce (a Mrs. Pincus specialty), a chunk of pumpkin cornbread (provided by my son's girlfriend) and not one.... not two.... but three kinds of potatoes! That's right! Our first attempt at mashed potatoes faced competition from canned sweet potatoes (not yams! do not call them "yams!") and little roasted fingerlings that I thought, at first glimpse, were mushroom caps.

Everything was great! I even had seconds — an entire duplicate of my first plate. And the mashed potatoes? Well, they were eaten. With little to no fanfare. No one said: "Hey! These are the best mashed potatoes I ever had! And they are mashed so well, too!" They mostly just said: "Please pass the potatoes" because there were so many to pass.

A few years ago, I had a job interview for a position of writing a blog for a pharmaceutical company. I am not now, nor have I even been, a professional writer. But I told them, if given enough information, I think I could write a blog about anything. I told them that I had maintained two personal blogs for over ten years and had written about many topics. At the time of the interview, I had just written a lengthy post about hard-boiled eggs. And now I just wrote nine paragraphs about mashed potatoes. Needless to say, I didn't get that job. 

But I can boil eggs and, now, I can make mashed potatoes.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

must have got lost

I wrote this story in 2012, a few years after the events described herein took place. It originally appeared on my illustration blog and it is one of my personal favorites. If you have read it before, well... you might enjoy it all over again. If this is your first time reading it, you may want to grab a box of tissues first. It's a harrowing tearjerker. — JPiC

Let me tell you about Pudge.

In the summer of 1982, just after Mrs. Pincus and I met, we went on a day trip to Hershey Park. Just barely into our 20s, the appeal of an amusement park still held excitement for us. In between turns on the roller coasters, bumper cars and Mrs. P's personal favorite, the Tilt-O-Whirl, we wandered into a few souvenir shops that dotted the park's layout. Among the Hershey-emblazoned t-shirts, snow globes, mugs and giant pencils was a shelf displaying an array of plush animal characters. On the second shelf below eye-level sat a slightly over-stuffed brown bear looking very dapper in a blue and red striped shirt. That bear was Pudge. The expression on Pudge's face made him look a bit forlorn and Mrs. Pincus was instantly smitten. I convinced Mrs. P that the last thing she needed was another stuffed animal. (At the time, I did not realize the gravity of the mistake I was in the process of making.) Pudge was placed back on the shelf and we left the store. The one-sided conversation on our ride home was me being berated for not allowing the purchase of Pudge. The next several months saw my beloved bride scouring every conceivable outlet within a fifty-mile radius that would have the remotest of possibilities of stocking the elusive Pudge. (This was in a time before a simple Google search would yield any number of global retail establishments and purchases could be made without putting on shoes, getting dressed, burning gasoline or making contact with another human being.) Finally, after what seemed like an eternal exercise in futility, Pudge was tracked down and located at a mall a little under sixteen miles from our home. Mrs. Pincus purchased that little brown fellow, brought him home and soon his adventures began.

Pudge has accompanied my family on many trips to many places. From short jaunts around the corner to my in-law's house to exciting, multi-day automobile treks down the eastern seaboard to elaborate, cross-country flights to the Pacific coast, Pudge has been there and he has the pictures to prove it.

L to R (top row): At the Statue of Liberty; On the Kiss production line at Hershey, PA; With the Monster.com mascot at eBay Live in Boston; Pudge receives the Emmy; In Graceland's visitor parking lot; At the Haunted Mansion in Disneyland; With the 2008 World Series trophy.

L to R (bottom row): At the famous Randy's Donuts in Inglewood, CA; On the front steps of Gianni Versace's house in Miami; On Winnie the Pooh's star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame; Waiting for the Strasburg Rail Road; Having fun on a Carnival cruise; Riding a Nittany Lion at State College, PA; Riding the bus with Rosa Parks at the National Civil Rights Museum in Memphis.

Pudge has seen the roaring waters of Niagara Falls and the stirring majesty of The Statue of Liberty. He has paid his respects to the late King of Rock and Roll at Graceland and viewed memorabilia of Elvis' contemporaries at The Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in Cleveland. Pudge has witnessed tributes to legendary ballplayers at the Baseball Hall of Fame in Cooperstown and famous movie stars on the star-studded Walk of Fame in Hollywood. One trip, however, is the topic of limited discussion — the details of which are related in hushed tones and then quickly the subject is changed before emotions bubble over. Over twenty-five years after Pudge joined our family, he was nearly lost forever. (Sure, one time my wife absent-mindedly stuck Pudge in a drawer at her parent's seashore apartment in Ventnor, New Jersey. But, once we retraced our moves, Mrs. P was again united with Pudge in a tearful reunion.)

