silver threads and golden needles

It's coming up on a year since I left the vile, bubbling, hate-filled cesspool that Twitter has become. I was pretty active on Twitter for years, but after psycho melomaniac Elon Musk purchased the ubiquitous social media platform, things just took a nosedive. Twitter became rampant with heinous, venomous bullshit and I no longer wanted to be a part of it. Besides, I was already getting my fair share of bullshit on Facebook.

In July 2023, the folks who brought you Instagram and Facebook launched Threads, a near carbon copy of Twitter specifically created to unseat the mighty microblogging giant. In its first week, Threads signed on over 100 million — 100 million — new users. I was there at the beginning, watching the joy unfold, seeing familiar names greeting an abundance of potential followers with heartfelt greetings of "What's up Threads?" and "What's this all about?" By week number two, the excitement subsided and things evened out and I began to ignore Threads, focusing more on Instagram and Facebook, both of which I use daily. One morning, while posting on Instagram, I noticed that a "share to Threads" option had been added along with the similar Facebook option. This way, I post to Threads and Facebook without ever opening up the Threads app. Great! I was growing weary of Threads and the "Hey everybody" messaging that was prevalent over there.

There's a music guy in Toronto named Eric Alper. Not being Canadian, I was first made aware of Eric Alper on Twitter. Eric Alper's MO was to pose (mostly music-related) "conversation starters" and then not wait around for the conversation to start. He'd post things like: "What was the first concert you attended?" or "What was the first album you purchased with your own money?"  Soon, he was branching out beyond the music business. "Does mayonnaise belong on every type of sandwich?" or "Do you like summer or winter best?" Then, while the replies would pour in, Eric Alper would already be on to the next question, never checking back to review the answers from his faithful followers on the first question. He never commented or countered or even cared about how many followers were responding. I found this to be rude and frustrating and just adding to the overall attitude that was slowly turning me off from Twitter. Elon Musk was just the rancid icing on the stale cake.

Recently, I logged on to Threads — possibly out of boredom — to see how and if things had progressed. I found Threads to be chock full of Eric Alper wannabes. Threads was overrun with nonsensical questions and easily Google-able trivia. "Who's the most famous person you ever met?" and "What are the best vegetables to put in chicken soup?" and "Do you put on a sock and a sock and a shoe and a shoe or a sock and a shoe and a sock and a shoe?" and the often posed "Does pineapple belong on pizza?" Twenty or so minutes of scrolling will reveal dozens and dozens of these inane non-sequiturs, all posted with the intention of bringing the author untold internet fame and the proud title of "influencer." All of this prompted the inner Josh Pincus to unleash his redheaded ire. I decided to answer some of these questions in the most Josh Pincus way possible, keeping up my brand as the internet's most loveable smart-ass.

Someone asked: "What's one Mexican food that you will NOT eat?" I answered: "Chihuahua."

Someone asked: "What do you think of when you hear the word 'debunk?'" I answered: "De summer camp."

Someone asked:" Did you ever like something so much, you bought two of them?" I answered: "Yes. Shoes and gloves."

Feeling cocky, I mistakenly tread into an area of Threads occupied by a bunch of folks with absolutely no sense of humor — Beatles fans.

Someone posed the question: "Who is the best musical trio?" Among the responses of The Police and Rush and Cream, I replied "The Beatles." and I sat back and waited for someone to take the bait. Just a few minutes after my reply, a fellow named "Bakemaster420" with a profile picture that screamed "I am so stoned," corrected my answer in a very matter-of-fact manner. He said: "Trio," to which I quickly replied "I don't count Ringo," Understandably, not everyone is familiar with my long-standing "pseudo feud" with the Liverpudlian quartet's drummer. But, this, of course, was the response I wanted to complete the joke. I laughed to myself because I do this for my own amusement and I am, admittedly, my own best audience. A few hours later, "Mr 420" added: "Well, that's pretty fucking stupid." I laughed some more.

