wrong 'em, boyo

I hate to beat a dead horse and tell another story about the tire troubles that seem to be plaguing the Pincus family vehicles, but.... I will anyway.

Mrs. Pincus and I were all set to meet some friends for dinner. We climbed into my wife's car and she started up the engine. Just before she slid the transmission into reverse, I saw the dreaded "tire pressure" indicator light glow angrily amid the illuminated gauges on the driver's side dashboard. I pointed the light out to Mrs. P and then I hopped out of the car to assess each tire individually. They looked okay to me. None of them seemed to yield to a frim pressing of my fingers. None of the tires looked the least bit flat. But, just to be safe, we took my car to the restaurant. On the way, I made an appointment for service at a place near my house that was conveniently open on a Sunday. The tire place's website was very intuitive and making an appoint was a snap. I even got two — two! — confirmations for my appointment. One emailed and one via text.

The next day, before I left for my appointment, I asked my wife about the last car inspection. I recalled having to purchase four tires just a few months ago. She confirmed the purchase. I didn't want some hard-sell corporate stooge eager to meet a company quota trying to sell me four new tires once they took a look at my wife's car. One tire.... maybe. But, I wasn't going to fall for any of their "upsell bullshit."

 

Guess where I went.

I drove over to the tire place a little before my noon appointment. When I entered the small waiting room/reception area, I was met with an unmanned counter. The room had that distinctive, yet unclear smell of rubber, grease and despair. A few customers were scattered about the room, fidgeting in their uncomfortable chairs and and fiddling with their phones to bide the time. After a minute or two, a young man burst through the door leading from the "off limits to customers" work area. He greeted me with a "hello." I started right in with the time of my appointment and the reason I was darkening his doorstep. He asked if I tried putting air in the tires. I told him I did not and  I did not know which tire was causing the indicator to light up. He asked me to pull my car up to the closest garage door and he would meet me out there. Dutifully, I followed his instructions.

It's magic!

The young man appeared with some sort of grime-covered electronic device. He asked me the make, model and year of my car, then he adjusted the buttons and dials on the device's face. He then dropped down on his knees and — I assumed — connected the device to the front tire of my wife's car. I couldn't exactly see what he was doing. He could have had an official Harry Potter magic wand for all I know about cars. Suddenly, he stood up and, with a frown on his face, told me that the tire pressure sensor on that tire was not working. He checked another tire and his magical tire-checking device reported the same result. He told me that the tire pressure was fine on all of the tires, but the sensors were not working. He went on to say that he could replace them, as he had them in stock. They cost $89 each. I asked if the tires were safe to drive on right now. He assured me they were. I told him I may be back. I drove out of the lot.

$89 each

I discussed the scenario with Mrs. Pincus on the phone as I drove. It was decided that I should go back and just get the sensors replaced. So I turned around and headed back to the tire place. I was greeted at the counter by another guy. I explained what had transpired earlier, as the first guy showed up. I told him that I returned to get the tire sensors replaced. He explained that, while he could do the work, it may take some time. He also admitted that they really didn't have the sensors in stock and he arranged for the second guy to run over to a nearby auto supply store to pick them up. In the meantime, I appropriated one of those uncomfortable chairs and settled in for a long, long wait.

Is this it?

After an hour in the waiting room, I turned to see my wife's car was still parked in the space where I had left it. During this time, the customers who were waiting when I came in had left and new ones had taken their places. After two hours, I spotted my wife's car through the big window that looked out on the work area. After two hours and thirty minutes, the first young man came out to the waiting room to ask me where the wheel lock key was. I shrugged my shoulders. He growled, "Oh, come on man!" I told him to check the back where the spare tire was or the glove compartment or the console between the two front seats. He shook his head and invited me into the "customers are forbidden" work area to find it for him. I maneuvered my way over to my car, avoiding an obstacle course of wrenches and metal tool boxes and hoses that litter the floor of the work area. I opened the driver's door as wide as it could, as it was partially blocked by the metal arm of the hydraulic lift on which the car was parked. I opened the lid of the console between the two seats and — among two lipsticks and a couple of quarters — was a big piece of metal that I vaguely remember being told was the wheel lock key. I raised the piece and displayed it for the first young man. "Is this it?," I asked, as I spun it on my index finger. The young man's mouth fell open. "I swear I looked there," he exclaimed and then he profusely apologized, multiple times, as though he had run over my dog. I returned to the waiting room. To wait.

Screwed.