As spring became summer in 2008, the planning stages began for a complicated, multi-legged, two-week drive to Florida — involving my in-laws, my brother-in-law and his family and other assorted and uncategorized extended family members — with a lengthy stop in Orlando before proceeding to the ultimate destination of Miami Beach to visit yet more relatives. My wife would be accompanying her parents alone, serving as travelling companion, as well as navigator and chauffeur of their vehicle for the lion's share of the journey. I would not be joining them, as securing two consecutive weeks off from my full-time job would be difficult, plus, it was implied that my son and I were not invited on this trip. (I surmised this when my wife's brother informed her rather bluntly, "Your miserable husband and your miserable son are not invited." I was quite proud of my brilliant deduction skills.) My wife carefully packed all the necessities she would require for a fortnight in the Sunshine State including a travelling companion of her own — Pudge. Snug within the confines of her backpack, Pudge stayed secure between Mrs. P's make-up bag and her wallet, occasionally popping out for a seat on the dashboard, providing company when Mrs. P's Mom and Dad dozed off in their seats.

I kept in regular phone contact with my wife during her trip. She'd call to document the day's activities, the sights they saw, the pictures Pudge posed for. I'd tell her about the concerts my son and I attended in her absence and reassured her that we were eating well and taking care of each other. As she began her week in Orlando, the phone conversations evolved into reports of the petty arguments and unusual behavior she witnessed among her family as an unattached observer. Mrs. Pincus was the first one up each morning and, subsequently, the first one out the door as my sister-in-law's sister staggered about in a hangover-induced stupor and my two nieces bickered over which pair of Crocs they would wear and who picked all the green clovers out of the box of Lucky Charms. With a smile on her lips and Pudge in her backpack, Mrs. Pincus exited the mayhem in the claustrophobic time-share and drove her own rental car off to enjoy a Disney theme park. She'd spend several days experiencing all that Disney offered in EPCOT, the Disney Studios and, of course, The Magic Kingdom. (She skipped the Animal Kingdom because, no matter how persuasive Disney tries to be with the idea that it's "Natazu" ... it's a zoo.) Her solo adventures were interrupted infrequently by the briefest interaction with her parents (based on their limited capacity of mobility) or her brother's family (based on their limited capacity of getting their shit together). So, for the most part she was alone — except for Pudge.

On the final day before departure to their more southerly course, Mrs. Pincus wished to spend her remaining hours at the Magic Kingdom, her favorite of the Disney parks. Before she set out that morning, Mrs. P's sister-in-law presented her with a heaping stack of special "line jumper" passes — allowing immediate access to the ride-boarding area — that they had received from a Disney "castmember" (The Walt Disney Company's universal word for "employee") in order to pacify a (possibly-imagined and most-likely exaggerated) "horrible situation." It was explained that they couldn't conceivably use all of the passes they were awarded in their allotted time, so Mrs. P took them with the instruction: "use as many as you can." With the majority of her group awkwardly traipsing their way across EPCOT, Mrs. P languidly strolled down Main Street, meandered through the faux-exoticism of Adventureland, leisurely moseyed along the wooden-planked walkways of Frontierland and lazily sauntered the winding paths of Fantasyland. As dusk approached and the ambient lights came on, the once sun-brightened surroundings now sported an otherworldly glow and Mrs. P found herself in Tomorrowland. Choosing a ride on the fearsome Space Mountain as the capper to her visit, she entered the queue line and distributed fistfuls of the special passes to delighted strangers who happened to be in the right place at the right time.  At the ride's conclusion, she was breathless and parched. She reached into her backpack for a bottle of water. With her thirst sufficiently quenched, she headed towards the still-open shops on Main Street when her cellphone rang. It was her brother.

"Are you still at the Magic Kingdom?," he inquired.

"Yes. Why?," replied Mrs. Pincus.

"I forgot to get Mouse Ears for the girls. Can you get them?" he asked, hopefully. It was nearing closing time on the last day of a six-day vacation and it had just occurred to my brother-in-law that the single most popular Disney souvenir had not been purchased for his children.

"I'd be glad to.," my wife answered cheerfully. She truly is the nicest person on this otherwise God-forsaken planet. She memorized the details of her brother's request, dutifully noting the style of head wear and the desired inscriptions, and made a beeline towards the Main Street hat shop. Engulfed by the throng of exiting guests, she came upon a cheerful group of castmembers wearing Mickey Mouse-style gloves and waving "Good Night" to the tired and contented patrons. Mrs. P thought this would make for a great photo of Pudge. She opened her backpack to retrieve her camera and, to her horror, Pudge was gone. A cold sweat burst upon her forehead, her throat tightened and her heart thumped uncontrollably in her chest. She tossed the contents of her backpack from side to side. Pudge was indeed gone. Tears began to well in her eyes as she frantically scanned the ground in her immediate area. Panicked, she retraced her steps for several yards and replayed her recent activity in her mind. Space Mountain, water, phone call, castmembers. It all swelled into a big confusing blur. Suddenly, a lucid thought was triggered and she beat a determined path to the renowned Lost & Found at Main Street's City Hall.