Not content with ruffling some feathers in the staid Beatles camp, I wended my way over to an even less humorless group of musical faithful — Bruce Springsteen fans. Springsteen fans — the current ones, anyway — are an odd bunch. Way back in high school, I numbered myself among the loyal legion of Asbury Park's guitar-slinging pride-and-joy. Over the years, however, my love for The Boss has waned and I find his current persona as the raspy-voiced elder statesman of Americana rock & roll to be grating, tedious and downright irritating. Unfortunately, you take your life in your hands if you mention this to a Springsteen fan. Most Springsteen fans are in my age group (late 50s to early 70s) and spend their surplus free time trying to convince the younger generation that not only is Bruce Springsteen the greatest singer-songwriter-performer of all time, but that any other music by any other artist (save for Springsteen-adjacent acts like Southside Johnny) aren't worth listening to and one should be ashamed and even berated for doing so. Knowing full well of the consequences ahead of me, I decided to — in  RFK Jr. terms — "poke the bear."

Someone innocently asked, with the hope of becoming an internet celebrity: "What celebrity did you used to be a fan of but aren't anymore - and why?" I answered: "Bruce Springsteen. I think it's pretty obvious." The bear had officially been poked and the angry retirees lifted themselves out of their golf carts to come to the rescue of their beloved New Jersey crooner (that isn't Frank Sinatra). The first salvo came from a guy that asked "It is? What are you referencing?" I replied with a link to a blog post I wrote in 2014 in which I first confessed my love of all things Bruce but went on to explain how my admiration dissipated as Bruce's music — in my opinion — became less heartfelt and more of an exercise in corporate branding. I thought I did a good job of explaining my disillusion. (To date, that post got 585 views. You can read it HERE, if you really want to.) Well, this particular Springsteen fan couldn't bear to have someone — especially snotty little Josh Pincus — not like Bruce Springsteen. So, he tried to convince me in the most eloquent way possible. He told me "Your writing is fucking atrocious." Several more of Bruce's disciples chimed in. They attacked my writing, my opinion and my musical tastes. I am fairly certain that if I gave undying praise to Springsteen, my writing would have been compared to Hemingway. But maybe that's just wishful thinking. Oh, and each angry response was punctuated by "Dude" either at the beginning or at the end of their statements/threats. I ignored all of the replies and just watched as the palpable frustration grew and grew until they all just gave up... or I just stopped reading them.

For the time being, I have decided to lay off mocking the musical opinions of the ultra-defensive, ultra-fragile "Classic Rock" devotees. I certainly wouldn't want to keep them from cashing their pension check or taking their afternoon nap. So, I'll stick to telling everyone that "Fiona" is my favorite kind of apple and that kitty litter doesn't belong on pizza.

But pineapple does.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

this ain't goodbye

A few months ago, one of my co-workers announced intention to retire. There was a gathering at a local restaurant to congratulate her on her retirement. I reluctantly — very reluctantly — agreed to attend. The company agreed to foot the bill for the entire evening (including offerings for the bar, much to the delight of many of my co-workers). I figured "A Free Meal is a Free Meal," so I went. I sat at a long table and very quietly ate my specially-prepared, vegetarian-friendly meal while all of my co-workers related stories and anecdotes about Sally, my retiring co-worker. I think her name is Sally, but I'm not positive.

Because I have very little interaction with my co-workers, I had to sort-of piece together her "work story" on my own, based on what I heard my other co-workers were saying. Apparently, she has been an employee of the company for over forty years. She began just after high school or college or some vocational training. She teased the owner of the company (who was seated at the table), recalling how she used to chase him from her office when he was a kid. (His father had previously owned and run the business.) People at the table asked about her future plans, now that work would no longer play into her day-to-day activities. At the end of the evening, Everyone thanked the company owner and congratulated Sally (maybe it's Sandy....?) one more time before parting. I even congratulated her by saying "Congratulations." before I exited. 

On Thursday of the following week, in strolled Sally. She took a seat at a desk, fired up her computer and began shuffling through a stack of papers. I thought, perhaps, I had dreamed up the retirement "party" I attended in her honor the Friday before. Another co-worker, Theresa, greeted Sandy and discussed a few work-related topics before changing the subject to the retirement gathering last week in Sandy's honor. So, I didn't dream it. It did happen! Theresa went back to her desk and Sally (or Sandy?) began to work.

