don't know nothing

See this graphic? I don't know what it means. I don't know what it's trying to illustrate. I don't know what sort of idea it is attempting to explain in simple, easy-to-understand pictures. I just Googled "marketing" and this came up. And that, my friend, pretty much sums up "marketing."

When I'm not drawing pictures of dead people or visiting cemeteries or watching fifty-year-old TV shows or shitting all over Ringo on the internet, I go to an actual job. I work for a large commercial printer that produces thousands upon thousands of circulars for supermarkets and other customer-friendly retail businesses up and down the east coast. I work in a small office with a dozen other graphic designers who, on a daily basis, toil over the whims and nonsensical ideas of any number of individual store owners or "marketing experts" with "a vison." That "vison" translates to every single circular looking exactly the same week after week after week. Despite this, every so often, a completely composed circular is disrupted just hours before it gets sent to press by some yutz with a "brand new idea." Understand that these stores are selling canned vegetables and paper towels and frozen chickens. The same products are included week after week. But, still, they want things to STAND OUT and GET NOTICED. They use phrases like BIG PUSH and BLOWOUT SALE and other meaningless jargon. A circular that should take a few hours to compose, ends up being stretched over several days because someone binge-watched Mad Men this weekend and fancies themselves the Don Draper of the grocery world.

I've been doing this, in one capacity or another, for over forty years. I've seen it all... and most of it has been bullshit. Sure, I have met and worked with genuine "marketing" professionals. These are people with legitimately clever and innovative ideas that have the potential to motivate and inspire customers. But, for the most part, true "marketers" are harder to find than a kosher ham sandwich or an honest politician. Instead the World of Marketing (sounds like a theme park) is filled with spineless, wishy-washy dishrags with no real ideas. I can't figure out how these people (and I have met dozens of them) are able to advance themselves to positions of authority. They get to a corporate level where final decisions are placed in their hands, yet they never want to commit, fearing a wrong decision will result in a dressing down from their boss. Instead, they shoot out monosyllabic emails that read: "Thoughts?," then sit back and wait for their underlings to come up with something. If submitted ideas are good, they will take the credit under the guise of "team leader." If a bad idea is chosen, they are the first ones to point their finger at the source. I saw this practice for the dozen years I worked in the marketing department of a large law firm. I never saw so many useless, lazy people with no original ideas. They just spewed buzz words and asked for "infographics" or some other new trend they just read about in a marketing publication. 

Once I traded in my "business casual" for the "down-and-dirty" world of pre-press (a big room of artists churning out quickly-composed ads for huge print runs. Google it, if you really care), I thought I'd never have to deal with that corporate mumbo-jumbo again.

I was wrong.

One of the companies I create circulars for on a weekly basis is a chain of supermarkets based in New York. They are a family-owned business, with ten stores located in affluent areas of Long Island. I deal with a young lady who is experiencing her first job right out of college. Here, she is able to apply her useless marketing degree for the sole purpose of selling an extra pound of strawberries – just by adding a big red "burst" that says "SWEET!" on top of the picture. My entire interaction with her (and everyone at this company) is via the internet through a collaboration website called Ziflow. All communication is through messaging on this website. Considering that I get the bulk of my instructions from her, she is an inarticulate communicator. She has a very difficult time explaining exactly what it is that she wants. Plus, her spelling is atrocious. Sometimes I have to stare at and reread messages several times before I can understand what I am supposed to do. She has no concept of proportion and sizing, however she uses terms like "lower the opacity" regularly. Oh, when she says "lower the opacity," she really means increase the opacity. But, after three years of doing these circulars, I have come to understand and interpret what is required.

Just this week, while working on this week's circular for this particular supermarket, I started getting messages from someone named "Norman" – a name I had not seen before. Norman instructed me to add a burst here that says "Great For Your Family!" Another message changed a headline that read "CATERING" to "Check Out Our Catering!" The next message asked for my thoughts on – and I quote – "reconfiguring the front page into a graphicly-pleasing hierarchy"... or some such third-year marketing bullshit. I merely replied that my job is to follow the layout with which I am provided. Surprisingly, he didn't press the issue.

