I didn't recognize the man in the mirror

Nearly thirty years ago, my wife and I were in the food court of a local mall with our son. Our son was about seven or eight at the time. Taking a break from shopping, we selected a table and ate our standard mall food fare, probably pizza or the always "safe bet" salad. As we ate I looked around at the other folks doing pretty much the same thing we were doing. It was a fine example of suburbia and I silently laughed at the tableau before me. 

I continued to eat and observe my surroundings when my glance landed upon a startling sight. Sitting at a table about ten or so feet away was a man eating his dinner alone. His head was down as he guided his food-laden fork to his mouth. Not particularly unusual... until he lifted his head up. He was the spitting image of my father. I don't mean he was a guy who kind of resembled my father. I mean he looked identical to my father. So much so, that — if I didn't know otherwise — I would have thought it was my father. But I did know otherwise. My father had passed away over eighteen months prior. This made this sighting all the more.... unusual.

I am not a believer in the afterlife or omens or signals from the Great Beyond. I cringe when I hear people interpreting the appearance of a cardinal as a representation of a deceased loved one. I dislike when folks wish dead people a "happy heavenly birthday" and I certainly do not — under any circumstances — entertain the unscientific concept of reincarnation. You want to believe those things? Go ahead. Don't foist them on me, 'cause I ain't buyin'.

But seeing my father sitting at a table ten feet away from me, eating dinner, knowing — knowing —that he died a year and a half ago.... well, it was a bit unnerving. Not enough to make me a "believer," but unnerving just the same. I couldn't take my eyes off this guy. I tapped Mrs. Pincus's hand and discreetly pointed in the direction of the man eating his dinner. "Who does that guy look like?," I asked. She glanced behind her and needed no further direction. "Holy shit!" she exclaimed, trying to lower her voice to a whisper. Her reaction let me know she understood exactly which guy I was asking about.

Next thing I knew, I found myself doing something very un-Josh Pincus-like. I went over to the guy. "Excuse me," I began. He looked up from the open sectioned Styrofoam container from which he was extracting Americanized Chinese food. "You look just like my father.," I continued, "Do I know you?" The man smiled and identified himself as "Harold Simons." I instantly recognized "Simons" as my paternal grandmother's maiden name. My memory also scrambled to register his name as my father's first cousin. Coincidentally, "Harold" was also my father's first name, leading me to believe that, in the early part of the 20th Century, there was only a limited amount of male names available. Evidently, other more exotic names like "Tristan" and "Chase" had not been invented yet. (There were several "Max"s on both sides of my wife's family.) 

I told the man my name and noted our familial relationship. He chuckled in much the same way my father used to chuckle. I invited my father's cousin over to our table and introduced him to my wife and son. We talked for quite a while. He was much nicer and way friendlier than many of the members of my father's family — most of whom were not on speaking terms with one another. After some time, we excused ourselves, explaining that we had to be getting home. We expressed parting pleasantries and went our separate ways.

I sometimes think about one day being out in the world somewhere and a kid coming up to me, having been spooked by my familiar looks. You see, every time I look in the mirror lately, I see my father looking back. It's very unnerving, making me revisit my encounter with my father's cousin/doppelganger all those years ago. I suppose that's why I avoid shaving so much. I don't want my father watching me from such a close distance.

No. That's not an "up in heaven looking down on me" reference. That's a "Jeez! I'm getting old" reference.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

beyond belief

This morning, I was watching a show on the Food Network about (surprise!) food. Specifically, it was a showcase of Southern restaurants, each offering a signature meat dish. During one restaurant's profile, a chef explained that their meat comes from a local farm where the animals are raised humanely and treated with respect. In reality, of course they are. While those cows and little lammies are alive, they may very well be allowed to scamper through a sun-dabbled meadow. They may be fed the highest quality corn and other vitamin-rich nutrients, but — when it comes down to it — they are still bashed between the eyes with a sledgehammer or have their jugular slit and eventually their flanks will wind up breaded, fired or seared on a plate alongside some house made mac and cheese and some chichi sauce. "Humanely-raised" is a euphemistic term that carnivores uses to make themselves feel better about eating domesticated animals.

