a cover is not the book

I love to read. Unfortunately, I don't have nearly enough time to do so anymore. Years ago, when I used to take the train to work, I read a lot. An awful lot. I used to go through several books a month. I read so much, that I tried to have several books lined up, so when I finished the current book I was reading, I could start right in on the next one uninterrupted.

I was always looking for books to read. I began by reading classics — books I was supposed to read in high school but just never got around to it. I remember when I read The Catcher in the Rye — a favorite of serial killers —  nobody would ever sit next to me on the train, a rarity in the busy, early-morning rush hour. I read I, The Jury — my first exposure to the 1950s hard-boiled detective genre. I enjoyed the book, but couldn't help but feeling that I was reading a MAD magazine parody. I honestly couldn't get through The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, but I loved The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll. I was surprised by how much descriptive story and suspense was built up, despite its abbreviated length. I felt the same about the many novels I read by Edgar Allan Poe.

There was one book that was regularly recommend to me by my wife's cousin Jerzy. He often gushed about one book in particular, extolling its satirical wit, its off-the-wall humor and its biting social commentary. Jerzy would bring this book up almost every time I saw him. So, after years of prodding, I purchased a second-hand copy of Jerzy's favorite book — John Kennedy Toole's A Confederacy of Dunces — to read on the train.

John Kennedy Toole

New Orleans native John Kennedy Toole taught English Literature at Columbia University after his graduation from Tulane, which he attended on a scholarship. He was drafted into the army in 1963 where he taught English to Spanish-speaking recruits in Puerto Rico. That's where be began writing A Confederacy of Dunces. He would finish the novel in his parents' home after his discharge. Upon its completion, Toole shopped the novel to various publishers. It was rejected by each one, including two different editors at Simon & Shuster, when it was deemed "pointless." Depressed and paranoid, Toole took his own life in 1969 at the age of 31. While going through his personal belongings, Toole's mother Thelma, with whom he had a close but tumultuous relationship and who served as the inspiration of the main character's overbearing mother in the novel, found her son's manuscript (in carbon copy form, no less!). Thelma was determined to have her son's book published. She literally pestered author Walker Percy to read the manuscript. He relented and loved it. In 1980, seventeen years after Toole typed the final words and over a decade after he committed suicide, A Confederacy of Dunces was published by LSU Press. Amid high praise, it won the Pulitzer Prize the following year.

Ignatius J. Reilly

Early one morning, I boarded the train to work, found a seat and cracked open my brand-new used copy of A Confederacy of Dunces. Almost immediately I was introduced to the likes of Ignatius J. Reilly, the slovenly, lazy, delusional, idealistic anti-protagonist of the story. Ignatius is educated but without ambitions. He has contempt for the world around him and the people who inhabit it. He perceives himself as a superior member of society. He is at odds with his mother, his reluctant girlfriend, the local police officer and his employers at several positions he is forced to take. He's a glutton, a pervert who points out the perverse actions of others, and a ne'er-do-well who blames his long run of bad luck solely on the work of an ancient deity — not his own decisions (or lack of). Ignatius's improbable interactions with the book's supporting characters were only somewhat amusing. To me, however, they were downright infuriating and eerily familiar.

As I continued to read A Confederacy of Dunces, I was nagged by an underlying feeling. I felt I had heard — even witnessed — the adventures of  Ignatius J. Reilly before. But, this was a silly thought. Ignatius J. Reilly was a fictional character. After a few more days and a few more chapters... it hit me. It hit me as to why I was not enjoying this book. It occurred to me who exactly Ignatius J. Reilly was. His antics. His "blame the world for my troubles" attitude. His "I am above everyone" ego. His skewed, "know-it-all" view on reality. Ignatius J. Reilly was... was... a member of my family. A particular member of my family. A member of my family whose personality and demeanor mirrors that of Ignatius J. Reilly's to a T. A member of my family with whom I have had a contentious relationship for years. A relationship that has exponentially deteriorated with each new audacious action he exercises. He is lazy, like Ignatius J. Reilly. He's unambitious, like Ignatius J. Reilly. He's unrealistic, like Ignatius J. Reilly. He's a buffoonish elitist, like Ignatius J. Reilly. He's an asshole, like Ignatius J. Reilly

I cannot — and will not — elaborate. If you know me, you know to whom I am alluding. If you don't know me personally, just know that I was not able to fully enjoy A Confederacy of Dunces to the level that Jerzy did. It's just one more thing that this particular family member has ruined for me.

I should really start reading again. It's a distraction.

Usually.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

no time for losers

My wife and I went our first cruise together almost ten years ago. Mrs. Pincus had been on a cruise with her family the year before and, when she returned, she did a whole lot of convincing to get me on board (pun fully intended) with the idea.

Once our trip was booked, I really didn't know what to expect. My only frame of reference for going on a cruise was the nine seasons of The Love Boat I had watched and maybe the seven minute excursion into the faux wilderness that is the Jungle Cruise in Disneyland.

In the final week of May 2013, my wife, our luggage and I left New York City's Pier 88 for 7 days of fun aboard the Norwegian Gem. Sure, I knew about the the endless buffets, the spectacular ocean views, the endless buffets, the poolside relaxation, the lavish nighttime staged entertainment and the endless buffets, but I was still unclear about what else there was do occupy my time over the course of a week... you know, besides eating. Well, on Day One we were presented with a full itinerary of activities tailor-made to fit any and all interests. There were sports related activities like basketball and ping pong (not interested). There were seminars about investments (not interested). There were demonstrations of ice carving, cooking and the age-old art of towel folding (somewhat interested). But, my wife and I had a keen interest in the silly game competitions that offered throughout the day. 

At the time, there was a show on television called Minute To Win It inexplicably hosted by TV chef Guy Fieri. On the show, guests would compete against each other in silly little games with the hopes of winning money or prizes. The contests weren't on the level of the Olympics or any professional sports. They were more like the games one would play at a children's birthday party., like carrying an egg on a spoon from Point A to Point B or removing the shaving cream from an inflated balloon with a real, sharp razor. The enthusiastic staff of the Norwegian Gem created their own version of the TV game show, with similar stunts. The prizes, however were not nearly as desirable as those rewarded by a network television show. There were no big screen TVs or diamond bracelets or large stacks of cash. Instead, victors were given a deck of cards or a t-shirt, each emblazoned with the logo of the Norwegian Cruise Lines. Look, we were all there to have fun. We were in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean, away from our everyday lives and surrounded by obscene amounts of food twenty-four hours a day. We weren't physically-fit athletes competing for the honor of representing our respective countries on the world stage. The fact that we were being judged on our ability to stack plastic cups the fastest drove that message home.