I make no design suggestions. Zero. Zilch. Although I have been a graphic designer for over four decades, my role in my current job is not that of a designer. I am a layout artist – pure and simple. I do what I am told by the customer. I do not embellish, nor do I make any suggestions. I was told by my boss on Day One that we, essentially, produce trash. The circulars that we create have a shelf life of one week and are never ever looked at again. In that one week, they are just glanced at by the consumer. The target audience is someone looking for a good price on a box of Cap'n Crunch or a family pack of pork chops. We are not producing great works of art. We produce easy to understand presentations of everyday grocery items. If the consumer wants to see the Mona Lisa, they can go to the fucking Louvre. They are never gonna find it in a supermarket circular.... no matter what a store owner wants.

I Googled "Norman" and discovered that he has recently been hired by this chain of supermarkets with the title of "Merchandising Director" or something corporate-sounding like that. His job description is a run-on sentence of some of the thickest bullshit I have ever laid eyes upon. Immediately, I had flashbacks to my time stuck in marketing meetings at the law firm and watching a bunch of idiots with marketing degrees pat each other on the back while bandying about phrases like "low-hanging fruit" and "vertical juxtaposition" and "let's table that offline, but not until this afternoon, because I'll be out of pocket until 1 o'clock"... whatever that means. Norman, I quickly surmised, was a corporate asshole. And he proved me right after instructing me to add a big red burst to a picture of cherries that screamed "More Fruit, Less Pit!" His next decision was to make sure the words "Veggie Mac Salad" appear on one line, even though those words appeared on two lines in a featured block of various deli salads for over a year. Once I adjusted the size of the text to get "veggie" to drop down to the next line, Norman went home to tell his family that he made a crucial corporate decision at work today that will net the company untold profits. Later the same day, he indicated several places where he wanted the word "WOW!" to appear in a big red burst.

When Monday rolls around, I will be treated to another barrage of Norman's genius. Noman will pose passive-aggressive scenarios regarding whether a headline should say "Meat Sale" or "Sale on Meat." Norman will wait until an hour before press deadline to rearrange the placement of wedges of cheese or to question the height of a dollar sign.

To borrow a line from Ursula, the Sea Witch: "It's what I live for."

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

face the face

Eight years ago, a friend of mine made a pitch for me to join Facebook. (I wrote about that HERE.) Instead of creating a hub to connect with all things in my past — most of which I spent the past thirty-plus years trying to avoid — I compromised and created a "fan page" on the ubiquitous social media platform. I used it as an additional outlet for my illustrations and my celebrity death obsession. I make daily celebrity death anniversary posts and regular links to my drawings on various subjects... but mostly deaths.... and the deaths of celebrities. (See a trend here?)

Last week, my Facebook Fan page got a bit wonky, to use a technical term. Suddenly, I was unable to access it at all. I began to make my daily postings on Twitter until I could figure out was the issue was.  I felt like I was feeling around in the dark, as Facebook is set up to be less than intuitive. After a couple of days of poking around, I found that I needed to activate a personal Facebook page in order to continue maintaining my Facebook Fan page. So, I did.... reluctantly. Very reluctantly. Once I activated my personal page, I was able to get to my Fan page again. With a few annoying adjustments, it is almost the same as it was prior to Facebook's unnecessary meddling. In an effort to head off any future, unannounced changes at Facebook, I began to accumulate "friends" on Facebook in case I have to make the full switch to "personal" Facebook. I began with those who currently "like" my Fan page. Then, I branched out to people who are "friends" with Mrs. Pincus. By this time, Facebook's algorithms kicked in. I was getting suggestions by the dozens, most of whom I did not know or those with whom I shared a single friend. I asked my wife: "Who's this?" She'd answer: "Oh, that's someone I knew from camp" or "That's that woman from synagogue." "I rode the bus with him in third grade." or "He's a friend of a guy who's a listener of the radio station our son works for." The more I questioned, the longer the explanations got. 

