the hottest spot north of havana

Just this week my son told me he was going to a show at a newish venue in Philadelphia called Nikki Lopez. I say "newish" because Nikki Lopez opened in the former location of South Street stalwart, the infamous JC Dobb's. JC Dobb's was a little hole-in-the-wall bar that featured the live music of a number of popular Philly bands as well as early career performances by bands like Nirvana, Pearl Jam and Rage Against the Machine. Dobb's opened and closed several times since its "official" closing in the mid-90s. Allegations of sexual assault by some of the venue's employees forced the current owner to put the place up for sale in 2023.

Early in 2025, JC Dobb's emerged again, this time under the name Nikki Lopez. Along with drinks and the promise of hot dogs, Nikki Lopez presents the same caliber of bands that Dobb's featured in its heyday— updated to fit into current trends in 21st century live indie music. The show my son went to fit square into that category.

On his way to Nikki Lopez, my son called to tell me that Copabanana, another staple on the South Street of my formative years, had closed. For good.

That made me sad, although I had not been to Copa (as it was affectionately known) for years. And by years, I mean way too many to count.

I have such fond memories of Copabanana. When I first met the future Mrs. Pincus, she lived in a small apartment just a few walkable blocks from South Street. We went to Copa often for a quick dinner and a taste of  their signature Spanish fries. Those were incredible. They were a simple combination of French fries, mixed with fried onions and fried green peppers. I could have sat at a table in Copa and eaten basket after greasy basket of their Spanish fries. I used to work at a popular ice cream shop on South Street. After work — sometimes around midnight — I'd stop at Copa and get an order of Spanish fries for Mrs. P and I to share, despite the late hour..

The atmosphere at Copa was always a little... shall we say.... shady. There was always some hoodlum-looking character catching a quick cigarette outside the kitchen door. He was the last person you'd want to be preparing your food. Once navigating the dark and foreboding bar — fully stocked with one unsavory individual after another — the dining room wasn't much better. The interior was a maze of close tables and winding passageways that, in another life, may have been a carnival fun house. The carpets were worn and sometimes damp. The air conditioning blew hot air and the in-house sound system broadcast more crackles than actual music. But it was funky and cool and it was the place to go on South Street. Their extensive menu offered burgers and sides and even a selection of vegetarian-friendly options long before that was "a thing."

More recently, from the confines of my safe suburban home, I would often keep up with local news concerning Copa. On a regular basis, stories would circulate about rent increases in the South Street neighborhood and Copa would face the possibility of closure. The stories and reports would dissipate and Copa would remain open... until the next story would make the local papers or appear as a footnote on the local news.

According to some superficial investigation, the current owner of Copabanana started a GoFundMe campaign in 2023 to help "save" the struggling restaurant from its financial burden. A proposed goal of $250,000, funds of which would be split between saving the restaurant and supplementing the health needs of its home-bound owner, had only garnered $165. 

I stumbled across a Reddit page on which both former employees and former patrons voiced their unbridled and uncensored opinions of the "beloved" bar and restaurant. Some called the place "disgusting." Others, including a user who claimed to have been a long-tenured waitress, labeled Copa "a shithole." Some wondered why the drug dealers who frequented the bar couldn't lend a financial hand. Another creative user posted a "musical" comment bookended with musical notes as "♬ Her name was Lola / She was a crackhead ♬," alluding to the similarly-titled Barry Manilow hit of from the 70s, while simultaneously noting the clientele. There were tender memories of fist fights, drunken regulars, surly and aggressive bartenders and that memorable damp carpet.

Still, there was something very comforting in knowing that Copa still existed, knowing I could still go there anytime I wished... although I had zero intentions of going.  But, I can still picture — with great clarity — the South Street landscape of the early 1980s. The TLA Cinema, Zipperhead, Paper Moon, Frank's Pizza, Keep In Touch, Skinz and yes, even Hilary's Ice Cream where I worked. And, of course, Copa — right there on the corner of 4th and South. Its purple walls and lime green trim standing like a guiding lighthouse for the punks and the weekend wannabe punks.

I remember when another legendary Philadelphia eatery closed its doors, the treasured Automat Horn & Hardart's. In the wake of changing trends in the restaurant industry, Horn & Hardart's, with over 100 locations, announced its closure in 1991. Folks, all sharing misty memories of the chain's glory days, flooded the corporate office with phone calls, expressing sadness and outrage. "How can you close?," the callers would demand. The corporate answer was a sardonic "When was the last time you ate at a Horn & Hardart's?"