Taking her place at the end of a line populated by the optimistic owners of lost sunglasses and misplaced flip-flops, a tearful Mrs. P fidgeted until the woman in front of her said, "You look like you lost something very  important. Please. Go ahead of me". My wife thanked her and approached the castmember behind the desk. With tears streaming down her cheeks, my wife's voice cracked as she spoke.

"I lost a small brown plush bear. He has a red and blue striped shirt and I am not leaving this place without him."

The young lady behind the desk smiled reassuringly and said, "Just a minute. I'll look."

A few excruciatingly-long moments later, the young lady emerged from a hidden cache somewhere behind the reception area. Resting in the cupped hands of her outstretched arms was Pudge.

"Is this him?," she asked. Before she had reached the word "him", Mrs. Pincus had nearly leaped over the desk and snatched Pudge out of her hands. She hugged the little bear to her face, wetting his matted, plush fur with her tears. She thanked the City Hall staff profusely, still crying. Somewhere between Space Mountain and the end of Main Street, Pudge must have tumbled out of the backpack. Then, a thoughtful, concerned and compassionate guest picked him up and brought him to the Lost & Found, figuring that someone might be looking for this little, and obviously, well-loved bear.

And Mrs. Pincus still managed to get the Mouse Ears for her nieces.

 * * * * * * *

Footnote: Pudge still travels with us, only now he uses this helpful accessory.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

oh, oh domino

 Oh jeez.... another blog post about pizza? 

Since I began this blog, I have written exclusively about pizza eight times and mentioned pizza too many times to count. Well, whether you like it or not, here is another tale/rant about pizza, which now, I suppose, has revealed itself to be a favorite topic of mine. Right up there with television. When I was a kid, my dad was convinced that the only food I ate was pizza. I'm not sure if this was some kind of "diss" in his mind, but I do not recall ever seeing my father consume a single slice of pizza. Ever. I don't know if he was truly expressing concern for my questionable eating habits or if he was just repeating one of those "I'll never understand these kids today" fallacies that seem to attach themselves to generation after generation.

I like pizza. I have always liked pizza. And, as I have mentioned previously, I am not very discerning when it comes to pizza. I firmly believe that there is no such thing as "bad pizza." Recently, a less-than-pleasant experience at a conveniently-located and frequently-visited Little Caesar's Pizza forced me to seek another purveyor of pizza close to my home. While this new place — which has been open since 1966 —  is a little closer to my house than Little Caesar's and serves up a decent enough pizza, their prices are ridiculous for a little neighborhood pizza joint. A basic 18" circle of dough with a generous spread of tomato sauce and mozzarella cheese runs a little over twenty bucks. I don't know if this is the going rate for pizzas at independent establishments, but, to be honest (or at least "out of the loop"), most chain pizza places are constantly in a price war. I guess the idea is: if it's cheap, you don't mind the shitty quality... and, again, there is no such thing as "bad pizza," so a twenty dollar pizza should be — by my nonsensical logic — be spectacular. 

Recently, in my search for a new place to get a quick pizza when the back-and-forth debate over "well, what do you want for dinner?" rears its famished head, I have relented and gave our nearby Domino's a redeeming chance. I haven't been to Domino's since my son was in high school and we'd get pizza on a Friday night when my wife was working late at her family's store. (My son is now 37 and my wife's family's business has been closed for nearly two decades.) It wasn't that I had anything against Domino's, it's just we found good "bad" pizza elsewhere for cheaper. But, just this past weekend, Mrs. P and I decided to give Domino's  a call... except, as you probably already know... ordering a pizza doesn't work like that anymore. It's now done — like most automated, contact-free processes — online through an app.

I downloaded the Domino's app. I found it to be very user friendly and very easily navigable, although I did nearly order a pizza with no cheese until the intuitive app guided me back to the toppings section of my order. After I placed my order, paid with a credit card and received an emailed receipt and confirmation, the Domino's app sprang into action. When I signed up for an account, I was asked for my cellphone number. I assumed it was merely for identification purposes. Oh, no, no, no. I immediately received a text with something called "Domino's Tracker." The Domino's Tracker offered me real time, step-by-step progress of how my pizza was doing. It skipped the "Order Received" Level 1 and moved right ahead to the Level 2 "We're Firing it up!" This was exciting. As I readied a couple of paper plates and a stack of paper napkins before I set out on the eight-minute drive to Domino's, I was alerted that my prepared pizza had entered to oven, which is Level 3 on the Tracker. 

On my drive, my phone signaled me several more times. When I finally reached the tiny parking lot at my nearby Domino's, I parked and checked my phone before entering the store. My phone had logged three progress reports from Domino's, including a final request to let the good folks inside that I had arrived and was on my way in to collect my pizza. This could be easily accomplished by clicking a big red button that read "I'M ON MY WAY IN!" Simple enough! 