As I "connected" with more people, I began looking at the various posts to see what I was missing. Turns out, I wasn't missing anything. Facebook is a mess! A whiny, complain-y, self-absorbed, entitled mess, filled with narrow-minded, selfish opinions and an unyielding lack of compassion. Oh, and recipes.

Against my better judgement, I continued down this abyss until I hit an area that I really wanted to avoid — my past.

In the fall of 1980, I enrolled in a four-year art school in Philadelphia. This was over a year after I had graduated from high school and that "what should I do with my life?" portion of my youth seemed to be going unanswered. Eighteen months in the retail business made me realize the retail business was what I didn't want to do. I decided to expand on my childhood talent and pursue a career in the wonderful, magical and rewarding world of art. (After 35 years in the field, I have come to learn it is none of those things.)

The school that I chose offered no academic courses. That was the appeal for me, as I struggled with those subjects in high school. The curriculum was purely art and all aspects thereof. Due to its size (small), they only accepted 80 freshmen per year, most of whom would drop out before the fourth year. My class of 80 was whittled down to 43 graduates. I still cannot figure out how I lasted to the end, but I did. I was often frustrated and intimidated by the talent of my peers. I didn't think I would amount to anything, let alone make a living at being an artist. (Spoiler alert: I did.)

There were two classmates I remember. One was Zack. Zack was an asshole. He was a sullen, angry hulk who smoked like a chimney and belittled every single thing he saw — every person, every piece of artwork, everything. He was dismissive about every teacher, most of his classmates and the entire school as a whole. He wore the same torn flannel shirt everyday — frayed with the sleeves cut off. His hair was out-of-date long and his beard was unruly and in desperate need of a trim... and shampooing. Zack had few friends and didn't really want those.

Then there was Ray. Ray was a talented guy with a pleasant, easy manner. He had illustration skills way beyond his years. He also had an ego to match... maybe even surpassing his talents. I remember Ray standing up during a class and loudly announcing that he — and I quote — "had no competition." He didn't care that he was offending his classmates. He acted as though he was doing everyone a favor by identifying his superior talents and letting everyone know they were free to seek a career in another field. But Ray wasn't an asshole. He was personable and friendly — except when it came to his artwork. Sure, he had a very, very high opinion of himself, but he didn't appear to be mean.

After I graduated from art school — just like high school — I remained in regular touch with none of my classmates. None. (Actually, a few high school and art school classmates were at my wedding, just a few months after art school graduation, but within a year or two, I had completely lost touch with all of them.) Then, in 2009 — a full twenty-five years after I had finished art school — an informal and decidedly unofficial reunion was thrown together at a bar in Philadelphia, one that had been frequented by many a student on a regular basis. I actually found out about it by accident, although I don't remember the specifics. Anyway, I went... with a bit of trepidation. (I wrote about that HERE.) I was surprised, but I had a great time. I reconnected with a bunch of people that I had not seen in a quarter of a century. That was an entire lifetime ago.

In the close-packed crowd, I spotted and unfamiliar figure. A somewhat lean fellow with a shaved head. He extended a hand to shake. I sheepishly admitted that I could not place him. He smiled and revealed himself to be Zack. He was friendly and happy and — more important — he apologized for what an asshole he was in art school. He said he had done a lot of self-assessment and deeply regretted the way he behaved as a younger man. I laughed and we reminisced briefly. Soon, I ran into Ray. Ray was the same personable guy I remembered, although his enormous ego seemed to had deflated over the years. The bragging and chest-thumping I had anticipated didn't manifest. I don't even recall what Ray said he did for a living.

Flash forward to just a few days ago. I was sitting on the sofa, scrolling through my new personal Facebook page. I perused the lists of "suggested friends," dismissing the ones that didn't look familiar. I stumbled across a comment left on a post originally  made by a close art school friend. The post was political in nature and I saw that Ray had commented. Ray's comment expressed an angry, venomous, accusatory, racist right-wing opinion that caught me off-guard. I read it and re-read it until its full, uneducated, uninformed, narrow-minded, blind-follower sentiment was fully comprehended. I stopped myself before I hit the "Friend Request" button that I almost clicked just upon seeing his name. This is this the exact reason that I steered clear of Facebook for all these years. I wasn't interested in hearing, seeing or finding out things that I was perfectly fine never ever knowing. And, it turns out, Facebook is the place to find that stuff out.