I'll miss Copa, although I don't remember the last time I had their Spanish fries. They sure were good.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

razor's edge

I hate to shave. I. Hate. To. Shave. Hate it. Hate. It. I think I have made it pretty clear how I feel about shaving.... and that is..... I hate it.

I used to watch my dad shave. That was a nightly ritual for him. Nightly! My dad shaved every night. Every goddamn night! I had one of those toy razors that hung in the supermarket on the same racks as jacks and those little green army men whose feet were fused to a little slab of plastic so they could stand up. My mom would buy me one of those kiddie shaving kits and I would stand in the bathroom alongside my dad while he shaved. He'd smear lather all over my face and I'd mimic the faces my dad would make as he guided his razor around his nose and chin and Adam's apple. I imitated the same actions with my little one-piece, bladeless, plastic razor. One summer, my mom won a hot lather dispenser on a wheel in Atlantic City, Of course, she gave it to my dad. This little gadget, once loaded with a standard can of shaving cream, would spit out steaming lather, just like at the barber shop — well, at least the barber shops you saw on TV. My dad would extract a dollop of hot shaving cream for me and then one for himself and we were shaving like the rich folks did — in their rich bathrooms with their rich hot lather dispensers that rich people had... I guess. After the initial can of shaving cream was used up, my dad went back to shaving with unheated cream straight from the can.

I started shaving with a real razor when I was about sixteen. I started off using my dad's electric razor. (He had dispensed with his hot lather dispenser.) After using an electric razor, it never quite felt like I had shaved. When I was a teenager, however, it was cool to try to grow a beard. But, when I got a job scooping ice cream at a place where facial hair was frowned upon (like working at Disneyland or playing for the New York Yankees), I had to shave regularly. The guy that owned the ice cream place didn't care for the quality of the shave I received from my dad's electric razor. That's when I was forced to master the fine art of shaving with a razor. I bought a disposable razor (a cheapo Bic) and that did the trick. I was able to get rid of the first bits of "beard" that had sprouted on my teenage face — along with a layer of skin.

I've had a beard and/or mustache on and off for many years. It's not because I like how I look with facial hair. It's because I hate to shave (Please see the first paragraph to remind yourself of how I feel about shaving.) When I have grown a full beard, I rarely — if ever — trimmed it, because I considered that to be shaving. Once, at a job, a coworker asked me my age. I had a full beard at the time, peppered with gray hairs mixed among my natural brown. I chuckled and dared him to guess my age. He looked me up and down and ventured a guess that was fifteen years over my actual age. The next day, I saved my beard off. And I kept it off for years.

When I started working in the marketing department of a large law firm, I got into the habit of shaving every day. I was going through those disposable razors like firewood during a particularly cold winter. I was required to offer a presentable and professional appearance as a reflection of the law firm. Sure, I was dyeing my hair bright orange at the time, but it was always properly groomed and my face was always clean shaven. It was brutal and I hated shaving even more.

I no longer work at that law firm. Now I work for a commercial printing company. The dregs of society work for commercial printers and nobody gives a shit how I look. I can shave (or not shave) as often as I wish. So, I choose to not shave for as longa as I can, until I decide to finally shave. Sometimes I catch a glance of myself in the mirror and I notice I bear a striking resemblance to the guy that Aladdin runs into in the dungeon that's actually the evil Jafar in disguise. (Except for the teeth. My teeth are in better shape and I have the dentist bills to prove it.) My beard — which now is fully white — is wild and unkept and badly in need of a trim. Better yet, I will determine upon closer inspection of my reflection, my beard should be cut off entirely. I always keep a stock of disposable razors on hand, but, Mrs. Pincus found a Gillette Fusion razor she had received as a trial sample someplace. She asked if I wanted to give it a try. I shrugged and said, "Sure. What the heck!"

The Gillette Company makes a lot of razors in a wide variety of prices and they all do pretty much the exact same thing. The Fusion razor, which employs a five-blade cartridge, runs around twenty-two bucks. The one Mrs. P gave me was free — a promotion used to get a potential customer to purchase refill blades in the future. I got one shave out of the non-brand name disposable razors I was using. By the time I got around to shaving, my coarse beard would render the blades unusably dull by the end of a shaving session. I took the new razor, my trusty electric beard trimmer and can of shaving cream and went into the bathroom to rid my face of several week's of beard growth. The Gillette Fusion was terrific! Without trying to sound like a commercial, it was the closest, smoothest shave I have ever had. I rinsed off the Gillette Fusion and stuck it in the medicine cabinet,  hoping it would provide another close shave the next time I decided to employ its service — whenever that would be.

