I hate everything about you

Spoiler Alert: Reality shows aren't real. They are scripted. The "real, average people" that appear in these shows are coached on how to behave. They are instructed on how to deliver their lines. The scenarios are set up. Sorry to be the one to break it to you.

On the bright side, the folk that appear on these shows are real people, not actors. It's only after a while they become "celebrities" because, as Andy Warhol once observed, "everyone will be famous for fifteen minutes." For some of these shows that have run for multiple seasons, that fifteen minutes has really lasted waaaay more than fifteen minutes.

I used to watch a show on The History Channel called Pawn Stars. The show, which began in 2009, presented the day-to-day activity in a 24-hour pawn shop just off the Las Vegas strip. All sorts of interesting characters would bring in all sorts of interesting items for the examination and possible sale to the three generations of the Harrison family who operated the store. Folks would present vintage items, stuff they pulled out of grandma's attic, things they've had lying around their home for years, in hopes of  cashing it in for some quick cash. The Harrisons — patriarch Richard, his son Rick and Rick's son Corey — would give a little history of each item then, if they were interested, make an offer to the owner. And that was it. That was the whole premise of the show. As long-time collectors of "things," my wife and I loved to watch and see the items that were brought in for inspection and potential payoff. For many years, Mrs. P ran her family's business in a local farmers market. As the years went on, the business morphed into a destination for collectors of the unusual. Mrs. P hunted and scoured the area (and beyond) to find items on which she could turn a quick profit.. As time went on, her ability to pick out such items became sharp and uncanny. As we watched episodes of Pawn Stars, we would often see items that Mrs. P — at one time or another — had sold herself.

When Pawn Stars' popularity grew, the tone of the show changed. The items for sale were no longer the focus. The show turned into a sitcom about the Harrison family, along with goofy employee Chumlee in the role of the "nosy neighbor." Episodes followed a conflict among the four principle "characters," with only one or two items presented for perusal. The Harrisons became celebrities and suddenly Pawn Stars was a different show. One day, Mrs. P received an email from a television production company inquiring about an item she had listed among her eBay auctions. The item in question was a child's rocking horse painted to look like "Pokey the Pony" from the 60s claymation series Gumby. This item was used as a display piece in a store called Heaven that featured pop culture items. When the store went bankrupt, Mrs. P acquired the Pokey rocking horse in a chainwide liquidation sale. The email explained that agents check all sorts of sources for interesting items to feature on Pawn Stars, as well as its new series American Pickers. This particular agent offered to fly Mrs. P and the Pokey rocking horse to Las Vegas for a possible appearance on Pawn Stars. There was no guarantee it would appear on the show, but a segment would be filmed and scripted and, if it made the final cut, well....great! While it was an interesting proposal, it was logistically prohibitive. Reluctantly, Mrs. P turned the offer down, although she was very flattered. From that point forward, we realized that Pawn Stars was not what it appeared to be. We also tapered off our viewing of the show, until we completely stopped.

Recently, Mrs. Pincus has been watching a show called Storage Wars. The premise is pretty simple. People rent storage lockers and stuff them with all sorts of things. Then, they default on rental payments until, eventually, the delinquent lockers are turned over to an auctioneer to sell off the contents. A group of regulars assemble and the locker goes to the highest bidder. We, as viewers, watch as the high bidder rifles through the purchased locker to reveal hidden treasures.

But then that premise changed.

After a time, the show (that we now know is preconceived and scripted, as well as having outside items planted in lockers) became a showcase for the regular bidders. Characters were created by way of creative editing and prewritten lines given to these folks to recite in the most amateurish of acting. The auction attendees are the proprietors of local businesses that hope to turn a quick profit, much in the style of Mrs. P in her family's business. However, the group of bidders presented in each episode are some of the dumbest, inarticulate, arrogant, scheming, scummy folks I've ever seen. Most of them have no head for business, although they perceive themselves as savvy, worldly entrepreneurs and experts on everything.  With few exceptions, they are not knowledgeable about.... well.... anything... let alone collectibles or objects of potential value. They cannot identify specific jewelry or furniture or if something is actually gold or silver. They think everything is going to net them a fortune. If they cannot identify a particularly obscure item, they consult an expert... then interrupt while the expert is offering the explanation they came for. On top of all that, they insult their fellow bidders and purposely drive up bids on things they themselves have no interest in.... just to be spiteful.

Scripting and editing of Storage Wars has created villains and buffoons and conspirators within the bidding regulars. The auctioneer and his wife have even become characters in this thoroughly annoying venture.

I have watched episodes of Storage Wars — now in its 16th season — because Mrs. P has it on. I try to pay attention when an interesting item is uncovered under a pile of blankets or misshapen cardboard boxes. But, unlike Pawn Stars, where the Harrison family was often good for a laugh or a little bit of relevant information, the crew on Storage Wars are an unlikeable, irritating bunch — and they're idiots. 

Every one of them.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

even in the quietest moments

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

silent night

In 1995, the Pincuses took their first trip as a family to Walt Disney World. I had been to the Florida resort with my friends as a teenager, and Mrs. P had been with her family as a child, but this was our first time as the proverbial "Mom and Dad and Son." The first of many.

On my first visit as a rambunctious teen, my friends and I stayed at a hotel just outside the sprawling 27,000 acres that Walt Disney and his company purchased under assumed company names way back in the 1960s. We couldn't possibly afford the high rates charged by the (then only) three hotels on Disney property. For almost a quarter of the cost of a stay at a Disney hotel, my friends and I enjoyed five glorious days of as much debauchery that four sheltered Jewish kids from Northeast Philadelphia could muster.

My wife and I spent our honeymoon at Walt Disney World. We also stayed at a hotel outside of the resort, as the cost of an official Disney hotel was still waaaay out of the price range of a couple of newlyweds. On two subsequent trips, again, we booked rooms at non-Disney hotels.