There was a huddle of workers behind the small counter inside Domino's. Some of the young men were busily assembling pizzas. Others were surveying a computer screen, searching for the correct order to stuff into their insulated bag and speed off to deliver to a hungry family or single stoned guy in his mother's basement. Upon spotting me walk in, a young man greeted me with a standard, "Can I help you?" I told him I was picking up an order for "Josh." He asked me to repeat my name while he scanned a stack of similar-looking boxes with receipts taped to their fronts. As I finished the "SH" in "Josh," he plopped a box into my hands and thanked me for choosing Domino's.

I brought the pizza home and Mrs P and I ate our dinner. It was fine. It was nothing special. It was just okay. During dinner, however, I received another text and two emails from Domino's. Over the course of last week, I received at least two emails per day — per day! — from Domino's. Each day brought a new offer or reminder or discount from the marketing staff at Domino's. I just needed to make one more order from Domino's to receive a free pizza said one email. Another email informed me of a free "emergency pizza" could be ordered from my local Domino's at any time, as long as that time occurred before November 21st. (Technically, isn't every pizza an "emergency pizza?") I am expecting a few more messages of enticement from Domino's any minute now.

So far, I have only placed the one order with Domino's. Who knows if and when I will place the next one. If my father was still with us, he'd probably say that order will be placed as soon as I finish writing this blog post. But he didn't know what a blog post was.

Pizza... that he knew.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

it's too late

I have been working at my current job at a South Jersey commercial printer for three and a half years. Every morning, I leave my house at the same time. I drive the same route... mostly... unless there is a scheduled opening at the Tacony-Palmyra Bridge, in which case, I take the far less traveled Betsy Ross Bridge that eventually takes me to the same place on Route 130 in Pennsauken, New Jersey. I drive into the nearly-empty parking lot at work around 7 AM, just in time to see the small night shift climbing into their cars. I punch my entrance code into the keypad at the door and enter. I walk through the cavernous printing plant, a building roughly the size of an airplane hangar. The printing presses are whirring madly and spitting out stacks and stacks of full-color advertisements for supermarkets up and down the East coast. Some of the presses are a little smaller than a football field, allowing the operator to actually enter the press to fix a paper jam or check the flow of ink. I follow a designated walkway, cordoned off from the bustling "print floor" by a series of guard rails. I am kept safe from a potential run-in with one of the many forklifts arranging and rearranging wrapped pallets stacked with printed circulars. Just before I punch another code into another keypad allowing me access to the pre-press area where my computer sits on my desk, I wave "hello" to a guy in the Shipping Department.

Since Day One, this guy — a pleasant looking fellow always sporting a backwards baseball cap with the company logo emblazoned across the front... er... back — is hunched over his computer screen, diligently striking the keyboard and checking his entry against an LED readout on a nearby scale, piled high with taped cardboard boxes. But, he always raises his glance and pauses his work to offer a "good morning" to me, usually accompanied by a single, friendly wave of his open hand. I, of course, return the greeting with a "how you doin'?," consciously changing my words, so as not to sound like an unimaginative parrot. I open the door to my department and that's the last he'll see of me until I have determined that all my work for the day has been completed and I decide to head home.

I shut down the internet and all open programs on my computer, grab my cellphone from its charging pad and start towards to door. When I open the door, there's the guy. Right where I left him, Still hunched over his computer screen and still check the corresponding weight of a different stack of boxes on the scale. As I pass, I wave and say, "See ya! Have a good night!" He replies, "Have a good night. See you tomorrow." Except on Fridays, when his parting message includes a direct request for me to have a good weekend.

And that's it. This has gone on every single working day since May 4, 2021. Over the course of time, our conversation has briefly — briefly — included short discussions about the various t-shirt designs I have worn to work and a couple of times we talked about the previous night's Phillies game. Aside from that, it's been just "Good morning" and "good evening." and that is all.

Oh... did I mention that I don't know this guy's name?

Hey!

In the late 90s, there was a sitcom on ABC called Spin City. It was a fictional and comedic portrayal of everyday activities in the office of the Mayor of New York City. The show first starred Michael J. Fox, until the ravages of Parkinson's Disease affected his physical and vocal abilities. He was replaced in the show's final seasons by Charlie Sheen. The show featured an ensemble cast, filling the various roles of the Mayor's staff. Among the characters was the Mayor's timid and gullible speech writer James, played by actor Alexander Chaplin. In one episode, James was strolling down the hall while conversing with press secretary Paul Lassiter (Our first exposure to ubiquitous character actor Richard Kind). As they talked, they passed a guy carrying a stack of papers. James says, "Hey!" to the guy and the guy says "Hey!" back. Paul interrupts himself to ask James "Who was that?" to which James replied, "Oh! That's my 'Hey!' guy." Paul is confused, even after James offers a lengthy explanation about how he sees this guy everyday. He doesn't know his name or where in City Hall he works or what he does or who he works for. But, when they see each other in the hall, they heartily exchange "'Hey's." The explanation doesn't really satisfy Paul's inquiry, but he lets it go because James is decidedly on the quirky side. At the episode's conclusion, I believe that James becomes upset because his "Hey!" guy got another job.