For most of us, anyway.

There is something about a cruise that creates human bonding. As the days of a cruise progress, one-time strangers quickly become inseparable friends. I have likened this sea-worthy phenomenon to summer camp for adults. By the end of a cruise, close friendships are formed with folks that have only spent a short time together. These friendships sometimes extend beyond the confining rails of the port and starboard sides of a cruise ship. So, when the time came to choose sides for an hour of frivolous fun, "ship friends" paired up immediately as though these bonds had been in place for decades. Of course, there are a few introverts here and there, but the more gregarious would always welcome the few stragglers into the fray. On one particular session of Norwegian Minute to Win It, a young lady who was sailing alone, expressed a desire to participate in the fun. She was happily welcomed onto a team and the "competition" commenced.

The first round of play involved something with balloons or cotton balls or plastic horseshoes either being tossed or passed or balanced on top of each other. Whatever the object of the game was, everyone was laughing and goofing around and having all the fun they could possibly muster. Some participants were already drunk, which made for an even livelier time. Balls were dropped. Balloons were popped and laughter filled the air. The young lady who was sailing alone began to seethe. She frowned and glared at her teammates. When time was called for this round, her team had placed last. The winning team members were each honored with a cloth drink koozie printed with the NCL logo. The young lady who was sailing alone was furious. Visibly furious. The next game began and, again it was some sort of ridiculous endeavor using spongy balls or an assortment of plastic discs or maybe it employed balloons again. Whatever it was, everyone was having giddy fun. After all, that's what we were here for...
fun! 

Well, most of us, anyway.

The young lady who was sailing alone stomped her feet at the lack of concentration exhibited by her teammates. She saw that the other teams were making higher stacks of discs or popping more balloons or whatever they had to do. Her furrowed brow and clenched fists were strikingly out of place among the insanity that was prevalent among the other competitors. When Round Two concluded and each member of the winning team was presented with a reusable drink cup displaying the familiar NCL logo, the young lady who was sailing alone had had just about enough. Before the next feat was announced, the young lady who was sailing alone raised her voice and announced, "I quit! I will not play any game where I don't win!" She glared with a squinted accusatory eye at everyone before storming off to.... who knows where. We were still in the middle of the ocean, so there weren't too many places to go to avoid your former teammates. Every one was silent for a few seconds, until the air was split with a round of collective nervous laughter. Then we all readied our balloons or mini Frisbees for round number three.

Over the course of the next few days, one couldn't help but run into the young lady who was sailing alone. We saw her at the buffet. We saw her by the pool. We saw her queuing up at the ship's showroom for that evening's performance. 

Everyone saw her, but no one said a word. Almost ten years later, someone wrote about her.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

I can no longer shop happily

I am never, ever, ever setting foot in the fucking Giant Supermarket in Huntingdon Valley for as long as I shall live! Dammit!

I live within a convenient driving distance to five supermarkets. I have no loyalty to any of them, because — on some level — there is something I don't like about each one of them. I do most of my supermarket shopping at a Walmart SuperCenter that is a further driving distance than the five nearby supermarkets. But, the prices at Walmart are so ridiculously cheap that I cannot justify going to one of the closer stores when I know I can get the same groceries at as much as half the price on some items. Yeah, I know. Walmart treats their employees like shit and they allegedly have questionable business practices, but who doesn't get treated like shit by their employers? Besides, if I can get a 20 ounce bottle of mustard for 98 cents, I honestly don't care if Walmart kicks their help in the balls when they arrive at work. As the great philosopher/cartoon character Super Chicken once said: "You knew the job was dangerous when you took it."

There's an Aldi near my house. At first I didn't like Aldi. I likened it to shopping in the Twilight Zone, based on their store-branded products so closely mimicking the package designs of national brands. But over time, I have come around to Aldi. They have great produce. Their prices are cheap and their own products — despite their TV prop package designs — are comparable in quality to national brands. The problem with Aldi is they don't carry everything. It is impossible to do a full, old-fashioned shopping trip at Aldi because of their limited variety on a number of products.

Also close by is a Shop Rite, an Acme (part of the Albertsons family of stores) and a Giant (a subsidiary of the multi-national retail conglomerate Ahold Delhaize, not to be confused with the Giant Eagle Mid-West supermarket chain). Shop Rite is a last resort for me, as I always find the place poorly lit, poorly stocked and dirty. They do have pretty good store-brand coleslaw, but that's not enough of an enticement for me. The Acme, which is the closest to my house, is expensive and filled with employees who would rather be anywhere else in the world except in that store. Also, they have this uncanny knack to stop carrying a product that I discover and like on a random visit. It never fails. It's as though they have a list and check off the box that says "Josh Pincus likes this. Do Not Order."

The Giant is the worst and, as I began this blog, I have made my last trip to Giant ever. Mrs. Pincus and I decided to have hot dogs for dinner tonight. A typical summer meal, mine would be of the vegetarian variety and hers would be from the good, God-fearing folks at Hebrew National. We had picked up a bag of chips from Walmart on a previous supermarket run, but had failed to grab a couple of cans of baked beans. And, as you know, Mrs. P cannot be expected to eat hot dogs without the accompaniment of baked beans. That would be like eating peanut butter without jelly or pizza without pineapple. (Oh lighten up! It was a joke!) We like Heinz Vegetarian Baked Beans. We just do. We both grew up eating them and we are very used to their taste. Sure, over the years, we have buckled to store brands on some grocery staples, but we will not yield in some cases — and Heinz Vegetarian Baked Beans is one of those cases. Besides, Heinz is a popular brand and readily available. I happily volunteered to go out in the morning to grab a few cans of baked beans before the start of the afternoon Phillies game. I decided that Giant would be my choice of store this time.