By the time we decided to take our son to experience the wonders the Walt Disney Resort had to offer, Disney had opened nine additional hotels to join the Contemporary, Polynesian and Golf Resort/Disney Inn/Shades of Green, the three original on-property hotels. Of those nine, eight of them were still out of our price range. One, however, was surprisingly affordable - the new All-Star Resort. Labeled "a value resort," the All-Star offered room rates just slightly higher than the popular hotels that line nearby International Drive. The price seemed fair, considering the amenities that were included to guests staying at a Disney hotel. Free on-property transportation, free parking at the theme parks and that signature guest service that Disney is famous for. We booked a room at the All-Star Music Resort which had just opened at the end of 1994. Each of the five "hotels-within-a-hotel" is themed to a different genre of music. The décor is over-the-top, with giant icons complementing each specific type of music. The buildings sport enormous saxophones and drumkits and conga drums, along with colorful music notes on the walkway railings. We chose to stay at the "Rock Inn," with its neon jukebox entrance way and huge speakers cleverly concealing stairways which allow access to rooms for those not wishing to use the usually crowded elevators. It was exciting to actually stay at a Disney hotel, after years of hearing about how wonderful the staff and accommodations were.

...and now, for the "brutal honesty" portion of this blog post.

There are basically two types of people who visit Disney theme parks. There are those die-hard, avid Disney fans who are just enamored with anything and everything the company does. Sure, they are, at times, critical of some decisions, but, all-in-all, Disney is their "happy place" and being at a Disney resort is the best place to be. Then, there are those who go to a Disney resort because their neighbor went to a Disney resort and we can't let that son-of-a-bitch and his family do something that we haven't done. This faction of vacationers follow the crowds like lemmings, taking in as much "experience" as they can so Dad can brag to his co-workers that he was first in line at Space Mountain and how much the whole goddamn thing cost him, but, y'know, it was worth it, y'know, for my kids. However, during the trip, they complain about prices and service and waiting in line and point their kids in the direction of Daffy Duck to take a picture that they will never look at.

When Disney made staying at an on-property resort more affordable for the "working class Joe" who wished to take his family to "that place that everyone talks about," they opened themselves up to a different group of society. One they weren't exactly prepared for. Going on vacation can be a joyful , yet stressful, undertaking. Sometimes the line between "joy" and "stress" is blurred, resulting in loud, boisterous behavior exhibited by folks who are used to staying at a fleabag hotel in Wildwood. Sometimes people forget where they are and forget simple decorum. Some people forget that there are other people in this world. Some people just don't care.

On Night Two of our 1995 Walt Disney World trip, we arrived at our room — tired after a long day at the Magic Kingdom. It was past midnight by the time our bus dropped us off at the All Star Music stop located at the main building of the hotel. We still had a ten minute walk back to our second floor room in the Rock Inn, which was situated near the rear of the property. Already dragging and with an exhausted eight-year old in tow, Mrs. Pincus and I were blocked from direct access to our room by a dozen or so teenagers playing soccer in the hallway. They were loud and aggressive and had no regard for the late hour or any other guests. We did our best to maneuver through the young men and women. They made no effort to allow us passage. We managed to get into our room and Mrs. Pincus was pissed. I readied our son for bed, while Mrs. P stormed off to the front desk, once more navigating through the impromptu soccer match going on outside our door. About 30 minutes later, my wife returned. After voicing her dismay about the lack of proper chaperones for this young group and Disney's failure to maintain guests safety, she received an apology, along with instruction to pack up our belongings. Disney would be moving us to a different room (in the closer-to-the-bus-stop Calypso building) and discounting our final bill for the inconvenience.

I have not been to a Disney theme park since 2017. After nearly annual trips, we, as a family ventured to other destinations. Then, our son moved out on his own and Mrs. P and I began taking cruises as our preferred form of vacationing. Then, of course, the world fell under a pandemic, cancelling or severely limiting everyone's vacation plans. Despite not actually visiting a Disney theme park, I have kept up with the numerous changes going on. Not just exciting new rides and innovative dining options, but policy changes. Disney has implemented a reservations system and a virtual queue policy and all sorts of nuanced protocol that has taken a lot of the spontaneity out of a Disney vacation. I understand that things evolve and it is someone's job to come up with a "better way" for everything. Sure, it takes some getting used to for stogy old traditionalists like me, but I understand the need.

Just this week, however, it was reported on a Disney fan website that new signage has been popping up at the Disney All-Star resorts. Over the years, the All-Star resorts has become the designated hotel for visiting marching bands, cheerleaders and other youth groups performing or competing at Walt Disney World. The signs gently state: “Hey there, Musicians! We hope that you are enjoying your stay! Please remember that quiet hours are between 11:00 pm and 8:00 am.” Yep, Disney has to remind guests to behave themselves. Guests who are paying $185 per night have to be reminded — via printed, publicly-displayed signs — that they should be respectful of other guests at the hotel. On the Walt Disney World website, there is a lengthy list of "dos and don'ts" for guests considering a stay at the resort. The list includes things like "no firearms or other weapons" and "no fireworks." I honestly don't understand why this policy has to be stated.

Who am I kidding? Of course I do!

What has happened to people? What has happened to respect for yourself and your fellow human? Why do adults have to be told how to behave and why to they have to be told to monitor the behavior of their children? The folks at Disney should be concerning themselves with the newest technology for making your theme park experience thrilling, fun and memorable. They should be concocting inventive menus at their restaurants and original souvenirs for their gift shops.