I believe that the guy in the shipping department has been working for my employer for many years. I never asked his name, though. Nor will I. I will just continue to say "good morning" in the morning and "good evening" in the evening.

I think 42 months is too much time passed for me ask his name now.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

walk right in, sit right down

On Saturday evening, Mrs. Pincus and I went to Philadelphia's beautiful World Cafe Live to see the first of two performances by British popster Nick Lowe and those masked men of instrumental rock Los Straitjackets. But that's not what this story is about.

World Cafe Live is currently celebrating its 20th anniversary as one of the best concert venues in the City of Brotherly Love. The venue boasts two stages — a smaller, more intimate space known as "The Lounge" on the street level and the main stage, named "The Music Hall," located two flights down. The Music Hall accommodates approximately 650 people. Depending on each particular evening's performance, the room is sometimes a wide open space dotted with tall bistro tables at which patrons can stand, lean and rest their drinks. Other times, tables are set up in various configurations based on ticket sales. A more popular act will feature more open space and fewer tables. Often, when reserved tickets at a table are sold, a dinner menu is offered to those who arrive early for a show. On this night, the floor was open with six tables set up along the back wall of the lower level — three on each side of the area housing the audio mixing equipment and the folks operating said equipment. Each table was set to seat eight people and each of these tables sported a very noticeable "RESERVED" sign at the end that was not butted up against the rear wall. On the upper level, just in front of the bar that runs the length of the back wall, were eight smaller tables — each one displaying a similar "RESERVED" sign on its surface. Upon closer inspection, one table — 304 — was the only one not designated as "RESERVED." We were one of the first people through the doors and we looked around to confirm that the seats at Table 304 was indeed free for the taking. Mrs. P and I grabbed two chairs at the back of the table while a few other folks with General Admission tickets (like the ones we had) joined us. Each one asking "Are these seats reserved?" or "Is it okay to sit here?" or some other variation of the same inquiry. As though we were some kind of Welcoming Committee, Mrs. P and I gestured toward the six available chairs until they were all filled. It was still nearly 45 minutes before showtime. The place was filling up. Hosts and hostesses were leading people with reserved seat tickets to the tables surrounding us.

(The two red dots are where Mrs. Pincus and I sat. The other dots were taken by our fellow concert-goers holding General Admission tickets)

The man from the couple sitting at the front of Table 304 was visibly nervous and jumpy. The man and woman seated opposite us reconfirmed that this table was not reserved. Mrs. Pincus laughed and said, "If anyone asks, I will pretend I don't speak English." I bolstered my wife's assertion with a joke about a man in a car asking a police officer if it was okay to park in an empty space behind a long line of cars. The policeman said, "No! This is a No Parking Zone. If you park here, you'll get a ticket." The man pointed and said, "What about all these other cars?" The cop replied, "They didn't ask." The other couple chuckled (I don't think they got my joke) and we all sat firm and defiant on our seats.

With thirty minutes until showtime, the jumpy guy at our table scurried off for a few minutes. He returned, loudly commenting to his partner that he asked about the "reserved status" of our table. He was told that all the seats were reserved and we may — may — be asked to leave Table 304. I instantly thought of that kid in elementary school who would anxiously raise his hand two minutes before the dismissal bell would ring to remind the teacher that she forgot to give a homework assignment to the class. As showtime grew nearer, several more of our table mates had to relinquish their claims when the rightful owners presented their reserved tickets. As the minutes ticked off, we sat like Charles Whitman's targets innocently making our way across the University of Texas campus. The jumpy guy and his mate were the next to go, followed by the couple across from us. The final seats (except for ours) were taken by a man with a prominent gray pompadour and a woman wearing waaaaay too much perfume. Way, way too much perfume. (Years ago, Mrs. P and I had boarded a very crowded plane. With the plane filling up, there was still an empty seat next to me. We watched a woman board the plane and begin to make her way down the aisle, Mrs. P pointed out that she saw this woman in the ladies room just prior to the boarding announcement. She noted that this woman may have knocked over a cosmetic display because she positively reeked of perfume. Just as my wife finished pronouncing the word "perfume," the woman sat down in the empty seat next to me. And she did indeed reek of overpowering perfume.)

Finally the house lights dimmed and Nick Lowe and Los Straitjackets took to the stage. Mrs. P and I still sat firm in our seats, still not asked to move. Two or three songs in, we were still there. I thought of the times I have attended baseball games and watched people holding tickets to seats adjacent to ours show up in the third or fourth inning. Lowe and the band tore through song after song. By the time the show reached the midway point, I figured we were safe. As a matter of fact, we sat undisturbed through the entire second set.