I actually dread going to Giant. I cannot remember a time that I went to Giant and completely filled my shopping order. They are always out of something or they don't carry something or I can't find something after looking in the most logical places. I find their staff to be plentiful, although less than helpful. They usually answer questions like "Where would I find Rice Krispies?" with "Did you check the cereal aisle?" I have often left Giant with bags full of groceries only to head directly to another supermarket to pick up those few items that Giant did not have. And there are always — always —items that Giant does not have.

I drove over to Giant, parked and went into the store. I quickly scanned the signs that hang above each aisle that list the items that could be found within. The one that read "canned vegetables" was the one I wanted. I passed peas and corn and string beans and a range of exotic offerings until I arrived at a small section stocked with baked beans. The shelves were filled with every conceivable flavor of Bush's Baked Beans. There was Original, which contains bacon and, if Mrs. Pincus is partial to Hebrew National hot dogs... well, you do the dietary math. There were other flavors of Bush's Baked Beans — Garlic, Homestyle, Slow-Cooked, Fast-Cooked, Medium-Cooked, Sweet Heat, Brown Sugar, Maple, Country Style, Boston Style and about a hundred other flavors occupying every single shelf. Near the bottom of the section, Campbell's Pork & Beans and Hanover managed to muscle in and grab a sliver of shelf space along side a few rows of Giant's own brand.

But no Heinz. No where. There wasn't even a shelf tag alerting me that I was too late to get a can. There was no room at the inn for Heinz. It was as though the Heinz brand didn't exist on the Giant Supermarket astral plane. I stared at those shelves for a good, long time. I even walked up and down the aisle, thinking maybe — just maybe — Giant relegated Heinz Vegetarian Baked Beans to their own special section. But that was a pipe dream. Giant seemed to be mocking me. As far as Giant was concerned, I could get the fuck out of their store and pound Heinz Vegetarian Baked Beans up my ass in the process. By this time I was fuming. I reluctantly snapped a can (a small can) of Bush's Vegetarian Baked Beans off the shelf and made my way to the checkout area.

My father-in-law's favorite pastime — beside studying the Torah — is leisurely strolling the aisles of Giant the way most people visit an art museum. He peruses the shelves slowly and meticulously, as though he is viewing and appreciating works by Picasso and Renoir. I can't understand his obsession with Giant, but he seems to be there nearly every day. I suppose Heinz Vegetarian Baked Beans is never on his shopping list.

So, Giant is off my list. I'm done! Finished! Through! One down. Four to go.

UPDATE: Shop Rite does not carry Heinz Vegetarian Baked Beans either. Uh-oh.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

when I go out with artists

When I graduated from high school in 1979, I didn't know what the heck I wanted to do with my life. I had been drawing since I was a little kid, but the thought of making it a career didn't sit right with me and it especially didn't sit right with my father. My father was a hard-working, company-loyal, old-school, narrow-minded, Nixon-loving, World War II veteran who woke up early every morning to go to a job that treated him like shit. But, in his generation, that was the way things were. As far as my father was concerned, being an "artist" was no way to make a living.

My mother, on the other hand, was much more supportive. A free-sprit for most of her single life, my mom encouraged my creativity and natural talent — possibly living vicariously through me, silently pining for the carefree days that were stifled when she married my father. My mom let me know that it was okay to take a year after high school to decide the course my career should take. College would always be there, so rushing into things was not necessary. I toyed with various options. I thought about enrolling in culinary school, but tossed that idea aside when I realized that my "cooking skills" were limited to preparing a bowl of cereal and heating up frozen pizza (the latter of which I didn't do very well). I wasn't a very good academic student. Math concepts eluded me. History bored and confused me. I thrived in art classes, despite some of the older art teachers that were burned out and appeared to be going through the motions. I was motivated by a young student teacher who introduced free-form assignments and offered a fresh perspective. But, I still couldn't imagine making "art" my career. So, at my mother's suggestion, I got a job as a cashier in a retail clothing store in hopes of climbing the proverbial "corporate ladder" and making the wide world of retail my chosen profession. Except, I fucking hated that job. It was enough to send me over the edge and enroll in art school. But not just any art school.

Once my decision to go to art school was made, I began to research and determine my options. Philadelphia boasted several well-respected art schools. Some under the auspices of larger universities. Others were stand alone private institutions. Almost all offered a Bachelor of Fine Arts degree after completing a four-year course of study. One four-year school, however, only awarded an Associates degree. This school required no academic subjects, only art classes. No academic classes? Hot damn! That was the school for me! 

I arranged for an interview at Hussian School of Art. I was asked to bring recent samples of my artwork and have transcripts from my high school sent over. No SAT scores were required and they had no interest in what kind of student I was. These were my kind of people! I went to the interview with my mom and I sat across a big desk from the president of the school as he personally reviewed and assessed my work. My portfolio consisted of mostly cartoony drawings along with a few paintings I had done as a high school senior. Mr. Dove, a soft-spoken man in a light suit and flowered tie, quietly examined my work. Finally, with just the tiniest hint of a smile, he told me I would be accepted to join the next class in September 1980. He also added that the school's curriculum would knock this "cartoony stuff" right out of my system. They would teach me to be a real artist. 

Hussian was a very small school. Very small. It was housed on three floors of an office building in center city Philadelphia. They only accepted 80 freshman per year and, as I came to see, almost half would drop out before reaching their senior year. It was a tough school with some difficult assignments and teachers who demanded perfection. Their critiques were often brutal, sometimes sending some of the more sensitive students running from a classroom in tears. I, myself, experienced a smattering of anti-Semitism — some of it from teachers. But everything was done to prepare budding artists for the real world. In my early 20s, I didn't fully understand what exactly we were being warned about. At 62, and after 40 years in this God-forsaken business, I understand. Boy, do I understand!

My class at Hussian boasted a lot of talented artists. There were a wide variety of styles and ideas, mixed with a wider variety of personalities and temperaments. There was a lot of camaraderie and there was a lot of rivalry, bordering on animosity. By the end of four years, my class of 80 was whittled down to 43 — just as predicted. We graduated at an intimate luncheon in May 1984 that my father did not attend. At the conclusion of the ceremony, I was a professional artist. 

