night time Is the right time

My son and his girlfriend went away this weekend. Prior to making these plans, he called to ask if my wife and I could feed his cat while he is away. Of course, we explained, we'd be happy to feed his cat while he is away. We have done this before. I go to his home in South Philadelphia on my way home for work. I navigate the congested streets until I find a parking space. I greet little Cecil with a friendly pat on the head (that's me patting his head, not the other way around). I fill his bowl with fresh water and then scoop the previously-instructed amount of kibble into his food bowl. Cecil impatiently winds his way in and around my feet until I place the filled bowl onto his special placemat and he begins to eat, munching and crunching those little nuggets with teeth that are usually reserved for biting my wrist when he's had enough of my affection. This little exercise in repeated several times during the weekend, as Cecil requires two feedings a day as per the established Rules of Cat. On the other days, the starting point is our house, located in the northern suburbs of Philadelphia and a forty minute drive to South Philly. But, honestly, we don't mind. We like Cecil. (By the way, if you haven't already concluded, Cecil is the cat, not our son. We like him, too.)

However, on this particular weekend, I saw that we had previous plans to attend a Bat Mitzvah on Saturday morning at 9 AM. Logistically, this would be tricky. The service was at a synagogue that is further north from our house and — for those of you following along so far — north is the opposite direction from south... as in South Philadelphia. I thought for a minute. "No problem!," I said to no one in particular, "I'll just feed Cecil before the Bat Mitzvah."

Now — once again, I hope you've been paying attention — this would require waking up very early on Saturday morning, driving forty minutes, feeding the cat, driving forty minutes back and getting home with time to get dressed and go to the Bat Mitzvah. I would do it. Happily.

I woke up Saturday morning at 5 AM, the time I usually wake up to go to work during the week. However, during the week, I watch a little TV. I eat breakfast and have a cup of coffee. I post my daily celebrity death anniversaries on Facebook (like most people do). and then, I leave for work. On this particular Saturday, I hopped out of bed, got dressed and was out the door in less than ten minutes.

I fully expected to be the only car on the road. Of course, I was not. To tell the truth, I was actually surprised by how many cars and people were just out and about on Saturday morning — two hours before sunrise! As a matter of fact, when I got into my car, I could see a car parked stopped at the end of my street with its hazard lights flashing! At five in the morning! 

By the time I got out to the main thoroughfare that leads into and crossed the Philadelphia city boundary, I passed a number of cars. I don't know why this surprised me, but it did. I know why I was out at this ungodly hour, but I was sure not everyone was out on a little jaunt to feed their son's cat. As I approached Broad Street, I saw more cars. Not as many as one would see during an average daily commute to work, but more that you'd expect to see on a weekend morning, early enough that the only illumination is provided by street lights. I was also intrigued by the amount of pedestrians just wandering the sidewalks of Broad Street, as well as the number of customers queued up at the counter of a 24-hour Dunkin Donuts. That place rarely has customers at 4 in the afternoon.

I made my way to I-76 for a high-speed ride to South Philadelphia, rather than a long, drawn-out trip all the way down Broad Street, where a newly-enforced 25 miles-per-hour speed limit makes the drive take  f   o   r   e   v   e   r. 

I-76 was no different. At any given time during the day and evening, I-76 — known as the infamous Schuylkill Expressway — is notorious for becoming a parking lot for no discernable reason. Sometimes the culprit in an exorbitant amount of cars converging at the same time to make opening kick-off of an Eagles game or to catch the opening act of a big concert at the Xfinity Mobile Arena. But, a 5 in the morning...? On a Saturday...? Doesn't anybody sleep in on weekends? I know I usually do (when I'm not on cat feeding duty).