The nearby air stunk like a French whorehouse, but at least we had seats. And we beat the system.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

me and the boys

Way back in the early 2000s, I worked in the marketing department of Pep Boys, the national chain of after-market auto supplies. In the nearly four years that I worked in the company's main headquarters in Philadelphia, I set foot in an actual Pep Boys retail location at total of  two times. Once was to buy a set of Pep Boys bobble head characters. The second time was to fix a flat tire on a rental car while on vacation in Southern California. Aside from that, I had no reason to avail myself of Pep Boys' services. I had a local mechanic that I brought my car to for regular service. I had also heard my share of  "horror stories" regarding the level of care (or lack of) provided by Pep Boys mechanics. Customers described a wide range of experiences frm "stellar" and "excellent" to "awful," "unprofessional" and even "criminal." I was privy to a story summitted by a very unsatisfied customer who told of a routine stop to fix a flat tire. When the service was completed and her car war returned to her, she noticed that one of the car's windshield wipers was broken. She went on to question how this could have possibly happened, seeing as how the wipers are no where near the tires. I also heard a tale of how a customer's car was knocked off of the hydraulic lift in the service garage. I even saw full-color photographs to corroborate this customer's complaint. I will say that my personal experience in a Fullerton, California Pep Boys was short and sweet.

I owned my last car — a 2004 Toyota RAV4 — for twenty years. In that time, I recall getting a flat tire once. That dreaded little light popped up on my dashboard and, after consulting the owner's manual to determine the meaning of that little glowing pictogram, I drove my car over to my local mechanic and got a new tire. The end. That was the first and last time I had to deal with anything of that nature. In Spring 2023 I bought a brand new Subaru Crosstrek. In the 17 months that I have owned and driven my new car, the "flat tire" warning has lit up on my dashboard three times. Each time, after first cursing profusely, I drove my car over to the service department of the Subaru dealer from which I purchased my car. The first time, they were able to plug the damaged tire for a nominal fee. The second time required me to buy a new tire. Just two weeks after dropping two hours and two hundred bucks on a new tire, the light ticked on again while I was on my way to work. After unleashing a spontaneous barrage of carefully chosen expletives, I considered my options of how to quickly and efficiently remedy my situation. I wouldn't be able to get to the Subaru dealer until the weekend. It would be risky driving around with the threat of a full-blown flat tire looming over me. My tires seemed to be okay, but that damn light on my dashboard told me otherwise. I decided to take my car to one of the many service garages I pass on my way to work. I remembered there was a Pep Boys not too far away. I settled on making that a stop on my way home from work... providing my tire would hold out until the end of the day.

After work that day, I checked my car's tires. They all seemed fine — fine enough to get me to the Pep Boys just down Route 130 from my place of employment. I drove the short distance and pulled my car into Pep Boys parking lot. I parked, got out and headed to the front door. I half expected Rod Serling to step out from behind a stack of tires — a cigarette smoldering between his fingers — and announce that I had just entered The Twilight Zone.

This particular Pep Boys was different than any that I had seen before (all two of them). There was no retail section. No shelves with merchandise of any kind.. It was jus a big empty space, poorly concealed with a series of large posters advertising the various services that Pep Boys offers. Off to one side were large metal racks with dozens and dozens of tires. Along the back wall were piles of cardboard boxes. Just ahead was a reception counter, behind which stood two fellows in Pep Boys branded work shirts. They both looked liked characters that had just escaped from prison seen in countless television police dramas. As I approached the counter, neither man said a word, but they did not break the laser-like stare they had fixed on me. It was obvious that I was going to have to initiate this conversation. I cleared my throat and spoke up. I explained the light on my dashboard and the fact that my tires seemed to be okay. The one man finally asked for my key fob and handed me a clipboard to fill out a brief informational form. I asked if this would be taken care of while I waited. He didn't answer, but I believe I detected an ever-so-slight nod. I took that as a "yes."

So I waited. And waited. And waited.

After twenty-five minutes, I saw my car pulling into the otherwise empty service area. Through a large window, I saw a mechanic raise my car up on the hydraulic lift. I suddenly had flashbacks to those photos I saw twenty years earlier, but everything appeared to be okay. The other silent guy from the front desk joined the mechanic, but I couldn't tell exactly what they were doing. The first man, the one who asked for my key fob, stood silently at the desk and stared off into space. He did not appear to be anxious to entertain any of my potential questions or concerns, so I reconsidered asking about the timetable of my car's repair. I said nothing. I just continued to crane my neck to get a better view of the activity surrounding my car. I could see the lead mechanic wipe the sweat from his forehead and cheeks often by grabbing the front of his t-shirt and enveloping his face with it, exposing his large, hairy belly in the process. He also appeared to be moving in slow motion. His actions were jerky, as though illuminated by a strobe light. He walked to and from my car, sometimes wielding some sort of tool, sometimes not.

 

Finally, with just a few minutes remaining before the store's posted closing time, I was beckoned silently to the reception desk. The first man waved my key fob in my direction and motioned for me to present myself front and center. 

"We plugged it," he said, uttering the most consecutive words since I had arrived. 

"So, I don't need a new tire?," I asked. 

"No.," he replied, returning to his monosyllabic speech pattern.