I have worked consistently in the general art field for my entire adult life. I've had many jobs and worked for more than my fair share of assholes. Hussian prepared me well. Sure, I have expressed frustration over the unqualified opinions of talentless superiors who couldn't identify a serif with a gun to their head. But, I have also learned that, contrary to my father's beliefs, I could make a living as an artist.

I was surprised to learn how many of my classmates form Hussian chose not to pursue a career in the field of art. Some have successfully gone into such diverse alternative lines of work as home construction, nursing, corporate administration and even music. A handful have followed their chosen course of study and even ended up teaching others. Admittedly, I use very little of what I learned at Hussian in my everyday work, but there is no denying the positive foundation they forged at the very beginning.

from the Hussian website.

Just this week, a surprise announcement broke in the local press. The University of the Arts, a beloved amalgam of creative intuitions dating back to the 19th century, will abruptly close its doors forever in the wake of losing its accreditation. UArts is the second art school to announce a closing in Philadelphia this year (the other, The Pennsylvania Academy of Fine Arts will close at the end of the 2024-25 academic year). Over the past few years, The Art Institute of Philadelphia closed, The Delaware College of Art & Design closed and the suburban campus of the Tyler School of Art closed, although the program still exists on the main campus of Temple University. I was also made aware of the quiet closing of Hussian School of Art in August 2023. With no fanfare, no media coverage and no announcement to alumni, Hussian's board of trustees determined that they were unable to continue, based on the current financial outlook and declining enrollment.

I maintain that working commercial artists are one of the most misunderstood and disrespected groups. If you are not an actual working artists, you can never fully understand that it is indeed a job. It's a job just like a mail carrier or a waiter or a bus driver or even a doctor. It's not just a "fun extension of a hobby." It is work. It takes concentration and effort and energy just like your job. Artists don't want to be presented with a "fun project." If it's done for commercial purposes, it is work. Do accountants think it's a "fun project" keeping financial records for a candy store? Gee! That sounds like a "fun project, Mr. Accountant! On a daily basis, I deal with two inexperienced young ladies — fresh out of marketing classes at the University of Whatever — in the corporate office of a small chain of supermarkets. In designing their weekly advertisements, I am relentlessly instructed to move a photo of a pile of pork chops to the left a little more..... a little more.... a little more.... a little more. Never mind. Delete it.

It is sad that a city the size of Philadelphia cannot support art education. Art is everywhere. Everywhere. And artists are responsible for that art. Mechanics of art can be taught, but an "artist's touch" cannot. 

You'll be sorry. You'll see. 

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

searchin'

This story appeared on my illustration blog twelve years ago, complete with a drawing of my father. It's a funny story that wasn't too funny while it was actually happening.

I'm pretty sure my dad's intentions were good, but he had his own quirky method of making them known.

My father followed an old-time, though slightly skewed, set of ethics. He was a hard worker and blindly devoted to the company he worked for — no matter how little that company gave a shit about him. He tried to instill his work ethic into my brother and me and he somewhat succeeded, as we are both hard workers. However, the Pincus boys just never bought into the "blind loyalty" part, as we came to know after years of working for various employers, that most employers feel that their employees are expendable and easily replaced.

My father loved his family and his way of showing love was to keep constant tabs on their schedules and their whereabouts. As my brother and I came into our teens, that task proved increasingly difficult for my father. Where are you going? How long are you staying there? When will you be home? Who will you be with? these were all part of the regular barrage of questions my brother and I were riddled with when we made a motion toward the front door during our adolescent years. My older brother's teenage antics made a wreck of my father's sense of family order and when I reached "driver's license" age I was no better.

In the summer of 1980, when I was 19, I ran a sidewalk produce stand for my cousin at 16th and Spring Garden Street in downtown Philadelphia. My cousin awakened in the wee hours of the morning and would spend several hours purchasing stock for the stand at the massive Food Distribution Center in South Philadelphia. He'd load his van with crates of fresh fruit and vegetables and I'd meet him at the stand around 8 a.m. to help unload the van and set up for the day. I did this every weekday for the entire summer and, even though I would sometimes stay out fairly late on weekday evenings, I was never on that corner later that 8 a.m. the next day. No matter what. Never.

At the beginning of that summer, I went on my first vacation without my parents. I went to Florida with three of my friends. When I returned home, my cousin recruited me to hawk plums and lettuce and I was just getting into the daily routine that the job required. I had also just met a girl at a local record store and we made plans for a date. Late one afternoon, I came home tired from a full morning of weighing out cherries, bagging bananas and persuading passers-by to pick up some tasty spuds for their family's dinner. After a shower and a change of clothes, I was ready to take this new girl out to a restaurant and who-knows-what-else. I met my father on the front lawn as I was leaving the house and he was arriving home from work. Right on schedule, the questions began.

He opened with his old favorite — "Where are you going?"

"I have a date."

"When will you be home?"

"I don't know. Later, I guess."

"You know, you have work tomorrow.," he informed me, as though I would not have otherwise been aware of my employment.

"I know.," I answered as I opened the driver's door of my mom's car and slid behind the wheel. My father stood on the lawn, arms folded across his chest, and watched me drive off. It was apparent that he was not pleased with my limited answers to his inquiries.

I arrived at Jill's house and offered her the passenger's seat in my mom's tank-like Ford Galaxie. We chatted as we drove and at one point I glanced in her direction as she nonchalantly popped a Quaalude into her mouth. We pulled into the parking lot of the Inn Flight Steakhouse on Street Road and I helped Jill through the entrance doors as her self-medication affected her navigational ability on the short walk from my car. At dinner we talked and joked and exchanged other typical "first date" pleasantries. Before we knew it, we had spent several extended hours at that table, although I'm sure I was more aware of the time than she was. (Under the circumstances, I sure I was more aware of a lot of things than she was.) She invited me back to her house, explaining that her parents were away for a few days (hint, hint). We drove to her house and, once inside,  she motioned to the basement, telling me she join me in a few minutes.

Meanwhile, my father was manning his usual post at the front door. He stood and stared out through the screen with an omnipresent cigarette in one hand, checking his watch approximately every eight seconds.

"Where the hell is he?," he questioned my mother.