When I got around to shaving again (probably six or seven weeks later), I grabbed my Gillette Fusion and, once again, it delivered an equally close shave. No cuts, No nicks. Just a clean close shave. Jeez! I really am starting to sound like a commercial, but, I swear, I am not being sponsored by nor am I receiving any sort of compensation from the Gillette company. Again. I rinse any shaving cream residue and stray whiskers from my razor and stored it until needed.

This has been going on for months. I keep getting a great, close, clean shave from the same five blades attached to the Gillette Fusion handle. Months, I tell you! The blades are just as sharp, just as accurate as the day Mrs. P asked if I wanted to give it a try. Just to be safe, I bought a replacement pack of blades for fifteen bucks. I haven't touched those supplement blades yet, as the original set is just fine. The original blades have provided the greatest shaves I have had in nearly a half century of shaving.

I shaved just this morning (after catching a fleeting glimpse of what I thought was Santa Claus in a mirror). My ol' reliable Gillette Fusion is still showing no signs of dulling. I still hate shaving, but now... now.... it has become a test. A test of endurance. 

So far, Gillette is winning.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

dance for me

Halloween is a-coming! Time to decorate your house with ghosts and cobwebs (unless that is your everyday décor). Time to purchase giant bags of candy — some to even give out to groups of trick-or-treaters that will come a-knocking at your front door on October 31. You'll probably buy another bag of candy — the good stuff — that you'll eat before the days of the month reach double digits. The Reeses cups are too good to give out. The freeloading neighborhood kids will have to be content with Tootsie Rolls and Dum-Dums lollipops. If they don't like it.... well, you get what you pay for. (I believe that Halloween can be used as a teaching moment.)

When I was a kid, Halloween was a marathon of candy collecting. I lived in a big neighborhood with lots and lots of houses. Word would quickly spread through the groups of costumed children prowling the streets about a house that was handing out full-size Hershey bars. An apple received in good faith from some out-of-touch, childless old person would invariably be quickly returned via an impromptu Sandy Koufax imitation. Some years, I would stop back at my house to drop off my accumulated haul and to pick up a fresh pillow case that served as my collection bag. I could get enough candy to last nearly 'til Thanksgiving, with only a few unwanted Mary Janes and Bit O' Honey gracing the bottom of the bag.

When I grew up, got married and moved into my own house in the Philadelphia suburbs, Halloween was always active, but never as jam-packed or as busy as the Halloweens of my youth. When my son was little, we would only walk as far as the end of out block. He was usually too anxious to return to our house and see all the other kids' costumes. He figured that he could get candy from his parents anytime he wanted — and he was right.

Just after we moved in to our house and for several years following, we would recognize some of the kids who would come trick-or-treating at our house. And there was this one girl...  

Groups of kids would make their way up our front walk via a narrow paved path that stretches from the sidewalk to our front porch. Their parents, or the elected adult tasked with guiding them around for the evening, would wait on the sidewalk during the candy transaction taking place on our porch. Every year, a particular mom and dad would proudly present their precocious daughter for our entertainment pleasure. They'd help her climb the stairs to the "performance" area of our porch and prod her to amuse us with a little, choreographed dance routine, the result of countless hours of  afterschool and weekend practice. Decked out in a sequined and sparkly, but unrecognizable costume and a pair of shiny black tap shoes, this little girl would "5-6-7-8" her way into local Halloween immortality. Her parents would stand alongside of one of the stone support columns of our porch while this diminutive Shirley Temple wannabe kicked and tapped and buck-&-winged for a good three minutes. A good long three minutes. After the big finish and a loud round of applause from mom and dad, she'd stick her plastic pumpkin out for some sugar-spiked, chocolate-covered compensation. We'd oblige. The little girl would courtesy, just the way she was taught in dancing school, pirouette and descend the steps to the front walkway. Mrs. Pincus and I would, of course, scratch our heads and wonder what in the world we just witnessed.

This was an annual performance... until it wasn't.