Teaching and maintaining discipline? That's your job.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

(Yes, Steve, I know you would never go to a Disney theme park. I know.)

call me, call me any anytime

I hate talking on the phone. Hate it! That's why Caller ID is one of the greatest advancements in telephone technology since Alexander Graham Bell told Watson to "Come here! I need you!" Aside from my wife, my son and occasionally, my brother, I will rarely answer my cellphone. I especially will not answer when a strange number pops up on the screen. I will happily and defiantly "reject" that call and possibly be amused if the caller has left me a voicemail. This just happened a few days ago while I was at work. My phone rang. I didn't recognize the number, so I sent to call straight to voice mail. When I listened later, I heard what appeared to be a "live" voice (as opposed to an overly-rehearsed computer-synthesized voice) telling me that I still had options to pay and possibly reduce my student loan. Let me tell you.... I am 61 years old. I made my final student loan payment almost 30 years ago. When I was making student loan payments, my monthly payment was a few cents under 81 dollars. (My entire tuition for four years of art school was around 76 hundred dollars. Yep. That's all.) Believe me, when the first few payments came due, I struggled. I diligently looked for a job in my field while I worked in my father-in-law's hardware store and took freelance design jobs here and there. I finally landed my first real "art" job in 1985 and I just added another 81 bucks to my monthly financial obligations. Needless to say, I haven't written a check to the student loan payment center since the Clinton administration. Hell, my son's student loan payback period has already passed! So where do these people get their information? As scammers, they are doing a pretty lousy job. But, luckily, Caller ID saved me from listening to a bogus pitch from some dude posing as a financial expert.

When I got home from work, my house phone rang. Yeah, we still have a landline. It works in conjunction with our home security system. I rarely, if ever, answer our landline phone. The Caller ID appears on our television screen, as a perk from the good folks at Comcast, from whom we get our phone service. This time, the name "DYNA... something" showed up and, obviously not being in my right mind, I answered it. It was a pleasant-voiced woman assuring me that she would not be trying to sell me anything. Instead, she — on behalf of her employer — was gathering information regarding the upcoming elections in Philadelphia. I interrupted her as she was about to continue on with her next scripted statement. 

"We are not in Philadelphia.," I said

"Oh," she replied, sounding disappointed. "Is anyone there registered to vote in Philadelphia?" she continued with more of a hopeful tone in her voice.

"This house is not in Philadelphia." I said sternly.

"Oh," she lamented. "I will make a note of it. Thank you for your time."

Later the same evening, the words "DYNA... something" appeared on our TV screen during our regular viewing of Jeopardy! Thinking it was the same person calling me back after just a few hours, I foolishly answered the phone. It was a different person from the same organization. This time, they asked to speak to a female in the house who was registered to vote. At this point, I could hear Mrs. Pincus in the next room talking to someone on her cellphone.

"She is not available." I informed this new inquisitor.

"Oh," she replied, "Is there a better time to reach the female registered voter in your home?"

I sighed. Obviously, she was persistent and ending this was not going to be easy. "Tomorrow, I guess."

"What time tomorrow would be best?" She was not letting up.

I gave her the vaguest "I don't know" and she just said she'd make a note and try again tomorrow.

I swear... I am never answering the phone again. I don't even know why I started.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

party all the time

My current resume reflects seven jobs - my current employment and six previous. However, I have trimmed and edited my resume considerably over the past forty years, so the actual number is more like a dozen. My attitude towards my job du jour has also changed over time.

If you have kept up with this blog for any length of time (and why wouldn't you?), you know that I just started a job this past Spring after being among those who lost their jobs when COVID-19 brought the entire world to its knees. In my new position, I spend a good portion of my day alone in an office with little to no interaction with anyone. That is not a complaint. That is a fact... and I like it just fine. The days go by quickly and Spring became Summer and Fall became Winter in the wink of an eye. As November wound its way towards December, I received an email similar to emails I have received at past jobs once the phenomena of "email" came into existence. The subject line made me cringe the way all the similar subject lines all those years ago.

Subject: H O L I D A Y   P A R T Y

At many of my past jobs, I was always expected to attend some sort of holiday gathering for folks that I really didn't consider my friends. One day in late December, actual work would taper off around noon and co-workers would gather around a tray of cookies and a platter of bland sandwiches forcing themselves to smile and talk about non-work stuff. It was awkward, non-productive and... just plain weird. Some of these gatherings were small because the office (at the time) only employed three or four people. Others were lavish catered affairs at a rented hotel ballroom, resplendent in shimmering decorations, live music, flowing buffets, overstocked bars.... and the same feeling of awkwardness. More recently, holiday work parties were dispensed with in favor of the the idea of going home early, an idea which was way better received by employees.

Based on past experiences, I had hoped that "office holiday parties" were something I would never have to be subjected to again. And, considering my current job, I really don't know any of my co-workers and — honestly — I don't really want to. But, there it was. In my "IN" box of my email. An unopened email with the dreaded subject line that I wish could remain unopened. But, alas, it could not.

As I read the contents of this inter-office correspondence, I became filled with a growing angst. The email revealed plans for an off-site gathering on a Saturday evening. Ugh! Not only don't I want to go to this thing, I will have to go on my day off. At night on a day off. Ugh! This was not looking good. I read the email and ignored it for the rest of the day.... hoping it would go away.

Just this past Monday, a woman who I only know as Angela approached my desk with a menu from the proposed nearby bar that would be the hosting venue of the pending holiday party. She pointed out several vegetarian options on the listed of available entrees. I must have told someone that I was a vegetarian, because she seems to push that as a selling point. Then she said "I really hope you can come."

"Really?" I thought. "Do you really hope I can come? Does the fate of your 'happy holiday' hinge on whether or not an employee of less that a year — someone you know nothing about — comes to your little party?"

In a few minutes, Angela emailed the entire menu to all members in my nine-person department. Along with the menu, there was a proposed price-per-person for those attending. This is the first of these dreadful events that required attendees to pay their own way. However, it is also the first one where spouses and significant others are welcome. Over these past years, my wife was always a bit annoyed that she was not included in any of my work holiday parties, despite getting specific requests from my co-workers for specific baked goods to be served at a party to which she was not invited.

Well, dear Mrs. P, your wish has been answered. You will absolutely be joining me at this year's work holiday party.

As a matter of fact, you can go in my place.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

peg o' my heart

I have written some pretty dumb blog posts over the past ten years, but I must say, this may be one of the dumbest. Yes, I have voiced my opinions about things that bug me, annoy me, irk me, rub me the wrong way... but this is a gripe I have with someone who has been dead for nearly a quarter of a century. Things don't get much dumber than that.

Please stand up.