"He's on a date. He told you. You saw him when you came home from work.," she replied, as she had countless times before.

"He has to go to work early tomorrow morning. Doesn't he have a watch? Doesn't he know what time it is?" My father was convinced that if he personally didn't inform you of the current time, you couldn't possibly know. He fancied himself humanity's "Official Timekeeper". He would have made a great town crier.

My mother — that poor exasperated, sleep-deprived woman — tried to reason with my father. "He'll be home. He knows he has to work. He's responsible. You know  he's responsible."

Suddenly, he grabbed his coat and scanned the living room for his car keys. "What are you doing?," my mother asked, suspiciously.

"I'm gonna go look for him. Maybe he has a flat tire.," he said, trying to sound concerned, but my mom was not convinced.

"You don't even know where he is. You don't know where the girl lives. You don't even know her name! Where are you going to look?" My mother knew he was up to something. No one could get anything  past my mother. Especially my father.

"Then, I'll drive around and look for him." Ignoring her words, my dad got into his car, backed down the driveway and sped off to a planned destination. He had no intention off driving around. He knew exactly where he was going. Somewhere around the time that Jill was descending her parent's basement steps wearing little more than a blanket and a smile, my dad was bursting through the doors of a police station several blocks from our home.

"My son is missing.," my frantic father shouted at the policeman on duty, "I don't know where he is!"

The unfazed officer grabbed a pen and, with it poised above a notepad, asked my father, "When did you see him last?"

"About seven hours ago," my dad replied, "when he left for a date."

The policeman dropped the pen, cocked one eyebrow and stared blankly at my father. "He's probably still on the date, sir." He instructed my dad to go home, assuring him that I'd probably be home any minute. Annoyed and dejected, my father shuffled back to his car and drove home. A few minutes after he pulled into the driveway, I steered my mom's car along the curb in front of my house. As I walked up the front lawn, searching for my house key, the front door opened and the shape of my father was silhouetted by the living room lamp. My mother was lurking several feet behind him.

"What are you still doing up?," I asked.

"Where the hell were you?," my father yelled, "I just came from the police station looking for you."

With this information coming to light for the first time, my mother and I simultaneously emitted a loud, angry and incredulous 'WHAT?'

"You went WHERE?,"  I screamed, "You knew I was on a date! Are you INSANE?"  I glanced down at my watch (contrary to my father's beliefs, I did own one and I referred to it often). "I don't have time to talk about this. I have to wake up in a couple of hours to go to work." I echoed my father's ingrained work ethic and looked him square in the face. "And so do you.," I finished.

With that, I stomped upstairs, flopped down on my bed and drifted off to sleep to the muffled tones of my mother's reprimanding voice coming from my parent's bedroom below.

I know my father's main concern was my safety and well-being and his intentions were honorable, but he desperately needed to take a course in Parental Behavior. Lucky for him, I think my mom taught those classes.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

jam up and jelly tight

By the time you read this, we will be in the throes of Chanukah... probably the seventeenth or eighteenth day by now — I kind of lost track. Chanukah, as you may or may not know, commemorates the... um... the... well, something ancient involving the Jews overcoming some massive obstacle only to come out of it with flying colors and go on to face another obstacle. Or something like that, I'm not a biblical scholar and I make most of this stuff up anyway. Besides, this story isn't a history lesson. it's the story of a particular business in my neighborhood.

There's a little bakery around the corner from my house. It's tucked away in an awkward spot, occupying the bottom floor of a block of houses the fronts of which face the street on the opposite side. The bakery looks like the basement access to these houses and, at one time, that may have been the case. But, now, it operates in a tiny space jammed with glass display cases that only allow for one of two customers in the store at a time. There is barely enough room for customers exiting the bakery to pass customers entering the bakery without bumping elbows or — worse! — upsetting wrapped boxes of recently-purchased baked goods.

Sure, there are other options for baked goods in the area. Several nearby supermarkets have full in-store bakeries whose selling floors are twice — or three times — the size of the little bakery. The main draw of the little bakery is its kosher certification. There is a fairly large Orthodox Jewish population in my neighborhood and a kosher-certified bakery is an integral part of their day-to-day life. The little bakery prepares traditional baked provisions to meet the needs of this specific faction of the community. They bake and sell cookies, and cakes and other assorted pastries. Every Friday morning, the cramped shelves are packed with golden challah breads to be used as the centerpiece for familys' Shabbat dinners. On special holidays, hamantashen and taiglach are prepared to aid in the celebration of Purim and Rosh Hashanah respectively. As tradition dictates, the bakery offers sufganiyot — jelly-filled doughnuts — for the marathon that is Chanukah. As a special treat for my in-laws, Mrs. Pincus stopped by the little bakery to pick up some sufganiyot for her parents' dessert. She even secured a couple for us, as well as a couple of themed and decorated cookies. (I think there were supposed to be menorahs, but I was not fully convinced.)

Now, one would think that a small, specialized, neighborhood bakery would be run by a friendly, avuncular, gregarious character greeting customers with a smile and a cheerful demeanor and well as a grateful sentiment for browsers and purchasers alike.

One would think.

The guy that owns and operates this little bakery is a belligerent, angry, nasty, condescending jerk who berates his customers and loudly complains about his employees — in front of his employees and his customers. He's the last person you'd imagine as someone would own a bakery. A bakery! A place where cookies and cakes and happiness are sold! 

Mrs. P entered the bakery on Friday morning. She walked into a tirade from the owner. He stood behind the tiny service counter, blocking the doorway to the working bakery room behind him. He was barking ultimatums to the few customers. As his staff was busily stuffing jelly-filled sufganiyot into boxes, the owner defiantly announced that he would not make jelly doughnuts again until next Chanukah, adding that it's too difficult. My wife asked him, "If someone wished to order 500 jelly doughnuts in July, you wouldn't make them?" He frowned and scowled and growled, "No! No, I wouldn't! They are just for Chanukah!" Mrs. Pincus, who after years of hanging around Josh Pincus, has become something of an instigator, continued to needle the bakery owner. "You make hamantashen throughout the year, not just for Purim." The owner frowned again and grumbled, "That's different!" and he trailed off with no real answer to my wife's question.