In the over thirty years we have lived in our house, the amount of trick-or-treaters has slowly diminished. Kids grew up. Families moved away and the residents of the neighborhood got older. Some years, no more than five costumed kids have come begging for sweets.

I like to think that our yearly entertainer is probably knocking 'em dead on Broadway. For candy.

Or, perhaps, she's writing a letter to Dad-dy....

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

brief encounter

I was sitting at my desk at work when my phone rang. Not my desk phone. My cellphone. If my cellphone rings, and it's not a number I recognize, I do not answer it. I hate to talk on the phone and I certainly don't like to waste my time talking to someone I don't know well enough to have their phone number programmed into my contacts list. I stopped what I was doing and picked up my cellphone that was charging on a pad on my desk. As it continued to ring, the screen displayed the name and phone number of my insurance agent. My insurance agent retired a while ago I want to say months, but, lately I have come to realize that I have no skills for gauging the passage of time, so, it was probably more like a few years ago that he retired. As part of his retirement, he passed his customer list over to a new agent. The new agent kept the same phone number. I just never bothered to change the name to the new agent's name in my contacts.

Not my agent.

Regardless of who my insurance agent is, I still pay premiums on my car insurance, homeowner's insurance and life insurance when the bills come due. I pay them online, through the State Farm website, with just a few clicks of my mouse. And that's it. I really don't give much thought to my various insurance policies. I know the insurance on my car went up a few years ago when I replaced my twenty-year-old car with a new one. Spoke with an administrator in the office of my new insurance agent about the new rate and to update my policy with the pertinent information for my new vehicle. Aside from that, insurance is rarely, if ever, a topic of conversation.

Ummm... no thanks.

So, there's a call coming in from my new insurance agent. I stared at the display briefly before declining the call and getting back to work. I was surprised when I didn't hear the little tone that lets me know that someone had left me a voicemail message. I didn't dwell on that thought for too long, as I had work to do. As a matter of fact, I totally forgot about the whole thing.

Just this week, there I was at work again and my cell phone rang. Again. In a wave of deja-vu, I looked at my cell phone screen to see the name of my former insurance agent shining brightly above the options offered to either accept or reject the call. And, once again, I swiped the "red" option to reject the call and returned my attention to my work. This time, however, I heard that little "beep," alerting me that the rejected caller had left me a message. Since I knew who it was from and I knew I had no pressing business with them, I decided to wait until later in the day to listen to the message.

You've got mail

When I got home from work, my wife and I talked while we prepared dinner. The call from the insurance agent didn't even breach the conversation. After dinner, Mrs. P and I settled in front of the TV for an evening of sixty-year old Westerns or perhaps a Phillies game. With only half of my attention on the television, I noticed the little "voicemail" symbol on my phone. I punched in my security code and listened. A female voice identified herself as a representative from my new insurance agent's office. She went on to say that she'd like to discuss my insurance needs. She explained that she'd like to schedule a conference call with my new insurance agent that would take about thirty to forty-five minutes. She then instructed me to call back to set up such a call, reminding me of the call's importance.

When my wife and I bought our house in 1986, I called the closest insurance agent to our new home to get the homeowner's insurance required by the terms of our mortgage. I went to the guy's office and discussed the particulars. As long as I was there, I inquired about car insurance rates and was quickly presented with a list that was considerably cheaper that what we were currently paying. At the end of a meeting that took under ninety minutes, I walked out of the insurance agent's office with policies for homeowner's insurance and two new, less expensive, ones for our cars. The following year, when our son was born, I arranged for a life insurance policy for myself. That was done entirely over the phone by my agent's assistant. Over the years, we have had several claims on our insurance policies, most of which were handled on the phone. If any required a visit to the insurance office, either I or my wife, dealt with our agent's assistant. So, over the course of nearly forty years, I met my insurance agent a total of one time. Now, he is retired. If he decides — in his retirement — to turn to a life of crime and he is arrested, the police cannot rely on me to pick this guy out of a line-up.

I really, really want to call my new insurance agent and explain to her that I see no need to meet with, conference call with, or otherwise relate the current or future status of any of insurance policies I currently hold. If I feel the need to increase, decrease or otherwise alter my current insurance situation, I will surely let her know. In the meantime, I'm good. I'd also like to tell her that the one and only time I ever met my previous insurance agent was, most likely, before she was born.

I really, really want to. But I won't.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com