If you follow me on Instagram or if you are lucky enough to be my friend on Facebook (oh stop it! that was a joke!), you know about my on-going feud with Peggy Cass, the perennial panelist on every single incarnation of the TV game show To Tell the Truth. You'd think that I wouldn't watch the show — which is broadcast every weekday morning on retro network BUZZR — if she annoys me so much. Well, if you think that, then it's obvious that you don't know me very well. I like the show. I remember watching it when I was kid on the offhand day that I was home from school with either a legitimate or exaggerated illness. Admittedly, the show was a small intellectual step above other game shows like The Price is Right or Let's Make a Deal (two other sick day must-sees!). Sometimes the subject matter involving a particular group of contestants was way above my elementary school education, but I watched (I think) because I liked the see which celebrity (and I use that term very loosely) guessed correctly. I also liked when the contestants hesitated, then stood and quickly sat in an effort to freak out the panel. Even if I didn't understand the topic of the contestant's new book about visiting Communist China or his invention of a ground-breaking device, I found the show fun.

Except for Peggy Cass. Yep... even back then. (I just had a conversation with my older brother about this very subject. He said he recalls — as a nine year-old — thinking that Peggy Cass was annoying.)

The unnecessarily 
glamorous Miss Kitty

The format of To Tell the Truth was fairly simple. After a brief, if somewhat coy, introduction from jovial host Garry Moore, the panelists are introduced. For the bulk of the entire run of To Tell the Truth, the panelists were familiar game show host Bill Cullen, the ostentatiously glamourous actress/socialite/personality Kitty Carlisle, the aforementioned Miss Cass and a fourth guest — usually Orson Bean or Bert Convy or Joe Garagiola (who, invariably injected some sort of baseball analogy into his line of questioning). Kitty Carlisle's status as a "celebrity" intrigued me. I had never heard of her, aside from this game show, and I wondered why she dressed in feather boas, sparkly gowns and giant examples of diamond-encrusted jewelry just to determine which of three pretty young ladies was a champion hog caller. It was only later in my life that I spotted her name in the credits of the 1935 Marx Brothers classic A Night at the Opera and I realized she was riding her career on the laurels earned from a single supporting role nearly four decades earlier. She was like To Tell the Truth's answer to Arlene Francis, the authoritatively smug panelist on What's My Line? who saw every Mystery Guest at "last night's cocktail party," except if the Mystery Guest was a member of a minority group. In an effort to try and nail down Arlene Francis's exact talent, I have seen her in two movies and she was very forgettable in both.

However, Miss Carlisle and Miss Francis weren't nearly as irritating as Peggy Cass.

As Agnes

Peggy Cass has a very interesting Wikipedia page and I have read it many times in hopes that it would shed some bit of light on her career and why the "celebrity" label has been applied to her. It states that, although she was a member of her high school drama club, she never had a speaking part in any school production. That honor would have to wait until an early 1940s production of Garson Kanin's Born Yesterday. From there she made her Broadway debut in 1949 in the musical Touch and Go. A few years later, she took home a Tony Award for her portrayal of the hapless "Agnes Gooch" in Auntie Mame, a role she reprised in the film and earned her an Academy Award nomination. (That's right! Peggy Cass was nominated for an Oscar! Not so prestigious anymore... huh?) From there, Peggy made a few TV appearances and another film (a not-so-great sequel to the popular Gidget). She landed her own series, The Hathaways, costarring Jack Warden about a typical suburban family — except their family was a family of chimpanzees. It was around the same time she began exercising her alleged intellect on the first version of To Tell the Truth. According to a questionable sentence in her Wikipedia biography, Peggy "often displayed near-encyclopedic knowledge of various topics, and would occasionally question the logic of some of the 'facts' presented on the program." I don't know who contributed to Peggy Cass's Wikipedia page, but I take fierce umbrage with this statement. After watching Peggy Cass, almost every morning, I have witnessed her regular modus operandi. She is not an intellectual. She does not possess a near-encyclopedic knowledge of various topics. She doesn't even have a firm grasp on the English language. She doesn't shut up long enough to gather her thoughts to form a coherent sentence and then she gets mad if her question is misunderstood.

Peggy and her subjects

I have seen Peggy Cass argue facts in a contestant's "signed affidavit." She askes irrelevant questions, then argues about the answers. In a recent episode, she questioned several young men claiming to be the country's youngest certified plumber. She asked "What's a 'Plumber's Companion'?" before correcting herself and changing her query to "Plumber's Helper." The young recipient of her question misunderstood and replied that a "plumber's helper" was an apprentice. Peggy frowned angrily, and later, when she was revealing her vote, she castigated the poor boy for his answer, explaining that she wanted him to say "plunger." She voted incorrectly in that round. In another segment with a woman claiming to be an expert on bald eagles, Peggy questioned why a live example brought on stage didn't have a lot of tail feathers, as though she was an expert in ornithology as well. She didn't appear too pleased with the contestant's explanation, either. Just today, she was quite dismissive of a contestant's reply when asked about a specific breed of an elephant — as though Peggy had information that the owner of the elephant didn't. Then, she argued with the first female guard at San Quentin prison over whether she thought there should even be female prison guards. She once berated a man who photographed an alleged Bigfoot on the morality of his investigations. Peggy routinely injects her personal opinion into questions, often citing her deep Catholic beliefs or her Boston upbringing — mostly regarding subjects that rarely apply to either of those categories or to the day's contestants. She gives the overall impression that she is too good for the show, the contestants, her fellow panelists, Garry Moore, the studio audience and — well — society in general. 

Peggy Cass didn't make it to the current, network revival of To Tell the Truth hosted by actor Anthony Anderson. She passed away in 1999. However, I will continue to watch To Tell the Truth and I will continue to get frustrated by Peggy Cass... because, I love — six decades later — when she votes incorrectly.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

you bug me baby

It's no secret that I watch a lot of television, with a certain affinity for TV shows from my youth. I love the sitcoms with preposterous premises that were the staples of my formative years. Watching them now, however, I find these shows quaint and endearing in their awfulness. 