A young lady in an apron appeared with a large tray of cream-filled doughnuts. As she fitted the tray into the glass display case, the owner warned, "The cream-filled doughnuts are only for people who placed orders! If you didn't pre-order them, you can't have them!" He put heavy, threatening emphasis on the end of that statement. Mrs. P eyed the cream filled doughnuts and asked the young lady if all of them were already spoken for. The young lady shot the owner a dismissive "side eye" and asked my wife if she would like one or two. Mrs. P asked for one jelly-filled and one cream-filled. She also requested a half dozen of the questionably-shaped cookies. As Mrs. Pincus paid, the owner continued voicing his displeasure with his business, his employees and the hand that life had dealt him. He waited on a customer and licked his fingers to assist in the opening of a paper bag to fill with baked goods.

After our dinner that evening, I made a couple of cups of tea for my wife and I. Mrs. P sliced the securing tape on the bakery box to reveal the goodies she had purchased that morning. The box contained two cream-filled doughnuts, not one jelly and one cream as was requested. Cream was smeared along one of the inside walls of the box, a result of a poorly-packed and unevenly-balanced packing job. The cookies were also defaced with excess doughnut cream.

The doughnuts and the cookies weren't especially good.

Neither is the bakery owner.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

let it go! let it go!

I love Disney.

For those of you that didn't groan and click to another website, begrudging another rambling post about my love for the multimedia giant, let me further explain. I don't especially like everything specifically Disney. I dislike the majority of the programming on The Disney Channel and their cable offshoot Freeform. Those teen-angst-y, overly hip dramas and overly precocious family comedies, of course, are not geared to me. Although I am a fan of iCarly, Sam & Cat and Victorious (Nickelodeon, in my opinion, have achieved a better result with their writing and casting), Disney's shows have only accomplished a pattern of sameness. Again, I know I am not the target audience, but Disney knows who is... and they constantly and consistently hit their mark.

I don't love every film that the Disney company has produced. Sure, I have my favorites, animated classics like Peter Pan, Alice in Wonderland and Sleeping Beauty. I really like the productions from Disney-owned Pixar Studios, like the Toy Story franchise and Ratatouille. But, Disney's recent acquisitions of the Marvel Comics and Star Wars intellectual properties do absolutely nothing for me. But Disney knows what fans of those particular genres like and they are only too happy to give them what they want... or at least tell them what it is that they want.

My real love is the Disney theme parks. I have been to Walt Disney World and Disneyland countless times. I am never bored, never disappointed and always joyful (That's right! I am capable of joy!) during every minute I spend in a Disney theme park... with the possible exception of Disney's Animal Kingdom. (Oh, I don't care what they say — it's a zoo.) My family and I regularly marvel at the attention to detail Disney has applied to the immersive theme park experience. They set the standard and continue to maintain and even become the standard by which all other theme parks are measured. If not for the concept that Walt Disney thought up as he sat on a bench eating peanuts while his daughters rode a simple merry-go-round, no other theme parks would exist. (For those of you who hate Disney, but decided to stick around past the first sentence — there is where you can direct your disdain.)

But, love them or not, there is no denying Disney's mastery of marketing. I can think of no other company that can dictate, influence and manipulate its customers like Disney. While Apple Computers has a cult-like grip on its loyal users, they are still a niche business as compared to the widespread number of ventures in which Disney has an interest.

Not them. They're too happy... and clean.
The families on either side of them. They're the typical ones.

Disney knows their customer and they market directly to them the kind of enticement they know their customer wants to hear. The interesting thing — and what makes their marketing prowess so admirable — is there is a wide variety of people that make up the "Disney customer." The most obvious one is the "family." Mom, Dad and their 2.5 children. If you look around at the crowds in Walt Disney World, you will see an overwhelming amount of families that fit this description. Mom, with the unfolded guide map, busily checking off each attraction the family has experienced and noting which ones they've yet to conquer. Dad, silently calculating in his head how much this vacation is costing him per minute and how much overtime he'll have to work to make up for it when they return to the "real world." Brother, sister and baby, whose collective heads are about to explode amid an overload of familiar characters, eleven dollar caramel apples, twenty-two dollar popcorn in a commemorative bucket themed to the latest film release and a barrage of questions regarding the origins of Splash Mountain. This is Disney's prime target, their "bread & butter." The ones who have no problem being coaxed out of their hard-earned money to become the proud owners of a two-foot tall Sorcerer's Apprentice hat that will never ever be worn again once they leave the Orlando Airport. They're the ones who — on Day One — grumble about having to feed a family of five for $125 per meal and — by Day Three — don't bat an eye as they wave their magical Magic Band at the restaurant cashier, where Disney has allowed them to be shielded from the sight of any actual money exchanging hands. These families aren't quite sure why they want to go to Disney World, they just do. Perhaps it's because their neighbor or a guy at work or a well-to-do brother-in-law is taking his family to Disney World. It's the thing to do, you know... go "down to Disney" as they say in my part of the country. Even the most rural-dwelling families — those who wouldn't dare set foot outside of their cocoon-like community — will venture to the "big city" airport to walk down a little tunnel, sit is a padded seat for two hours, walk down another tunnel and — poof! — they are in Florida, just a short shuttle ride to the Most Magical Place on Earth.

That is genius marketing.

Disney's other key target audience are the die-hard Disney "purists." These are the folks who know (or sort-of know) the history of Disney World, revealing trivial bits of Disney lore and pointing out hidden secrets to the uninitiated — whether they asked or not. This group will buy nearly anything that has Mickey Mouse or the iconic Disney logo emblazoned upon it. They happily pay the exorbitant food prices on Day One, because they know that's the "Disney Way." They also feel slighted when the Disney company doesn't consult with them before a change is made to a ride or attraction. When Walt Disney spoke the line "Disneyland is your land." in the opening day speech at his California theme park, some people took that literally.

Disney changes things constantly. They make changes for many reasons — advancements in technology, regular maintenance and upkeep, popularity of a particular film, character or property, even reasons they don't reveal because they really don't have to. Surprisingly (or unsurprisingly), both of these groups — vacationing families and Disney purists — hate change. What's interesting is — there are some changes that one group hates, the other is indifferent to. 