After three and a half hours, the customers in the waiting room had turned over several times... except for me. A different young man appeared in the waiting room. He was holding a grime-covered plastic pouch that, at one time, may have been clear. It held a paper job order. "Mr. Pincus?," he announced and craned his neck to search for me. I identified myself. He pointed to the job order and asked, "Why do you think your car needs tire pressure sensors?" I cocked my head and looked at him. I noticed the first young man was behind the counter, wrapping up a transaction with another customer. I pointed to the first young man, about to reveal him as the source of the prescribed work. Instead, the first young man jumped to the side of this new mechanic, telling me that he diagnosed the problem. Well, the new mechanic proudly confirmed that all of the tire sensors are fully functional. They show a lower-than-normal pressure in the passenger side rear tire. He turned to the first young man and stated that he undoubtedly had the settings on the magical checking device wrong. He turned his attention back to me and said, "Ill check the tire and see what the problem is." as he head back out to the work area. The first young man slunk sheepishly behind him. Within a few minutes, the new mechanic popped his head into the waiting work through the work area access door and reported that he had discovered a metal screw in the tire. He said he would fix it as quickly as he could.

After four and a half hours, my wife's car was ready. I would be leaving with a freshly plugged tire and the same four tire pressure sensors I had come in with. The first young man finished the transaction. He did not look me in the eye and he did not apologize for his misdiagnosis, making me waste four and a half hours in the waiting room, almost making me spend $356 and lying about having the sensors I didn't need in stock. I don't remember if he even said "Thank you." I don't believe he did.

In hindsight, my first mistake was making that appointment.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com 

even in the quietest moments

I started my current job almost four years ago. This is — I believe — my billionth job since I graduated from art school forty years ago and entered the wonderful world of graphic design (although, forty years ago, that term did not exist. It was called "commercial art" back then.)

At my current job — one that I hope will be my last — I have an attitude that differs from every previous job I have had. I go in. I do my job. I go home. I am not there to socialize. I am not there to chit-chat. I am not there to make friends. I am there to work. And work I do. Until I leave for the day. I have little to no interaction with my co-workers. When I do, the topic of conversation is always — always — work-related. I don't know any personal details about my co-workers and I don't want to. Similarly, my co-workers know nothing about me. Some of them, I'm fairly sure, don't even know my last name.  And that's fine.

I layout and maintain advertising circulars for supermarkets, some comprised of multiple versions with slight price changes and product substitutions across various geographic markets. In order to maintain a handle on subtle changes on a piece that pretty much looks the same week after week, a certain amount of concentration and focus is required. In addition, the pace is quick and deadlines are almost immediate. I have been doing jobs like this for four decades and, while it is tedious work, I have managed to keep the rhythm that it requires to produce (mostly) accurate end results.

I have gotten into the habit of arriving at work early, long before any of my co-workers show up. I like sitting in a quiet office and doing my work undisturbed and without extraneous distraction. Each morning, I get approximately 90 minutes alone to work in silence before my first co-worker breaches the door to my department. The first one in, thankfully, works in a small office down the hall from me and she is very quiet. It isn't until 9:00 that the department fills up with.... well... co-workers that don't shut up.

I share an office with a guy that, while he doesn't speak that much, giggles. Loudly. And often. On a regular basis, this guy snorts and titters at something. I assume it isn't the ad on which he should be working. I surmise it is something that he is covertly watching on the internet. Then, another co-worker enters our shared workspace to use the communal microwave that rests on a nearby table. After he activates that microwave, he has a lengthy conversation with "the Giggler" about the latest movie in the Marvel Cinematic Universe or last night's football game. The conversation is annoyingly punctuated by a lot of "y'know"s and "yeah, I hear ya"s and lasts way too long.

Then there's Theresa. Remember Theresa? She's been working for my employer for twenty or more years. She is loud and brash and pushy and irritating. Once, I was asked to give her assistance with an ad that I had never worked on before. She rushed through a disjointed explanation of what I was to do, then criticized my work when I didn't correctly complete what she poorly explained. Later, Theresa criticized a new co-worker that I was training. Her complaint? This new girl is quiet and doesn't even say "hello" to her. (You can read about that HERE.) 

Theresa's desk is in a separate office within my department. It is down and across a short hallway. In normal terms, she should be out of earshot. But, alas, she is not. Every morning — every fucking morning — she talks and talks and talks and talks. Loudly. Very loudly. About nothing. I can't really make out the actual words she says. I can only hear the tone of her voice. And it drones on and on. Like a mechanized "hum" you'd hear in a powerplant or manufacturing facility. It kind of sounds like the indistinguishable babble spoken by the unseen adults in the "Charlie Brown" cartoons. That fact that I can hear her, considering how far my desk is from hers, is a testament to how loud she is speaking.

Most mornings she goes on for fifteen or twenty minutes at a time. Sometimes longer. I believe she is speaking to another co-worker with whom she shares an office. I never hear the other woman speak, just Theresa. The afternoon usually brings another round of nondescript yammering. This is an every day occurrence. Every. Single. Day. Except for the days when Theresa has a scheduled day off. Otherwise..... talk talk talk talk talk.

I can't understand how she gets any work done. Sometimes, I can't understand how I get any work done.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

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