He handed me a bill for $20 and change and I swiped my credit card in the terminal. The man handed me six pages that he had plucked from the tray of the printer behind the counter. He passed me my key fob.

"Where is my car?," I asked. He pointed towards the door and said nothing. I didn't press my line of questioning. I figured I could find my car on my own. Once out in the parking lot, I spotted my car the same space in which I had originally parked. I got in and started the engine. After driving a few feet, the flat tire light on my dashboard dimmed. It has not come back on since.

Although, I did find a large, greasy handprint on the hood of my car — the Pep Boys Seal of Quality.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

cry me a river

This will probably be my last baseball-related blog post until next season. So enjoy it... or skip it.... it's up to you.

I used to have season tickets for the Phillies. Had them for eighteen seasons. Every year, on the first game of the season, Mrs. Pincus and I would amble down to our seats, usually bundled up to stave off the early April weather. We would greet and catch-up with our fellow Phillies season ticket holders in our section, the ones we would see every year and lose touch with during the winter months. Then, I would announce that the first person who says "This year, the Phillies are going all the way!" — well, I'm going to take a swing at them.

Phillies fans are adorable. Every year, they think "this is THE year" and every year they are met with the same disappointment that transpired the previous season. And the season before that. And the season before that. The joy of being a Phillies fan is the false sense of hope presented for two months during a season that lasts seven months. The team gets hot, the bats are swinging, balls are flying over the fence, the pitching staff is striking opposing batters out left and right.... until it stops. And it always stops. The team stumbles in the post season playoffs, somehow forgets how to play baseball and scratchehs their collective heads in bewilderment. This year, the Phillies were pathetic in three of the four post-season games they played. As the great baseball/philosopher Yogi Berra once said: "It's deja vu all over again."

In my worthless opinion, I think the reason for the Phillies customary decline is fairly obvious. Money. Yep.  M-O-N-E-Y. The payroll for the active Phillies roster for the 2024 season was 264.2 million dollars. That is the seventh highest in Major League Baseball. The top three batters in the Phillies lineup, the ones on whom the team relies to produce runs, are Kyle Schwarber, who earned 19 million dollars, Trea Turner, who earned 27 million dollars, and Bryce Harper, who earned 26 million dollars. What sort of incentive do these guys have? Not "motivation." "Motivation" is the initial contract. "Incentive" is the promise of a big monetary windfall if the player performs well. This is not an "incentive!" Schwarber hit a massive homerun in Game 1 of the NLDS and then his bat went silent for his remaining plate appearances. Turner, for his 26 million dollar payout, didn't accomplish an extra-base hit in 15 at-bats. Harper did manage a home run in the post-season, but he also struck out five times. You see, the players get the money whether they hit a zillion homeruns or strike out on every appearance at the plate.

In July, the Phillies acquired relief pitcher Carlos Estevez to bolster their bullpen. Estevez was stellar on the Los Angeles Angels early in the 2024 season. But, the Angels were terrible and Estevez's pitching talents would be better served elsewhere — and that "elsewhere" was Philadelphia. So, for a salary of 2+ million dollars, Carlos Estevez was..... fair. In Game 4 of the NLDS, Estevez gave up a 6th inning grand slam to New York Mets shortstop Francisco Lindor, essentially hammering the final nail in the coffin of the Phillies post-season dreams. But, as the Mets planned their strategy against National League opponent The LA Dodgers, Carlos Estevez still got a 2 million dollar deposit in his bank account.

After losing the final game of the NLDS series, a dejected Bryce Harper, the Phillies unofficial team leader, spoke to the press in subdued tones about disappointment and dashed hopes and blah blah blah blah. I didn't want to hear it. I am sick of hearing overpaid athletes whining and complaining and blaming while getting salaries that are downright obscene. I love baseball. I love watching baseball and I love going to baseball games. But the price of a ticket averages around 50 bucks. Parking cost 25 dollars and the prices of food at the ballpark are ridiculous. 

Will this stop me from going to games? Probably not. Will I still get excited when the Phillies show some promise? I suppose I will. Is there a solution to my little, stupid, privleged, white guy dilemma? No. No, there is not.

Yogi Berra's quote is still ringing in my ears. It has been for years.

Pitchers and catchers report for Spring Training on February 20, 2025... and, yes, I'm a sucker.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

you dropped a bomb on me

For the past few summers, Mrs. Pincus and I, along with a couple of friends, have spent our evenings attending various free concerts hosted by nearby Camden County in New Jersey. At the beginning of the summer, a series of upcoming concerts at various outdoor venues are announced on the public website. The concerts have featured a wide range of performers and musical genres from folk rock, Tex-Mex, blues, experimental, jazz and a few I have forgotten. The performers are local acts, popular national acts, as well as once-popular national acts. Sprinkled among these are niche performers including a trio of young ladies we saw as the summer came to a close.