Just last week, a popular restaurant in Disney's Polynesian Resort called Ohana's removed a beloved item from their menu. The dish, Pineapple Stir-Fried Noodles, was a secret, go-to concoction that was spoken about in hushed tones by those "in the know." (In reality, it was on the regular menu and could easily be ordered without a secret handshake or a covert nod to the chef.) The internet Disney community called the menu deletion "an outrage," "a disgrace," "a poor business decision," "a big disappointment" and a number of other derisions. After a week or so of angry commentary, an announcement was made informing the noodle-loving world that their precious noodles would be back. (Granted, Ohana's has not yet reopened since the beginning of the global pandemic that shuttered numerous restaurants across the country, not just Disney World. No one has had these noodles since March 2020. No one.) That buzz among potential and return customers is Disney's brilliant marketing at work. Get people talking. That's good marketing strategy.

A few days ago, several theme park guests realized that Walt Disney World had altered the familiar, pre-recorded announcement that precedes the nightly fireworks display in The Magic Kingdom. The words "Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls" had been excised, leaving the introduction to begin with "Good evening, dreamers of all ages." A Disney spokesperson explained to a network news source that the decision was made in a broader effort to be more inclusive regarding their guests. The amount of backlash was astounding. Fraught with blatant anti-gay sentiment, the comments posted to official and unofficial Disney websites expressed anger and disappointment. "Who is this offending?" said one person who this decision did not affect. "Disney has gone too far! I will never go there again!," said another person who will surely go to Disney World again, once they have forgotten the reason they said they weren't going. Disney, however, did not back down on this decision and the crowds at subsequent fireworks shows were just as large as they've even been.

Every year, Walt Disney World begins decorating The Magic Kingdom for Christmas during the first week of November. Seven percent of the US population does not celebrate Christmas. Although I include myself among that small percentage, I enjoy seeing the unique decorations. I am not offended by the decorations. To accompany those decorations, Disney releases a sleigh-full of Christmas themed merchandise. I like seeing the merchandise, too. When I collected Disney memorabilia, I purchased a respectable amount of Disney Christmas items to put on display. After a while, Disney mixed in some Hanukkah merchandise with the standard Christmas articles. The stuff was cute, but it appeared (to me) to be a placating afterthought. But to the average Hanukkah-celebrating Disney Fan (I don't consider myself in that group either.), this was a noble and welcome effort on Disney's part to be all-inclusive. In stores in Walt Disney World, however, I have witnessed people pointing and scoffing at the Hanukkah merchandise, some of them holding an armload of red and green colored items and sporting holly-appointed mouse ears. A larger percentage (40%) of Americans do not celebrate St. Patrick's Day. But every year, Disney stocks their gift shop shelves with Irish-themed items to entice those who do celebrate their affinity for the Emerald Isle. I am not offended by these items either, nor to I begrudge anyone who celebrates. In an all-inclusive attempt to be all-inclusive, Disney began offering rainbow-themed merchandise to celebrate Pride Month in June, specifically "Gay Day," an acknowledged, but unofficially sanctioned, event held in Walt Disney World. Disney knows that the LGBTQ community is known as a statistically affluent group with a high percentage of expendable income. "Expendable income" are two words — in that particular order — that Disney loves.

Gay Day, which began in 1991, now draws 150,000 members of the LGBTQ community (including ally friends and family) to the Orlando area the first week of June. Disney rolls out a slew of rainbow colored items — some subtle, some garish — to the delight of those there for Gay Day as well as those who just like rainbows. For some reason (we know the reason), there is an enormous amount of backlash from certain groups of people who consider themselves righteous Americans living their lives with righteous American values. The same ones who sneer at rainbows, will defend Mickey Mouse's right to wear a Santa hat to their dying breath — no matter how exclusive it is. Their battle cry? "Everyone celebrates Christmas!," they will maintain, because as far as they're concerned, everyone does. Even those who don't.

My point is (Oh... I promise you, there's a point here somewhere...) Disney does what it does to make money for their stockholders, first and foremost. That is the main function. That is why they exist. If they happen to bring happiness to someone along the way, that is just a by-product of their function. Every move, every decision, every assessment they make is calculated to bring the biggest monetary return to the company. They know that their customer is loyal, but will complain about a new policy, will threaten a boycott and promise never to give Disney another single red cent... until the next installment of the Captain America story or the next chapter in the Star Wars saga or the next time a football is tossed on ESPN.

Disney knows. 

Oh boy! do they know.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

when we was fab

I love The Beatles. I grew up on The Beatles. I certainly understand their influence and contribution to popular music. I am aware of their impact on pop culture and the innovations they introduced to the recording process. They were The Beatles, for goodness sakes!

I also have a sense of humor about pretty much anything and everything. Nothing is sacred — especially the things that you and I hold dear. The angrier someone gets when something they love is made the butt of a joke, the funnier that joke becomes. Exponentially funnier.

If you have followed me on various social media outlets, you are aware of my sense of humor and a series of running jokes which seem to infiltrate my assorted feeds on a regular basis. There's my nearly daily chronicle of Ambrose the cat. There's my documentation of the various food that literally litters the streets of my neighborhood — free for the taking.... while supplies last, of course. And, then there's my on-going disdain for Beatles drummer Ringo Starr.

Peace and luv.
Peace and luv.

I'm not going to explain the origins of my online feud with Mr. Starr. If you have to explain a joke, it immediately ceases to be funny. Just accept it. If you think it's funny, fine. If you don't quite "get it," maybe you will in the future... or maybe you just won't. That's okay. Move on. Maybe something not as subtle or esoteric will make you laugh. My humor runs the gamut from blatant to exclusive (as in "For my amusement only"). I'm sure, if you stick around long enough, you'll find something funny. Or not.