That said, I have been a vegetarian for almost twenty years. Before I decided to eliminate meat from my diet, I ate a lot of meat. Especially hamburgers. I loved hamburgers. I ate hamburgers my mom made. I ate hamburgers in diners (gingerly picking off the tomatoes and slipping them on to my mom's plate). I ate hamburgers in fast-food restaurants (always careful to ensure that my burger was tomato-free. Why didn't I exercise the same precautions in diners? I don't know. Perhaps I was intimidated by the stone-faced waitresses that called me "hon."). To be honest, there were some kinds of meat I did not like. I didn't care for steak or roast beef, but boy! did I like hamburgers. In 2006, in a decision formed as a testament to my own integrity, I decided to — once and for all — cut meat out of my diet. (The stupid story about how and, more importantly, why I became a vegetarian can be found HERE.) 

In full disclosure, I am not a vegan. Actually, in the eyes of some vegetarians, I'm not even a true vegetarian. I am a pescatarian, because I will eat fish. But, in keeping with the ultra-contradictory Josh Pincus brand, I don't eat all kinds of fish. I eat tuna and salmon and....that's about it. I like sushi, but only certain kinds of sushi. And I will not eat shellfish. I eat dairy products and eggs, so vegans still look at me with judgmental scorn (but so do a lot of people). As far as I'm concerned, I'm a vegetarian. So there.

Over the years, the folks who process food have been working diligently to create meatless versions of meat. These products are — inexplicably — directed at vegetarians. The food "powers that be" think that vegetarians secretly want to eat meat but, for ethical beliefs, they do not. Do all vegetarians harbor a dirty little secret about their desire to consume meat? Probably not. Do I? Maybe a little. My wife still eats meat and sometimes our dinners consist of two completely different meals. When we decide on "cold cuts" for dinner, Mrs P will purchase a package of turkey or corned beef from the kosher section of our local supermarket, while I opt for a vacuumed-sealed slab of slightly tan soy-based pseudo-turkey slices that don't taste anything remotely like turkey. They are good and I will eat them, but turkey aficionados (if that's a thing) would not be fooled... or amused. 

Fake meat food technology experienced major advancements within the past several years. It seems a special gene or molecule or some other science-y thing has been isolated. This gene — if you will — is the element that makes meat taste like meat. It's been processed and synthesized and if I actually understood the procedure, I'd be a food researcher instead of a mediocre blogger. The result, after countless trial-and-error experimentation, is a plant-based, meatless burger that actually looks, cooks and tastes like meat. When Mrs. P and I were first married, she made dinner for my parents — her new in-laws. She made spaghetti and "meatballs." The "meatballs" were actually a tofu-based concoction so as to allow cheese and butter to be served in our kosher-observant home. (Google the laws of kashrut, for a wild read.) At the conclusion of the meal, my father — a butcher by trade — complemented my wife and pushed his plate away. The five or six "meatballs were neatly lined up around the edge of his sauce-stained, otherwise empty, plate. Today, however, I would defy any meat eater (even my father) to tell the difference between the new crop of "burgers" from Beyond Meat® and Impossible® and the Real McCow... er... McCoy.

The first time I tried Beyond Burgers® was at my brother-in-law's house (not that brother-in-law, the other one). My brother-in-law, a vegetarian for as long as I can remember, invited us for dinner and, when we arrived, he was frying up some very suspicious looking burgers in his kitchen. I asked him if he finally abandoned the vegetarian lifestyle for "the dark side." He laughed and handed me the opened package of Beyond Burgers®. Seeing those thick, juicy patties sizzling in the pan made me very leery. Biting into one on a Kaiser roll and accented with ketchup, mustard, pickles and such... well, I wasn't convinced that this wasn't meat. As a matter of fact, every time my wife makes Beyond Burgers®, I stare at those patties sizzling away and I say: "Those are soooooo meat."

We have purchased and eaten Beyond Burgers®. They are good. They are very good. They have introduced other plant-based, meat-free, meat-mimicking products, including breakfast sausages, meatballs and little cut-up nuggets that my wife has prepared in a version of the renowned Philly cheesesteak. Recently, after seeing this option on a few different cooking shows, I have requested a fried egg to be added as the crowning glory of my Beyond Burger®. I know people have been doing this for years on their hamburgers. It seemed interesting and I have always been an adventurous eater. In my meat-eating days, I have sampled alligator, conch and buffalo. I have eaten eggs in many forms, so why not add one to a burger. Oh my gosh! It was sloppily delicious, adding a new flavor combination to a tried and true favorite. (I have to stop watching the Food Network. I'm beginning to sound like them!) Now, I can't imagine having a burger without a fried egg.

As long as Beyond Burgers® exist and fried eggs are plentiful, I don't see myself lapsing back into the ranks of carnivores any time soon.