Most sitcoms featured a cast of likeable characters — a sweet mom, a friendly dad, a helpful neighbor, a loyal coworker, a jovial hillbilly who suddenly comes into a large sum of money. You know, everyday folks to which the home viewer could relate. A lot of shows, however, featured an annoying character. Someone whose sole purpose was to be irritating. I'm not talking about a character like Barney Fife, the hapless deputy sheriff on The Andy Griffith Show. Sure, Barney had his annoying moments, but he meant well. He was sincerely trying to help. He was just a little overanxious, longing for some real police action among the day-to-day tedium of cats stuck up in a tree or making coffee to sober up Otis the drunk. Sheriff Andy knew that Barney was not malicious, just zealous and proud. Also, Don Knotts was awarded five Emmys for his performance and he was a favorite of the viewing audience. In 1999, TV Guide ranked him ninth on its "50 Greatest TV Characters of All Time" list — so someone liked him. Although I love The Andy Griffith Show, I find the character of Barney thoroughly annoying in the majority of episodes, but I am in the overwhelming minority. 

I'm also not talking about characters like Dennis Mitchell, the rascally main focus of Dennis the Menace. Sure, the point of the show is that he's annoying, but he does mean well and, at times he can be endearing. I also don't mean Mr. Mooney, Gale Gordon's character from The Lucy Show. First of all, anyone who has to put up with Lucille Ball gets an automatic pass, but Mr. Mooney is just doing his job and Lucy is the real cause of his ire. I'm not talking about mildly annoying characters, like Dwayne Schneider on One Day at a Time or Steve Urkel on Family Matters. Yeah, they were annoying, but they genuinely meant well and weren't necessarily toxic. The kind of characters I am singling out are annoying for the sake of being annoying. They have no endearing qualities. They are selfish and mean for no other reason than stroking their own ego. Their actions are not beneficial to anyone but themselves. There are three of these jerks that I wish to expose.

Jerk.

First, there's Larry Tate, the weaselly, wafflely president of the advertising firm of McMann and Tate on the sitcom Bewitched. Larry is a jerk, first and foremost. He appears to be a friend of  star employee Darrin Stephens and his wife Samantha, but, in reality, he is not. Usually accompanied by an important client, Larry barges unannounced into the Stephens' home. He contradicts and questions Darrin's pitches, belittling his midnight-oiled efforts, as he second and third guesses the client's reactions. When a particular ad campaign is inevitably rescued by Samantha's contribution of witchcraft, Larry jumps on the congratulatory bandwagon at the first glimmer of approval from his client. In the next breath, Larry threatens to fire Darrin if he pulls a stunt like this again. A stunt like what, you ungrateful asshole? Saving your non-creative butt? What sort of input did you have in the development this ad campaign when Darrin was toiling nights and weekends before there was such a thing as "working from home." Larry Tate is a dick and Darrin doesn't need his wishy-washy, non-committal, two-faced bullshit. Plus, when Larry is at their home — whether invited or just showing up — he drains their liquor cabinet. 

Jerk.

Then there's Dr. Alfred Bellows, the ever-suspicious and ridiculously nosey NASA psychiatrist on I Dream of Jeannie. Prior to discovering a mysterious bottle on a beach in the South Pacific, we can only assume that astronaut Tony Nelson was a normal guy. But after uncorking that bottle, Tony's life was changed considerably when he unleashed an ancient (and adorable) genie who promised to grant his every wish. Now, granted, we don't know what sort of guy Tony was before he found that bottle, but he was a good-looking 34 year-old bachelor astronaut in Cocoa Beach, Florida. I'm sure he was hitting the singles bars and hooking up on a regular basis. That behavior must have appeared "normal" to the base psychiatrist. Suddenly, he has a hot blond living in his house and Dr, Bellows doesn't like it one little bit. Why? Why does this bother him? Was he jealous? I suppose, although Mrs. Bellows was pretty attractive and way out of his league. Okay, so, Dr. Bellows thought he saw some unusual things in and around the Nelson house... while he was peering in the windows looking for something unusual. What kind of career sabotage was he planning? Why did he have it in for Major Tony Nelson? Tony seemed to be handling his assigned duties well. He didn't behave in a manner that was detrimental to any space exploration mission. He was still a capable astronaut. If anything, having Jeannie around made him a better astronaut. But Dr. Bellows was a self-serving, meddling jerk. He was bent on convincing everyone at NASA that there was something off about Tony Nelson. In reality, Dr. Bellows was the only one who witnessed strange goings-on. You would think that after failing to get any of the top brass to believe his accusations, he would have given up after the first couple of instances. But no! Dr. Bellows kept it up for five seasons! What was his problem? He appeared to be the crazy one! Why didn't NASA dismiss him for incompetence? Dr. Bellows didn't benefit anyone. Not the space program, his fellow officers, the medical profession... or genies. Just himself.

Jerk.

I have saved the best — or in this case — the worst for last. The single most annoying character — in my qualified, long-time television watching opinion — is Lew Marie, the overbearing father of budding actress Ann Marie on That Girl. Played to the most grating degree by actor Lew Parker, this character's main purpose is to antagonize everyone with whom he comes in contact. He has an instant dislike for Ann's affable boyfriend Donald Hollinger. He criticizes, berates and insults every move poor Donald makes. Donald loves Lew's daughter (Hey! Who wouldn't?!?) and he is unnecessarily cordial and often forgiving of his future father-in-law. But, still the cranky Lew is relentless, unjustly flinging put-downs at Donald at every opportunity, sometimes creating those opportunities. Ann is also the target of her father's irascible persona. Nearly every episode of That Girl includes a scene in which Lew Marie threatens to physically drag his daughter back to the safe cocoon of Brewster, New York where she can give up her ridiculous dream of becoming an actress and work in her father's restaurant. Cute-as-a-button actress Marlo Thomas was 28 when That Girl premiered in 1965. She was not a kid. As the series progressed, she took jobs as a fashion model, commercial pitch girl, Broadway and television actress and dancer. It's not like she was a helpless failure. She was a working actress, hustling auditions and landing good roles. She did not need "Daddy's help." Yet, Daddy felt perfectly at home meddling in Ann's life — often misconstruing situations and perceiving them as dangerous to his daughter. He continually misinterpreted phone messages. He would overhear a conversation from the next room — or through a wall with the aid of an amplifying water glass — and invariably jump to the wrong conclusion. Lew Marie served only to benefit himself. He didn't really care about the welfare of Ann. He knew she could take care of herself, She knew she could take care of herself. It is my understanding that the relationship between Ann Marie and her father was based on the real-life relationship between Marlo Thomas and her father, entertainer Danny Thomas. I never liked Danny Thomas. I didn't find him funny. I found him to be smug, condescending and overbearing. In his long-running series Make Room for Daddy, he, too, was a jerk for the sake of being a jerk. Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery... or something like that.