When I got to my son's neighborhood, I had to drive around for a longer-than-usual time. I understood that finding an empty on-street parking space would be difficult, as most everybody would be asleep with their cars occupying the space they claimed the previous night. I spotted a space a little further than I would have preferred, but I was in no position to be choosy. Somewhere nearby there was a cat who was probably checking his watch and restlessly tapping his paw as he anticipated my arrival. I parked, locked my car and began the longer-than-usual walk to my son's house. Once again, I was astonished by how many people I passed out on the street  — out and awake and doing stuff. A guy sitting in his car, scrolling through his phone. A woman holding an umbrella, strolling up Snyder Avenue. Someone else giving up a better parking space than the one I found.

I don't know why I am surprised by what goes on in the world while I am asleep. I sure it's not as bad and malevolent as the goings-on depicted in the 1985 Martin Scorsese comedy After Hours. That was just a silly movie. But, sometimes, I'm not so sure.

In the meantime, I'm going back to bed.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

new to me

Have you ever been in a public place and you hear someone's voice rise above all ambient noise? Someone speaking loudly, way too loud for the surroundings? Someone who doesn't know how to use their "inside voice?"

As long as I am asking questions.... have you ever encountered an idiot? I mean someone who says something so stupid that it makes you wonder how they make it through an entire day without injury?

Well, I just experienced both of those in Aldi this afternoon. Kind of like a "two-for-one" special.

I was standing in a rather lengthy checkout line in Aldi with under a dozen items in my shopping cart. I was about five or six shoppers back in the line, still a few checked-out orders away from putting my items up on the conveyor belt. Suddenly, a very loud voice bellowed out, filling the front part of the store with tones that rose above and blotted out the piped-in music and quiet conversation among the other customers. I quickly scanned the checkout area and zeroed in on the source of the voice. It was a security guard, all decked out in a very official-looking jacket embellished with official-looking patches representing the contracted security agency which supplied Aldi with fearless protection from baked goods pilferers and parking lot loiterers. His ensemble was capped off with a very official-looking military style hat that sported some kind of shiny badge just above the lacquered brim. He was engaging in conversation  with the customer at the very front of the queue. When I began to hear the actual words he was speaking, rather than just the loud, cacophonous tone of his his voice, this is when I heard....

"I never even heard of them! What are they? Nectarines?!? What are nectarines? I never heard of no nectarines!" I looked to see that he was holding a clear plastic bag filled with nectarines at eye level, examining the contents of the bag as though it contained an alien life form. "What are they anyway?" he continued, "I heard of peaches, but I never heard of no nectarines!"

This fellow was easily in his middle twenties. He could have been thirty. And, according to his booming public confession, he had never crossed paths with a nectarine in his entire existence on earth. He expounded on his doubt that something called "nectarine" was even real. I would say, if the security company that employs this guy goes searching among their ranks for someone to take duty at Fort Knox, they will be recruiting from a different division. I'm not so sure that he was qualified to handle someone shoving a Twix bar in their pocket at the checkout counter.

Oh... but he was not finished. He elaborated on his vast knowledge of the produce world as well as his capacity for dialects, colloquialisms and regional nomenclature.

"Nectarines? Hmmm... Maybe I know them by a different name. Y'know like some people say 'sesame seeds' and some people say 'poppy seeds.'"

It was right then and there that I stopped listening.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

beach ball

My wife and I just attended another three-day, outdoor music festival put on by our favorite Philadelphia radio station. It's a fun event and we have enjoyed enjoyed these festivals year after year. The two of us are veterans of many concerts — both indoor and outdoor. Having been to so many, there are certain things we expect to see at concerts. Of course, you'll see people dancing and singing along with the band — even if they don't know all of the lyrics to a particular song... or even if they don't know the songs at all. More recently, you'll spot folks taking video of the performance — a video that they will never ever watch... kind of like taking video of fireworks. Every so often, a beach ball will appear out of nowhere and will get batted around the crowd. It's a fun bonus as people become momentarily distracted from the music as they track the path and trajectory of the colorful inflated orb, hoping it'll make its way to their area where they can thwack it back into the crowd. It feels as though you are part of the show.