Please... don't make me turn off commenting.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

try to remember

I have loved television for as long as I can remember. I had my favorite TV shows that I watched episodes as often as possible. Unfortunately, at the time, "as often as possible" was usually twice. Back in the 60s and 70s, TV shows produced as many as 26 episodes per season — some even more! After the initial broadcast of an episode, it was usually rerun one more time in the summer when production went on hiatus until the fall season, if the particular show was renewed. If the series was canceled, that was it, that show would never see the light of day again. Of course there were exceptions. The Monkees, which originally ran in primetime on NBC, enjoyed a three-year stretch as part of the Saturday morning line-up on CBS and later for a year on ABC. But, for the most part, after a series was canceled, that was it! You never saw that show again... until syndication packages began popping up on local UHF channels in specific markets. (Hey kids, ask your parents to explain "UHF" to you.)  

In 1985, Nick at Nite changed everything. Boasting a kitschy line-up of television favorites from the 50s and 60s, Nick at Night kicked off a nostalgia trend and spawned a variety of other cable channels to purchase the rights to beloved — and forgotten — shows and rerun them over and over and over again. Nick at Nite showed Mr. Ed, Donna Reed, Dennis the Menace and Route 66. Soon, they were supplementing their library with The Andy Griffith Show, Get Smart, The Dick Van Dyke Show and others, allowing the fledgling network to expand its broadcast day from a few hours at night to a full 24-hour schedule. Nick at Nite's rivals were showing Leave it to Beaver, Burns and Allen, Jack Benny along with other forgotten favorites like My Favorite Martian, Mayberry RFD and other popular shows with a surprisingly limited number of episodes like The Munsters (70 episodes) and Gidget (32 episodes). With other "retro" networks showing up on cable line-ups, series that were long forgotten found a new home, new exposure to a new audience and a new lease on life. Hey! Who are we kidding? There was no new audience. These revivals were geared exclusively to folks who watched them in their original run. Being the trivia fan and nostalgia enthusiast, I loved watching shows that I watched — or barely remembered — in my youth. I saw a show called Good Morning World for the first time when Antenna TV brought it back for a short run a few years ago. The series surrounded a morning radio show and the wacky antics of its hosts (played by Joby Baker and sitcom vet Ronnie Schell.) The show featured Billy DeWolfe, exercising his classic uppity fussbudget character, as well as an early career performance by Goldie Hawn. It was the creation of Sam Persky and Bill Denoff, the creative team who got their start under Carl Reiner's wing on The Dick Van Dyke Show. Good Morning World was the pair's follow-up to the success of another of their creations — That Girl. You've no doubt heard of That Girl and you probably never saw an episode of Good Morning World. There's a reason for that.

As technology advanced and the act of watching television evolved from three networks to a variety of streaming services offering original content and old favorites, more and more "forgotten shows" have surfaced — whether we like it or not. A whole new generation is enjoying The X-Files. Sitcoms like Seinfeld (whose infamous final episode was broadcast over thirty years ago) still can be found in syndication and ready to binge on Netflix, thanks to a lucrative, long-term licensing deal. Sure there are plenty of shows that have not been seen in years and probably will never be seen again. But, thanks to the internet and the good people at YouTube, a quick search will have you wallowing in the nostalgia of your youth with one or two episodes of a "Oh yeah! I remember this!" show. Recently, my wife and I watched a few installments of the late night music showcase The Midnight Special, which ran for a decade on NBC after the Friday night edition of The Tonight Show. I never thought I'd ever see this show again, but... here we are getting misty-eyed while viewing a performance by Loggins and  Messina and scratching our heads while an obviously stoned Paul Williams trips over his lines.

YouTube is a treasure trove of content for those — like me — seeking long forgotten shows available for a curious viewing. I stumbled across one such show a few nights ago, one I had never heard of before. The show was called Normal Life and it ran for 13 unremarkable episodes from March until July 1990. It was a 30 minute sitcom starring Cindy Williams, giving television another shot after the embittered end to her successful role on Laverne and Shirley. Her costar was Max Gail, looking vastly different from his youthful "Detective Wojciehowicz" on the critically-acclaimed Barney Miller. The series was very loosely based on the homelife of eclectic rocker Frank Zappa. It even starred two of Zappa's children — Moon Unit and her brother Dweezil — essentially playing themselves. There is one episode of Normal Life available on YouTube, thanks to user "VHS Captures" who uploaded it, noting they discovered it on an old VHS tape. A little research revealed that the episode — entitled "It's Only Rock and Roll" was the fifth episode in the series, originally broadcast on April 18, 1990. So, we watched.