Now.... please.... stop me if I'm wrong.... but, doesn't "retirement" mean that you don't go to work anymore? That's always been my understanding. My brother just retired last year. He doesn't go to work anymore. He goes to the gym during the day. He goes out to lunch with his other retired friends who don't go to work anymore either. He plays poker on Thursday afternoons — during the time when he used to go to work... which he no longer does, because he is retired.

But, Sally (or Sandy?) I suppose, hasn't had the concept of "retirement" properly explained to her. Since her "retirement," she comes into work two days per week and... well, I'm not sure exactly what she does. When Sally's (or Sandy's) retirement was announced, another graphic designer was hired to take over Sally's (or Sandy's)  workload. So, for several months now, Sally (or Sandy)  has come in every Thursday and Friday and.... oh, I don't know.... doesn't retire.

All I know is, when I retire, I will not come to work anymore. I will relax and travel and enjoy a life that I worked an entire life for.

Who am I kidding, I'll retire when I die.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

doin' alright

Today is my birthday. Another trip around the sun and here I am... 63. I am three years away from the age at which my father died. I like to think I am in much better shape than my father was at 63. He smoked a lot. He ate a lot of red meat and he ignored any remote symptom of an illness. It's a wonder he lived as long as he did.  But, I digress....

There are a number of folks who didn't make it to the age of 63. Some... make that all... accomplished way more than I did (thus far) in my life. However, I am still breathing and still have the opportunity to achieve. eh.... who am I kidding. Bottom line, I'm alive and these people never made it to 63... so there's that.

Carl Sagan was a renowned astronomer, long before Neil deGrasse Tyson was everybody's go-to guy for all things cosmos. As a matter of fact, Carl Sagan hosted a popular television series called Cosmos that dealt with the universe, the stars and the possibility of life out there. He was an author and frequent talk show guest, where he would enlighten the unenlightened and propose the very real idea of extraterrestrial life. Unrelated, he was an early advocate for the legalization of marijuana. After a diagnosis of myelodysplastic syndrome and receiving several bone marrow transplants, Sagan passed away from pneumonia at the age of 62.

Edward Smith was the captain of the ill-fated RMS Titanic. In 1912, the Titanic, on its maiden voyage, collided with an iceberg and sank in the north Atlantic Ocean. Smith, like any truly dedicated captain, went down with his ship. He was 62.

Martin Luther was a German priest who famously criticized the Catholic Church and butted heads with Pope Leo X. He was a seminal figure in the Protestant Reformation. He suffered a stroke in 1546 and passed away at the age of 62.

J. Robert Oppenheimer was the director of the secretive "Manhattan Project" and recognized as the "father" of the atomic bomb. A chain smoker for most of his life, he died from throat cancer at the age of 62.

Michel de Nostredame (better known as Nostradamus) was an astrologist and physician, famous for making astonishingly accurate predications of future events. He died in 1566 at the age of 62. He never saw it coming.

Jack Webb was an actor, director, writer and producer. A stickler for detail, he pioneered the procedural police drama way back in the days of radio with his program Dragnet. He brought Dragnet to television and the popular format spawned other shows including Adam-12 and Emergency! He suffered a fatal heart attack at 62. He was given a funeral with full LA police department honors.

Elizabeth Montgomery followed in her father's footsteps in making a career as an actress. She appeared in numerous roles in early television anthology series until her star-making role of lovable witch "Samantha Stephens" in the popular sitcom Bewitched. After eight seasons, she moved on to other, mostly dramatic, roles, including Mrs. Sundance, The Legend of Lizzie Borden and the hard-hitting A Case of Rape. She was an outspoken advocate for gay rights and a frequent guest on TV game shows. She passed away from cancer at 62.