I like to think that television writing and character development has improved over the decades since Bewitched, I Dream of Jeannie and That Girl graced the airwaves. But it really hasn't.

Just ask Kimmy Gibbler or Ross Geller.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

dirty lowdown

As you read this, I am sitting in a camp chair on the Camden Waterfront, enjoying the final day of an annual music festival — just the latest in a forty-plus year stretch of going to concerts. Here is a tale of my early concert-going days.

A day or so ago, Mrs. Pincus and I were in the car when our favorite radio station played a new song called "Radiator 110," by venerable singer/songwriter/guitarist William Royce Scaggs, more widely known by his prep school moniker: Boz.

Mrs. P smiled and bobbed her head to the music. "Have you heard this?," she asked. I replied that I had. "I like it.," she continued, explaining that she had always liked Boz Scaggs.

I, however, have never liked Boz Scaggs. I have never purchased a single one of his two dozen albums, including the two on which he served as guitarist and sometimes vocalist for The Steve Miller Band. I really have nothing against Mr. Scaggs. His voice is okay. His guitar playing is okay, too... I guess. The reason I don't like Boz Scaggs is stupid. But, in all honesty, has nothing to do with Boz Scaggs.

I have been a music lover since I was a child. When I was in grade school, my beloved Uncle Sidney gave me a stack of Beatles 45s that he "obtained" from a jukebox as part of the "sketchy" affairs through which he made a living. I spun those disks on the family hi-fi, mesmerized by the hypnotic yellow and orange Capitol Records label. Later, armed with some birthday money, I purchased my very first album - multi-Grammy winner "Tapestry" by Carole King. After buying more singles (including "Sugar Sugar" by The Archies and "Age of Aquarius" by The 5th Dimension), I went back to my old friends The Beatles and made their self-titled "White Album" my second album purchase. After that, my music obsession went full steam ahead. More albums and singles. Music magazines. Listening to songs on the radio. But one part of my love for music was missing. Concerts. But, at the time, going to a concert never occurred to me. My parents regularly attended shows at the nearby Valley Forge Music Fair. My mom went to see Sergio Franchi, the charismatic Italian tenor, every time he performed at the famed Latin Casino nightclub in Cherry Hill, New Jersey. Once, we even went as a family to "the Latin" to see crooner Bobby Darin just a month before he passed away. I remember an older cousin passing on my brother's Bar Mitzvah, opting instead to see Jefferson Airplane at the Philadelphia Spectrum. My brother went to concerts, too... I suppose. At the time, I just thought it was something that older people did. That is, until a couple of classmates told me they were going to see Elton John. "What do you mean 'going to see'?" I questioned, "Do you know him? How are you going to see him?" They clarified their statement. They had bought tickets to his upcoming concert in Philadelphia. Suddenly, a light bulb went off in my 14 year-old head! "You can do that?," I thought. I now saw things from a new perspective. Maybe I was an "older person," and the time has come for me to go to a concert. 

When I got home from school, I scoured the Philadelphia Bulletin for concert listings, something I had never done before. I read that shock-rocker Alice Cooper was bringing his malevolent Welcome to My Nightmare Tour for a stop at the Spectrum in my hometown. I had — and loved — the "Welcome to My Nightmare" album. I asked my mom for permission to buy a ticket (a whopping six dollars of savings I earned from hawking pretzels at a busy intersection in Northeast Philadelphia). When she agreed, I asked if she could chauffeur a few friends and me to the show. My mom — a sympathetic rocker herself — conceded. On April 25, 1975, I found myself in a darkened Spectrum among a throng of frenzied fans watching a tuxedoed and mascaraed Mr. Cooper execute a Busby Berkeley-style chorus line, flanked by six-foot tall black widow spiders. He also executed a giant menacing cyclops. It was well worth the entire six bucks.

I was bitten by the concert bug. I wanted — nay, needed — to go to another as soon as possible. Granted, funds were low. I'd have to sell a lot of street corner pretzels to buy another ticket at these steep prices. It wasn't until a year later that I attended my second concert: America with former Raspberries lead singer Eric Carmen opening the show. America? Really? "A Horse with No Name" America? After Alice Cooper? I know, I know. But I was desperate. I wanted to go to another concert so badly that I was willing to see the first band that I heard of. I knew some America songs from the radio, but I wouldn't number myself among their die-hard fans (Do they even have die-hard fans?) I bought a ticket — setting me back a full dollar more than my Alice Cooper admission! The show was... okay. Not awful. Just not spectacular. They sang a bunch of their familiar sunny, silly Top 40 hits. Actually, it was pretty forgettable, but it was a concert nonetheless. I redeemed myself later in 1976 by attending a concert by the ubiquitous Elton John, touring in support of his "Rock of the Westies" album, an album that, despite the inclusion of the achingly putrid "Island Girl," would become my favorite Elton John release. 

With three shows under my belt, I was now an official "concert veteran." I eagerly participated in those regular high school "concert conversations." (Who have you seen? Oh I saw them. They were great!) I was constantly planning and deciding which would be my next concert. So were my friends. 