In preparation of our weekend at the music festival, my wife purchased some inexpensive, glitter-filled beach balls to bring along with us — secretly hoping to recreate those carefree concert experiences of our youth. So, along with a bag of pretzels, some pita chips, a tub of hummus and some bottles of water, I packed the dozen beach balls that Mrs. P had purchased.

On Saturday afternoon, with the grassy amphitheater of Camden's Wiggins Park packed with folks around our own age, I fished one of the beach balls out of our tote bag and puffed on the valve until it was fully inflated. The air was filled with the indie rock sounds of S.G. Goodman as I stood up and sent that ball sailing over the crowd with one blow of my fisted right hand. It soared high... then sunk.... hitting the ground between a knot of folks swaying politely in folding camp chairs. And there it stayed. I stared in astonishment. "Don't these people know what to do with a beach ball at a concert?," I thought. No one reached for the ball. One man craned his neck, glancing around briefly, trying to locate the source of the ball, but soon he returned his full attention to the stage. The ball rested on the grass.... untouched.

Disappointed but unfettered, I grabbed a second ball, inflated it, and launched it into the crowd. This one sailed in a different direction, but landed in a grassy section between two blankets where small groups of concert-goers had set up weekend camp. And there it sat. I turned to Mrs. Pincus, shrugged my shoulders and asked, "Hasn't anyone every hit a beach ball at a concert?" My peer group let me down.

On Sunday morning, we set ourselves up in approximately the same spot as the day before. Actually, we spread our blanket in the same place every year. As people began to file in to the outdoor venue, Mrs. P noticed a young couple with a little girl all decked out on a glittery red and gold skirt. They set their chairs out fifteen-or-so feet in front of us. Mrs. P quickly grabbed a glittery beach ball from our bag and hastily blew it up. Then she walked down to the couple and the little girl. I couldn't hear what she was saying but her gestures told me she was praising the little girl's costume. My wife — the Child Whisperer, who captivates and enchants children wherever she goes — offered the glittery ball to the little girl as the perfect accessory. The parents were smiling and the girl — already bouncing the ball in her hands — was happy.

Later in the day, another couple pulling a wagon full of stuff parked just a few feet in front of us. This couple had two children — a little boy toting a large container of plastic dinosaurs (just in case Chicago's Ratboys didn't live up to the hype) and a little girl carrying a spiral bound activity book (on the off chance that Rebirth Brass Band didn't hold her interest). As the family settled in to their newly- claimed area, Mrs. Pincus inflated another beach ball. By the time Mrs. P had puffed the final, filling breath into the ball, the family had disappeared. They had apparently wandered off to see what else besides music the festival had to offer. Nevertheless, Mrs. P left the beach ball on one of their chairs and returned to our little space. When the family reappeared, the boy just started bouncing the ball without the least bit of curiosity regarding where it came from or how it landed on his chair. 

As the afternoon progressed, we saw the boy come across the glittery beach ball Mrs. P had given to the girl in the sparkly skirt. She wasn't around, so the boy grabbed the ball and brought it back to his family's camp. Here, he saw the identical ball already beside his little chair. Realizing that he grabbed someone else's ball, he turned and just batted it back in the general direction of where he picked it up... not expressing any concern as to if it landed on the correct blanket.

It became apparent that this boy was not going to share his newly-acquired ball with his sister. Rather than witnessing a sibling confrontation, I inflated yet another beach ball and brought it over to the family's area while they had once again wandered off. When they returned, Mom dutifully removed the second ball from the chair and placed it in the wagon. Now, each child had their own ball — ones that magically materialized from out of nowhere.

By the time Little Feat, the final act of the weekend, took the stage, the wagon family were packing up to leave. Dad gathered up the chairs. Mom loaded up the wagon. And the two kids held on to those mysterious beach balls as though they had brought them along themselves.

I am never bringing beach balls to this festival again. People don't understand them.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com