Robin Gibb gained international popularity with his brothers Barry and Maurice as a member of the Bee Gees. In the late 70s "disco era," the Bee Gees were one of the biggest names in entertainment. Robin Gibb toured and recorded with his brothers and even embarked on a brief solo career. He was diagnosed with cancer in 2011. According to his son, Gibb's cancer had gone into remission and he died from kidney failure. He was 62.

Denise Nickerson was an actress, best remembered as the gum-chewing, wise-cracking "Violet Beauregard" in the 1971 film Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory. She was later featured in multiple roles in the gothic soap opera Dark Shadows. Nickerson left show business and found work as a receptionist at a doctor's office. In 2019 and in poor health, she overdosed on prescription medication and fell into a coma. She died at age 62.

Boston Corbett was a whack-job who led the posse to seek out and arrest presidential assassin John Wilkes Booth. Against specific orders, Corbett fatally shot Booth, claiming self-defense. (It was later determined that Booth never drew his weapon nor did he even see Corbett.) After enjoying a reign of dubious fame, Corbett threatened various government officials and was relieved of his military duties at the Kansas House of Representatives. He settled in a cabin in the Minnesota wilderness, eventually dying in a fire at 62.

L. Frank Baum was a prolific writer, penning 14 books in his famed chronicles of the Land of Oz. In addition, he wrote 41 other novels, 200 poems, 42 plays and 83 short stories. Just prior to his death at 62, he had hoped to establish a studio to produce children's films

Louis Chevrolet was a race car enthusiast who participated in the Indianapolis 500 four times, with a best overall finish of seventh place. In 1911, he founded his namesake automobile manufacturing company and later the Frontenac Motor Corporation which made parts for Henry Ford's company.. He died at the age of 62.

Hernán Cortes was a Spanish conquistador who, at the age of 28, embarked on an expedition to Mexico that led to the fall of the Aztec Empire. He succumbed to dysentery at the age of 62.

Lou Pearlman, despite being a piece of shit, created the blueprints for every "boy band" of the 1990s. Starting with the Backstreet Boys, Pearlman was the marketing brains behind *NSYNC, O-Town, LFO and Take 5. He was sued by nearly every band he created and represented. He died in prison at 62.

Toby Keith was a Grammy-nominated singer and songwriter who charted 61 songs on the Billboard Country Music chart. His popularity allowed him to license his name and likeness for a chain of restaurants called "I Love This Bar & Grill," a reference to one of his songs. He died earlier this year at 62.

 

Farrah Fawcett was an actress and the dream girl of every teenage boy in the middle 1970s. With her megawatt smile and iconic feathered hair, Fawcett tried her best to break out of her sex symbol stature with more substantial dramatic roles, including the critically acclaimed The Burning Bed. A documentary about her life and struggle with cancer was produced by her longtime partner, actor Ryan O'Neal and friend Alana Stewart, both of whom were by Fawcett's side when she died at 62.

I may not conquer an empire, develop a devastating military weapon or license my name to a chain of eateries (don't get your heart set on dining at Josh Pincus' House of Veggie Burgers), but, as far as I can see, I still have time to accomplish those goals. 

Or maybe I'll just continue to go to work.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

time has come today

I love Wawa. As a life-long resident of Philadelphia (and now the Philadelphia suburbs), I believe it is my duty as a citizen to love Wawa. Wawa has stores throughout the Greater Philadelphia and New Jersey area and have recently expanded to include locations operating in Delaware, Maryland, Virginia, Washington, D.C., Florida, Alabama, and North Carolina — with its corporate sights set on Georgia, Indiana, Kentucky, Ohio, Tennessee, New York and Connecticut in the near future. If you don't live in one of these lucky states, let me explain what exactly Wawa is.