My friend Hal knew a guy named Mike. Although the word didn't exist five decades ago, Mike was — what you would now call — a "frenemy."  I knew him, but I didn't particularly like him. He was loud and overbearing and one of those people who was an expert on everything.  But, he was Hal's friend, so I put up with him. One day, I was at Hal's house and we were listening to records. I put on my copy of Fleetwood Mac's "Rumours." I wasn't a fan of the band, but it was an album that everyone had. Plus, if you were a 16 year-old male in 1977, Stevie Nicks was the shit! While we listened, Hal noticed, in the newspaper, that Mick Fleetwood and company were coming to Philadelphia in a month or so. We decided we would go and, since Mike was there, we felt obliged to invite him along. Mike had never been to a concert before. He was obviously excited by the idea, but tried to hide his excitement behind a shield of forced, cool indifference. It was pretty annoying. Exactly the thing I didn't like about Mike.

The night of the concert rolled around. Hal, Mike and I rode the bus and then the imposing Broad Street Subway to the South Philadelphia venue. Mike was so ecstatic, one would have thought we were headed to an audience with the Queen of England. He yammered on with unsubstantiated authority about the location of our seats (in a venue he had never visited) and the band (whose albums he didn't own) and — due to his limited concert and music experience — repeated himself several times. The show itself was good. Kenny Loggins opened the night, followed by a substantial hit-filled set by Fleetwood Mac. Strangely, they skipped "Don't Stop," despite its inclusion on the playlist of every radio station in the country. At the show's conclusion, Mike picked up his non-stop monologue where he had left off, only now, as the veteran of a single concert, he was an expert. He sang wrong lyrics to songs he had just heard, awkwardly fitting them into tuneless melodies. It was maddening.

During the next week at school, Mike cornered me in a hallway as I was retrieving some books from my locker. "Hey!," he began. Was he initiating a conversation with me? He was Hal's friend, not mine. What does he want? I thought. 

"Yes?" I replied. 

"You wanna go see Boz Scaggs?," Mike asked. Why was he asking me? Oh right! I'm his concert buddy now. Shit! I rolled my eyes. 

"What?," I said, hoping for a little clarification. 

"The Scaggs show. You wanna go see Scaggs?," he elaborated, narrowing his eyes, cocking his head and forcing an air of coolness about himself, like he had been to hundreds of concerts. It wasn't working. He looked and sounded like an idiot. And "Scaggs?" What the hell was that? Why does he keep saying that? Who was he trying to impress? Me, I suppose. 

"Uh, no," I answered, "I'm not a big fan of Boz Scaggs." He looked dejected, but tried to maintain his stupid "cool." It was apparent that Mike had been bitten by the concert bug as well and wanted to see another concert as soon as possible... even if it was a performer with whom he was not familiar. (At least I held out for America, a band from whom I could name a number of songs.) 

"Awright, I'll see if someone else wants to see Scaggs." His voice trailed off as he walked away. Finally, I wouldn't have to hear him say "Scaggs" again.

So, there. That's it. That's the stupid reason I don't like Boz Scaggs. Because Hal's friend Mike ruined him for me. Even if I had the notion to give Boz a second chance and another listen —  in my head, I'd only hear Mike saying "You wanna go see Scaggs?" Ugh. That was forty years ago! Some things stick with you forever. No matter what you do, you just can't shake 'em.

My apologies, Boz. Blame Mike.

This is a very unusual photograph. It was taken in 1977.
I was not friendly with anyone in the picture... especially Mike, who is second from the left. That's me in the center.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

don't leave me hanging on the telephone

I often wondered if faithful lab assistant Thomas A. Watson rolled his eyes and pretended not to hear when Alexander Graham Bell's voice crackled over his new invention, ordering: "Mr. Watson – Come here – I want you," "What!?!," I imagine Mr. Watson bellyaching while throwing his hands in the air and stomping his feet. I can picture him groaning at being interrupted — unnecessarily — by his boss Bell for some stupid task that Bell could no doubt perform for himself.

When I was young, my dad would get furious when the phone rang in our house. Not just during mealtime or TV watching time or sleeping time but anytime. Granted my dad would get annoyed by a lot of things (snow, rain, Democrats, minorities on television, minorities not on television, Philadelphia sports teams, teams opposing Philadelphia sports teams), but a ringing telephone would set him off every time without fail. Midway through the first RRRIIIING!, my father would growl, "Who the hell is calling?" Even if he was expecting a call, my dad would greet that initial telephone ring with the same contempt. If it was one of my friends or one of my brother's, my dad would mockingly mutter the friend's name under his breath for the duration of our conversation. I sometimes wondered why we even had a telephone. Why was my father paying a monthly fee to have this constant source of irritation in his house?

Something in my father's make-up must have rubbed off on me. While I don't get annoyed when the phone rings in our house (well, not nearly as annoyed as he did), I will admit, I do hate talking on the phone. I can't quite put my finger on what it is about talking on the telephone I don't like... but I don't like it. I can make it through a few informative seconds on the phone, like a call from my wife if I ran to the supermarket and she realized that eggs were not included on the shopping list. But, if the conversation extends past the instruction to get eggs, I bristle. "We can talk when I get home," I'll gently explain, trying to put an end to a lengthy discussion yet not wanting to appear rude — but usually failing miserably in the process.

I rarely — if ever — answer the phone in my house. It's never for me. If I do answer, it will most likely be someone who wants to speak to Mrs. Pincus. Or it'll be a solicitor with a brief survey that usually ends when question number three is: "Does anyone it your family work for a radio station?' and I answer "yes." Or it's some malicious scammer telling me that they have been receiving messages from my Windows computer. Or it's just a plain old wrong number. But, I can be assured that it's not for me.

So, wouldn't you know.... I started a new job earlier this year that requires me to speak on the phone more than all of my previous jobs put together. It's very strange, but over the last few months I've gotten used to it. Some of my new co-workers have even complemented me on my phone manner, citing me as both professional and pleasant. I have even surprised myself with my patience and courtesy. Some of the folks I speak to on the phone are decidedly harried, curt, unreasonable and downright rude. But I have uncharacteristically maintained a cool head and affable demeanor. I never knew I had it in me. I still don't like talking on the phone, but sometimes you gotta do what you gotta do.