Recently, I reconnected — on Facebook — with a classmate from art school. I have not seen this guy since his graduation (he was a year ahead of me), save for the few times we ran into him at a local flea market where he was hawking used record albums from the confines of a dusty booth in the sweltering summer heat. I remember that he was a huge Beatles fan, Like HUGE! Like no other band mattered. No other band existed! As far as he was concerned, everyone shared his love of the Fab Four and no one knew as much about or cared as much for those four loveable mop tops from Liverpool. According to his recent Facebook posts, that still stands. Except now, it is over half a century since the band's last studio album and two of the band members have passed away. Plus, a lot of music has come out since the demise of the Beatles and an awful lot of people don't really hold them in such high reverence anymore. The ones that do are showing their age and showing the sad grip that they are trying to maintain on a youth that has long passed. They can't be content on just liking The Beatles and remembering the feeling evoked by their music. No, they must badger subsequent generations into loving The Beatles just as much as they do and denouncing the current crop of musicians as vastly inferior. That is their goal, their mission, their function as their own mortality looms large. The fear that no one will be left to carry the Beatles mantle is their motivation.

My new old Facebook friend doesn't like my playful ribbing of Ringo Starr. Not. One. Bit. He has commented with great fervor. He has berated me and justified Ringo's (alleged) talent. He has enumerated the Beatles drummer's numerous (debatable) successes. He has gone back to comment on months-old posts I made, long before we were connected. He had to make sure that every single post about Ringo was addressed and properly disputed.

Happy birthday.

Yesterday (June 18), was Paul McCartney's birthday. Not restricting my jibes to Ringo, I have made it an annual tradition to wish the celebrated bassist a "Happy Birthday" and accompany my greeting with a current photo of actress Angela Lansbury, to which Sir Paul, in his advanced years, bears a striking resemblance. It's funny... at least in my opinion. I have garnered many "thumbs up" accolades to these posts, so, obviously, I am not the only one who sees the similarities in the looks of these two British icons and I am not the only one who finds it funny.

My new old Facebook friend found this particularly offensive. Acting as the self-appointed official Keeper of All Things Beatles, he left a seething comment, in ALL CAPS no less, affording me a hearty "FUCK YOU." He addressed me by my birth name (the one he knew me by when we attended art school together, long before the advent of "Josh Pincus")... and he spelled it wrong.

I almost deleted the comment, unfriended him and blocked his account from seeing any more of my posts. But I didn't.

I couldn't.

This is just too funny.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

she works hard for the money

My wife is very entrepreneurial. That's a fancy word for always trying to make a buck. She has an uncanny knack for seeing the resale value in just about anything. Her business philosophy has always been "There's a lid for every pot." (I cleaned that one up considerably.) She has offered things for sale that the average person would deem "trash." But, as the old expression goes: "One man's trash is another man's treasure." She's not forcing anyone to buy her stuff, but if some like-minded person seeing a bit of viability left in something that they can snap up for a couple of bucks — well, that's the service Mrs. Pincus provides.

Recently, Mrs. P has been offering items for sale on a local Facebook marketplace page. This page has been set up as a virtual yard sale, offering a wide variety of new, slightly used or very used items without the hassle of cluttering up your front yard or driveway with the soon-to-be discarded from your house. Just take a picture, compose a brief but truthful description and wait for someone to see the same value that you see. Once a deal is made, electronic payment is logged and Mrs. Pincus sets the item out on our front porch — a safe, contactless pick-up in these cautious times during a pandemic.

A few weeks ago, our city-dwelling, non-driving son bought a new shopping cart to replace his once-reliable cart — now showing signs of age. The old cart sported the battle wounds of the city — scraped paint, bent axle, a wobbly wheel. Sure, the thing served him well, but its time had come and a new cart was purchased. My wife saw some resale value in the old cart and offered to sell it for our son, if only to net a few dollars. We brought the well-worn, well-loved cart home. My wife took some pictures, wrote a short, but very honest description mentioning all of the cart's flaws and posted it in the local Facebook group. She asked for five dollars, noting that it still had some life left in it and that a handy person could tinker around and fix it up. A brand new cart can run upwards of thirty to forty dollars, so five bucks was quite a bargain. And if you weren't interested, you could just... keep... scrolling.

Well, this is the internet and on the internet everyone has a fucking opinion. Immediately, Mrs. P's post erupted with a barrage of insults. 

"Why are you selling trash?" 

"You should be ashamed of yourself for selling junk!" 

"This is garbage." 

...and many more variations on the theme.

There were some comments expressing legitimate interest, but, as if often the case, an initially eager potential customer disappears after their first question is answered. But, one person replied with interest. A text chat ensued and finally the gentleman agreed to purchase the cart for five dollars. However, he explained that he is older and, therefore, doesn't use any of these payment apps. From the grammatical structure of the majority of his texts, his command of cellphone technology was spare. He promised to drop off a five dollar bill in an envelope when he came to collect the cart. We weren't too worried. After all, who would come out of their way to steal a less-than-new shopping cart? And if that was indeed their scheme, hey! it's only five dollars.

The buyer said he'd be by our house around 3 PM on Saturday. He said he lived about a thirty-minute drive, so around 2, Mrs. P set the cart out on our porch. And we forgot about it.

3 o'clock came and went. So did 4 o'clock. And then 5 and 6. The sun began to set and that poor shopping cart stood as a silent sentinel under the illumination of our porch light. Just before my wife and I were ready to turn in for the evening, Mrs. P's phone signaled a Facebook message. As expected, it was the cart buyer. He went off about crossed plans and time constraints and some rambling story involving his wife. The gist of his message was that he would not be coming to get the cart today, perhaps tomorrow. He apologized several times and even offered to leave six dollars for the inconvenience. He said he would come Sunday morning. As my wife confirmed his arrival time, I went downstairs to bring the shopping cart inside.

Early Sunday morning, I returned the shopping cart to its spot on the porch. The buyer — allegedly — would be coming before noon. He didn't. Just before 4 PM, we heard the unmistakable sound of our wooden screen door open. It had to be the buyer finally collecting the cart and leaving his payment in the space between our screen door and front door. But, within a few minutes of the familiar "creak" of our door, my wife received an irate Facebook message.

"Why you sell me crap?" it read. Before Mrs. P could type out a calming, level-headed response, another message chimed in. "One wheel wobbles! This is junk dammit!"

"Are you still here?" Mrs. Pincus replied, hoping to catch the buyer still on our front porch. No reply for a long time... until suddenly an electronic "DING" announced a new message in angry thread. "No! This trash! GOODBYE!"... followed by more silence.

Oh.... and we have six bucks.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com