Wawa is the greatest convenience store there ever was. Wawa runs circles around places like 7-11 (except for Japanese 7-11s, which, by all accounts, rival Disneyland). Sure, Wawa sells a smattering of groceries for those who run out of something-or-other and need to fill in before their next supermarket run. Yeah, they sell pints of Ben & Jerry's ice cream for a little over eight bucks, but Wawa is not a grocery store. Wawa is Wawa! it's a place to stop for great coffee and a fresh packaged baked good on your way to work. It's a place to grab a pre-made sandwich or snack or salad or — better yet — get a custom-made sandwich or hoagie from their innovative (and intuitive) touchscreens. Over the years, since Wawa introduced the made-to-order system, they have branded themselves as the "go-to" place for quick-serve meals. It's become as "Philadelphia" as The Liberty Bell, chucking snowballs at Santa Claus and soft pretzels.... oh! and they have soft pretzels, too. Sure, there are a lot of people in Philadelphia that do not like Wawa — some of whom I know personally, but I still choose to remain friends with them. 

Wawa's hoagies are just fine, as far as I'm concerned. Granted, as a vegetarian, my choices are limited. I switch between a mixed cheese, tuna and roasted vegetables varieties — three choices that die-hard Philadelphia hoagie aficionados will tell you don't belong anywhere near a hoagie. I cannot speak on behalf of any of Wawa's "meat" variety of hoagies, so I will not pass any judgement. Their custom-made salads are good, too. Wawa has added a number of different sandwich options to their menu, including paninis, quesadillas (with customers readily pronouncing both "L"s in that word) and wraps. They have also bolstered their expanding menu with breakfast options like oatmeal and egg sandwiches. More recently, Wawa has begun to offer milkshakes, smoothies, and whipped cream topped coffee beverages that rival Starbucks. Plus, their "annual hoagiefest" seems to pop up way more than "annually."

A few months ago, Wawa introduced pizza to the Wawa stable of made-to-order fare with a campaign they mounted as though no one in the Philadelphia area had ever heard of pizza before. (Full disclosure: Aside from the various national pizza chains that dot the City of Brotherly Love, Philadelphia boasts a "Mom & Pop" pizza place approximately every fifteen feet.) Nevertheless, Wawa sang the assured praises of their pizza, flooding the area with billboards and commercials and plastering their stores with the simple mantra: "Wawa has pizza!" The phrase was ubiquitous. It grew to sound like a threat. It was apparent that Wawa spent a ton of money outfitting their stores with some sort of pizza oven (these were concealed "in the back" and out of customer's view) and training their minimum-wage employees in the fine art of the culinary preparation required to produce a pizza that Wawa would be proud to put its name on. (For a frame of reference, Wawa has no problem with feeding customers macaroni & cheese or soup out of an 80 ounce food service bag, so their sense of "pride" is questionable.) Needless to say, local pizzerias have nothing to fear.

Mrs. Pincus and I do not fancy ourselves as "food connoisseurs." We like what we like. We don't frequent pretentious restaurants. And we are fine with getting hoagies from Wawa a few times a week. It's convenient, relatively inexpensive and a stop on the way home from work only takes about twenty minutes. Our interest was piqued by Wawa's big pizza "roll out." So, when the good folks at Wawa offered one of their pizzas for five bucks (if ordered through their easy-to-navigate app), we were all in. Hey, I've eaten Little Caesar's pizza and I am convinced that there is no such thing as "bad pizza." So, five bucks was good enough for us to give it a try.

Wawa's pizza is okay. Just okay. It's kind of like the pizza you got in the cafeteria in elementary school. Not horrible. Not terrific, Just.... well.... okay. We ordered, and picked it up at a nearby Wawa. (We live in close proximity to four Wawas, all about the same distance from our house.) When we got it home and opened the box, it looked just like the pizza they display in their commercials. Perfect! Perfectly golden brown crust. Perfectly yellow-y cheese melted in a perfectly symmetrical circle equidistant all around from the crust, with a perfect border of red tomato sauce serving as a barrier/border between the cheese and the crust. It looked fake. I'm sure you've seen those videos of how they used food-like alternatives in commercials to showcase food products — like motor oil in place of pancake syrup or white school glue in place of milk in cereal or mashed potatoes (that won't melt under the studio lights) in place of scooped ice cream. Wawa's pizza appeared to be a reasonable facsimile of pizza. It tasted..... okay. Without the special deal, a Wawa pizza is fifteen dollars. I can get a larger, better tasting pizza for nineteen dollars just a few doors down from a Wawa near us.