It was awful.

It was typical 90s sitcom fare, chock full of unnatural acting, trite dialogue, terrible jokes, exaggerated physicality and a lot of mugging for the camera. Poor Cindy Williams looked as thought she really wanted to make this show succeed. Max Gail looked as though he needed to have a firm talk with his agent. The two Zappa kids rolled their eyes and acted as though they had signed on for something different. The entire show ran for the standard 22 minutes with commercials. Ten minutes in, my wife asked if the show's runtime was an hour, as she felt that how long we had been subjected to it.

Look, I love television and I will watch things that most people will not. I will watch Gilligan's Island. I will watch Hazel (even though I do not like it). I watch Dragnet to laugh at the purposely stiff acting, as well as nostalgic vistas of 1960s Los Angeles. I even like to watch little curiosities like Normal Life. But, one episode was enough to satisfy my curiosity.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

the sound of silence

After I got my haircut, I ran over to Walmart to pick up a few things from their grocery department. I have a "love/hate" relationship with Walmart. I love their prices and I hate everything else. But, honestly, their price on most grocery items are so cheap, I feel stupid buying those items anywhere else. The problem is, you have to go Walmart to get those prices and, sometimes, going to Walmart is a chore.

On this particular day, I just needed a few "fill in" things. This wasn't going to be a full-blown, "we're out of everything" shopping trip. I saw that were were down to our last few bags of frozen vegetables and I was running low on cereal. That's all I had to pick up. Otherwise, our shelves and refrigerator were pretty well stocked. 

I parked in Walmart's massive parking lot. Every time I go there, no matter what time of day or day of the week, Walmart's parking lot is packed. I found a spot quite a distance from the store. I didn't mind the walk and I grabbed a shopping cart from one of the corrals on my way in.

Once inside, I headed to the cereal aisle and selected a box of store brand Honey Nut Cheerios (or "Honey Nut O's," in this case). I also grabbed a large box of Kellogg's Rice Krispies, because, even though I have no issue with buying store brands, Walmart hasn't quite nailed down the same quality and consistency in duplicating the Kellogg's product. My next stop was the frozen food section were I filled my cart with an assortment of frozen vegetables. In this case, Walmart's own brand would be just fine and at 98¢ a bag... well, how much better could the the most expensive, national brands be? I mean — come on — vegetables are vegetables. When my shopping cart was sufficiently filled, I made my way up to the self-checkout lanes.

I lucked out. I had my choice of open self-checkout lines. This Walmart location recently remodeled to add almost double; the amount of self-checkout cash registers than they offered previously. I parked my shopping cart alongside an open register and began to unload my items, scanning each one and placing in the designated "already scanned" area. When I finished, I filed the reusable tote bag I brought in with me with my purchased items. (As is the trend in a lot of municipalities, this Walmart is in a geographic area that has outlawed single use plastic bags. Customers must either bring their own bags or purchase paper bags at a dime a pop from Walmart. Or, of course, you can go bagless and juggle your purchases — unencumbered — to your car.) I placed my laden bag into the cart, swiped my credit card, grabbed my receipt and headed out of the store. 

Usually, there is a Walmart employee stationed by the exit. This persons job is to stop customers and scan their receipt before they leave the store. Walmart will trust customers to check out their own purchases, but then — moments later — that trust disappears and they need to make sure that everything is paid and accounted for. However, this morning, no one had been assigned to this duty. The exit was wide open and there was not a Walmart blue vest in sight. I breezed through the exit and strolled to my car. I transferred my bag from my cart to the back of my car. I returned my cart to the corral in the parking lot, got into my car and drove home.

What was the best part about this Walmart experience? I didn't speak to or have any interaction with another human being. While there were certainly other people in the store — several of whom I passed and navigated my shopping cart around — I did not encounter anyone blocking the Item I want to get. No one was standing  — smack-dab — in front of the freezer section doors. The cereal aisle was empty, except for me and a zillion boxes of breakfast staples. The checkout lines were free of folks who had never operated a self-serve cash register. All of my items scanned without a hitch, so I did not need the assistance of an employee to amend my running total. And, as I just noted, there was no one at the store's exit to make sure I didn't steal anything.... thank you very much.

If I could be guaranteed a repeat of this experience every time I come to Walmart, I would come to Walmart more often.

Who can I not talk to about this....?

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