I have loved music from the Big Band era since I was a little kid. My mom was a huge fan of swing music and she introduced me to the likes of Benny Goodman, Glenn Miller and the Dorsey Brothers. My mom was partial to Frank Sinatra, that skinny kid from Hoboken, as well as America's "girl next door," Doris Day. My mom had a stack of big band albums and they were played often in the Pincus house. She tried to teach me to jitterbug, a dance she loved. She even was able to coax my stick-in-the-mud father to "cut a rug" at weddings and bar mitzvahs over the years. One of my mom's favorites from the World War II era was The Andrews Sisters. I have to admit, my first exposure to The Andrews Sisters was Bette Midler's 1973 cover of "Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy." I remember hearing this catchy ditty on the radio and my mom — as my mom often did — explained that the song was originally done by The Andrews Sisters in the 1941 Abbot & Costello war farce Buck Privates. She then produced a load of Andrews Sisters albums and — even though I was deeply immersed in the music of Elton John and Alice Cooper — I was in heaven. The Andrews Sisters were the shit! Tight harmonies, infectious wordplay, and a boogie-woogie jump beat that defied your feet to keep still. And hits? The Andrews Sisters recorded over 600 tunes — six hundred! They sold over one hundred million records. They charted 113 songs, including 23 with crooner Bing Crosby. They appeared in 17 movies. And they served as ambassadors and "cheerleaders" for the war effort, stirring patriotic pride in a time when actual patriotic pride had a meaning.

So, when I saw that Camden County was welcoming "American Bombshells" as part of the 2024 Free Concert series, I marked it off on my calendar and did my best convincing to get my wife and our concert friends to go. "It's a tribute to The Andrews Sisters!," I cajoled, reciting the promo lines verbatim from the website. That fact that it was free, it was a beautiful night and we'd be picnicking on local hoagies all worked in my favor. 

We met at the lakeside park and set up our camp chairs. We ate our hoagies and chatted before show time. I noticed that the crowd was particularly lighter than the throng that attended a free Spin Doctors show earlier in the summer. Despite not having a charting hit in over thirty years, The Spin Doctors commanded a huge crowd with folding camp chairs and territory-claiming blankets covering the ground for as far as the eye could see. The American Bombshells, however... not so much. With just minutes to go before the scheduled 7 PM start, the area reserved for seating showed more grass than patrons.

After a few awkward stage announcements by some Camden County officials, the three young ladies of the American Bombshells took the stage. They sported tight military uniforms with their olive drab garrison caps tilted at a jaunty angle. They were doing their best to mimic the familiar look of The Andrews Sisters. They introduced themselves and launched into "Don't Sit Under The Apple Tree" with near-perfect Andrews Sisters harmony. The crowd was immediately receptive. A few older couples even popped up to jitterbug in front of the stage. 

As cute as it was, this was somewhat puzzling to me.

My mother and father were the target audience for the Andrews Sisters and all music of the Swing Era. My father entered the United States Navy in 1944. He was 18 years old. My father passed away in 1993 at the age of 66. If he were still alive, he would be 98 — hardly an age at which jitterbugging would be advisable or even possible. If my mother were still with us, she would be 101. As agile and vivacious as my mom was, I think her boogieing days would be looooong behind her. The few couples who were showing off their fancy footwork to the jump-blues stylings of this Andrews Sisters homage looked to be in their 70s.  This means they were born around ten years after World War II ended and around the time that the Andrews Sisters were embarking on solo careers. Sure, I am in the minority in my love of the Swing Era, but these impromptu dancers were too young to have experienced a war-time visit from Bob Hope or a trip to the Hollywood Canteen.

Nevertheless, we were there to enjoy an evening of 40s nostalgia — just like the website advertising promised. The singers treated us to the hits "Bei Mir Bist Du Schön" and their take on "Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy." They moved on to songs popularized by Frank Sinatra and Ella Fitzgerald. Then, for some reason, they jumped ahead to some hits from the 1950s. They sang "Mr. Sandman" and "Please Mr, Postman." They paused the music to thank our servicemen and women and offered a flag-waving salute while singing a medley of service branch songs — "Anchors Aweigh," "The Caisson Song" (with different lyrics from the ones my dad sang around the house when I was little), "The Marine Corps Hymn." The young ladies proceeded to sing some folk-rock songs of the 1960s before launching into a full-blown vocal tribute to all things America, including "My Country 'Tis of Thee" and "God Bless America." They capped the evening with the Toby Keith musical "line drawn in the sand" threat "Courtesy of the Red, White and Blue" and the right-wing "pick a fight with me" anthem "God Bless The USA."

Midway through the 1950s segment of the performance, I lost interest. By the time they reached their nationalistic frenzy, I was ready to leave.

At the risk of starting a political debate, the current state of our country is fragile. The less it is discussed in non-political situations the better. A night of music and reminiscing is not the place to stir up polarizing feelings among an audience of unknown political leanings. Just sing and leave your political affiliations behind. I found the progression of the evening to be very uncomfortable and I think I was not alone.

The hoagies were good, though.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com