Now, you'll have to excuse me. The phone is ringing..... and I'm not gonna answer it.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

it's a mystery to me

I have been posting to Illustration Friday since it was introduced to me in 2006, predating my own blog by nearly a year. The concept of Illustration Friday is pretty simple ... and pretty cool. They post a new word each week and artists from all over the world create an illustration based on their individual interpretation of the word. The words are pretty unassuming (recent suggestions have been secret, underwater, power, fresh). It's interesting to see the different styles and concepts and compare them to your own.

Illustration Friday led me to another blog for artists called Portrait Party. Presenting another interesting concept, Portrait Party challenged a pair of artists to draw each other - either in person of by exchanging photos via email. I would frequently see an artist named Patrick's fierce and angular illustrations mixed among the weekly entries on Illustration Friday, and now, I was seeing his work on Portrait Party as well as his personal blog, fifty-two fridays. (I spend a lot of time looking at and searching for art blogs.) After participating in a few portrait exchanges (including one horrible episode), I believe that I initiated the "portrait swap" between Patrick and myself. The results of which can be seen here.

A day after my 49th birthday, I received an email invitation asking me to contribute to a new blog. The offer was from Patrick. The blog was called "This Day in Real Life" and it was conceived to chronicle "all those wonderful/horrible moments that would have gone undocumented otherwise," or so reported the blog's tagline. I was game, as I felt that I needed an outlet for illustrations (and rants) that didn't quite fit in with stories of my youth, Illustration Friday words and profiles of unsung dead celebrities that made up the bulk of the content on my main blog, josh pincus is crying. So, on August 15, 2010, I made my first post as an invited member of "This Day in Real Life."

As time went on, I still actively (sometimes obsessively) contributed to my blog. I researched obscure celebrities and weird death stories. I supplemented my posts with visual travelogues of my visits to cemeteries. All the while, I found time to post an entry or two to "This Day in Real Life." Since it was sort of an "in the moment" blog, I wrote and illustrated little narratives of things that happened to me. If someone in a store pissed me off or I witnessed an act of total stupidity or I made an observation about something mundane, I'd scribble out a sketch and write a few funny paragraphs and post it. Soon, I realized, that I was the only one providing "This Day in Real Life" with content. Patrick and few other authors had dropped out of sight. But, I plugged away. Just earlier this year, without asking, Patrick made me a site administrator.

Then, in September 2013, after months without a peep, Patrick posted to "This Day in Real Life." His entry read:

"i think that this idea has run its course. thank you to all participants, it's been swell but the swelling's gone down. ."

I immediately sent him an email. I requested that he turn the blog over to me and I would maintain it. After all, at this point, I was the sole contributor. He replied with this incoherent, somewhat cryptic, ramble:

josh,

i would like to begin by saying that i respect you as an artist, and you seem to be my kind of human being. i like you.

the only reason that i am sending you this is that you have contributed heavily to this blog since the beginning, that is why i felt i am waiting until october 1st to take the content down, to give you a chance to move it elsewhere.

as for the reason i have decided to end this blog, i have several and they are personal, they have nothing to do with you or any other contributor, suffice to say that i totally get that you don't understand why i dont pass this along to you and i'm sorry that i can't really explain. you have to just accept it. this needs to be done. i am sorry.

please feel free to start a similar project on your own, and i will happily put a redirect link to wherever you move, so that the people who are looking for you work will have an easy way to find your work. i will leave that up for a little while. 

again, sorry.

if you need to be mad or hate me or whatever i understand.

No, Patrick, you don't understand. I had built a following on that blog. You abandoned it. My individual posts were racking up views in the hundreds (which is pretty impressive for a "word of mouth" blog that I was promoting on my own). Faced with little choice, I copied every one of my entries - all 104 of 'em - and moved them to my own new blog. I'm lucky I did that when I did, because Patrick rescinded my Admin status and locked me out of "This Day in Real Life." I don't know what deep dark secret Patrick has, nor do I care. You want sympathy and comfort for your troubles? Stick to Facebook, because the rest of the Internet doesn't give a shit.

Thanks, Patrick. I'll take it from here.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

click click boom

I boarded the train this morning, heading into Center City for the first full work week of the year. I took a seat, reached into my bag for the book I'm currently reading* and opened it up to the bookmarked page. Midway through the first sentence, it began.

Click. Click. Clickclick. Click. Click.

It was an irregular metallic chirp. Where was it coming from? I looked up and, with my morning-weary eyes, I scanned the train car. I saw mostly the tops of heads bent forward in either sleep or concentration over any number of convenient electronic devices.

Click. Click. Click. Clickclick. Click

I turned to my right and discovered the source of the irritating sound. Curled up in the window corner of the double seat next to me was a guy. In a suit. With a briefcase. And an iPad. And a pen. A regular ball point pen. And he was clicking the fuck out of it. He stared intently at his electronic Apple tablet that was precariously balanced on one jutting knee. In his hand, he absentmindedly worked his thumb at record speed on the click button (that is an actual industry term). I tried to return to my reading, but the patternless clicking was too distracting. I'd read a few sentences and the clicking would begin again. I'd look up and give the "glare of death," but I was powerless. The clicking continued, increasing and decreasing at indiscriminate intervals.

Click. Clickclickclickclick. Click. Click. Click. Clickclick.

What the hell did he need a pen for anyway? He wasn't writing. He had an iPad! He was reading! Unless you're in a college lecture hall, you don't need a pen when you're reading. I was reading and I didn't have a pen.

Click. Click. Clickclick.

Stop it! STOP IT! STOP THAT CLICKING! That's what you would say to your little sister at the dinner table when she's drumming with her utensils. That's what you'd say to your husband when he's... well, pretty much anything he's doing. But, to a stranger on a train not even in the same communal seat? That's just not done. Unless you're a total jerk. (Which I'm not. So, shut up.)

I struggled through a few more pages, not even comprehending what I was reading. Finally, the train arrived at my Center City stop. Mr. Clicky ceased his thumb exercises long enough to gather up his coat, sheathe his iPad and, thankfully, his pen.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

* Growgirl: How My Life After The Blair Witch Project Went to Pot by Heather Donahue (Not exactly Dostoyevsky's Crime and Punishment).