Well, Wawa started offering us five bucks off the price of a pizza (when ordered through the app) nearly every weekend. So, I buckled and ordered on a Saturday evening. When the total was calculated, a full ten dollars was deducted from the price, leaving a final total of just five dollars. I selected the time I'd like my order to be ready from a list of times broken down in five minute increments. I also elected to have the pizza brought out to our car. I clicked and clicked and clicked and my order was placed. We arrived at Wawa #8080. We parked and — through the app — I let Wawa know in which numbered space we were parked. Several long minutes after our selected "ready" time, a Wawa employee emerged from the front doors carrying a large pizza box. He walked right past our car. My wife and I looked at each other. Mrs. P started the car and we slowly followed the guy with the pizza as though we were looking for an address on an unfamiliar street. He took our pizza on a little stroll and turned the corner of the building, headed back to the front door. Before he went back inside, Mrs. P called out, "Hey! Is that our pizza?" The guy adjusted his Wawa visor and asked, "Order for Josh?" Mrs. P replied in the affirmative and he handed over the pizza. We got it home and ate it. It was fine. Maybe a little overdone this time. Someone didn't read the training manual as closely as they should have.

In subsequent weeks, we began to order pizza from Wawa nearly every Saturday. We kept getting offers for five dollars off and they kept miscalculating the discount, leaving a grand total of five dollars. However, even after choosing a "ready" time in the app, I have had to wait at least twenty minutes for my order. Each time. Sometimes, I had to flag down an employee to check the status of my order. The employee's report of "it'll just be a few more minutes" was always punctuated with an apology. They seemed to be used to the question and accustomed to rendering apologies. After a few incidents of waiting too long for an "okay" pizza, I switched Wawas. 

I decided to give Wawa #8066 a chance, placing my "usual Saturday usual discount" order. I arrived a few minutes before my selected "ready" time. The sandwich makers were busy making sandwiches. Customers placed orders and picked up their orders as I waited. And waited. And waited. Finally, a Wawa employee started refilling shelves near where I was impatiently waiting. As he got closer to me, he asked, "How are you today sir?" in a very "customer-service-y" tone. I told him I was waiting for an order that should have been ready fifteen minutes ago. He aske for the order number and promised to check the status. He disappeared behind the sandwich prep area and quickly returned with a solemn look on his face. With the somber demeanor of a surgeon delivering adverse results to a grieving family in a hospital waiting room, he said, "They're remaking your order. It stuck to the pan and they weren't happy with the presentation. I'm sorry. It'll just be a few minutes." It was fifteen more minutes. Ultimately, he handed me a warm pizza box along with another apology. I wonder if "apologies" are the final chapter of the "How To Make A Wawa Pizza" instruction course. I brought the pizza home. It was fine. Maybe a little burnt in some places and the cheese was placed a little unevenly, but it was fine.

Once again, Saturday brought another pizza discount from Wawa. Mrs. P and I gave in to the offer. I would be giving Wawa #0276 an opportunity to redeem the good name of Wawa. I placed my order as I had in the past, selecting my "ready" time as 5:40 PM, giving me enough time to pick up my pizza and get it home before the 6:05 start of the evening's Phillies game. I arrived a few minutes ahead of 5:40 and waited. At 5:39 on the dot, a guy behind the counter stopped what he was doing and retreated to the unseen "back," returning with a pizza box a few seconds later. I approached the glass separating the customers from the workers and pointed to the pizza. At 5:40 exactly, he place the pizza box in my waiting hands. After a little trial and error, I think I found the correct Wawa.

This pizza was okay. Maybe a bit more overdone that it should have been. Maybe the cheese had shifted a bit to one side. Maybe the crust was a little dry in places and chewy in others. Maybe the slices were uneven and not cut all the way through.

Maybe Wawa pizza isn't really that great. Maybe it really isn't even that good.

But I do love Wawa. Just like Bryce Harper. I bet he doesn't have to wait for pizza. I bet he doesn't get pizza from Wawa.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com