However, I found Zack. We're friends now.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

nazi punks fuck off

I think we can all agree that Nazis were awful. Following Germany's defeat in World War II and the discovery of the full extent of the Holocaust, Nazi ideology became universally disgraced and is widely regarded as immoral and evil.

Except by assholes like Steve Johnson.

Asshole.

Steve lives at 1041 Lindell Drive in El Sobrante, California, sixteen miles north of Oakland (and fuck him if he doesn't like the fact that I published his address). Recently, Steve installed a 10 foot by 10 foot black cement swastika in his front yard, not far from a flagpole on which the ol' Stars and Stripes waves proudly in the breeze coming off the San Francisco Bay. Steve's neighbors aren't so proud. As a matter of fact, they are overcome by concern and ire. A very short time after the installation was completed, local news outlets descended upon Steve Johnson's home, in search of his reason for making such a bold statement. The media, I'm sure, didn't just happen to stumble upon Steve's home renovation project by accident. Lindell Drive is not a major thoroughfare. The entire street only stretches a quarter-mile and dead-ends at another home's driveway, just behind the Pinole Vista Shopping Center – where a Sizzler Steakhouse still operates.. Obviously, one of Steve's justifiably outraged neighbors called the Bay Area newspaper The Mercury News.

Asshole's handiwork.

Reporters from the newspaper, as well as representatives from local TV stations, questioned Steve about his motivation for putting a Nazi symbol on display in front of his house. He gave wishy-washy answers that smacked of insincere innocence. He feigned misunderstanding when he countered an NBC-affiliate reporter's question with "What is a swastika?" He contained with: "It doesn’t represent anything. [It] represents me not having to pull weeds over in that part of my yard; that’s what it represents to me. What does it represent to you?"

His neighbors are furious, including one woman who has lived on Lindell Drive – near Steve – for 27 years. The neighbor, who is Jewish and rightly horrified and offended by Steve's display, said, "I was very clear with him about my feelings. I don’t agree with it. I think it’s wrong. I don’t like it, but it is his yard." She also noted that he had never done anything like this in the past.

Aerial view of an asshole's house.

But, Steve keeps changing his story. He told another reporter that it was a symbol of peace and tranquility from ancient Tibet. When asked if he was, indeed, Tibetan, Steve replied rather cavalierly, "Maybe I am."

Then suddenly, Steve gained some sort of new found knowledge about the history and significance of the symbol. However, he took a decidedly dismissive tone, when he said, "The Nazi stuff happened 80 years ago. Get over it." When a reporter pointed out a swastika sticker affixed to his motorcycle, Steve abruptly ended the conversation and ordered the media off of his property.

This is 2019. In the United States. Land of the free and home of the brave. Where any red-blooded American can grow up to be an asshole.

www.joshpincusisrying.com

all the little birdies go tweet tweet tweet

I love to be a smart-ass and I love the internet, so that must be the reason that I love Twitter. Twitter allows me to combine my two favorite activities. (If Twitter opened an all-you-can-eat buffet, I'd be in heaven!)

Remember this day-long exchange I had with @speakyteeth, the cryptic handle used by Arlene Van Dyke, wife of beloved actor/singer/dancer Dick van Dyke? Then, there was this comment I made that could have led to the end of a friendship. And who could forget my tête-à-tête with @RoryBBellows1* who took it upon himself to come to the defense of local pseudo-lord Philly Jesus, when I aimed an electronic salvo at the self-appointed deity one summer afternoon in 2015.

A few days ago, a local TV news reporter got into some hot water when she was escorted from the audience of a popular Philadelphia comedy club for "loud whispering, heckling and drunkenness." In her intoxicated state, the young lady got belligerent and verbally abusive, prompting club management to summon the police. Thanks to in-your-hand, on-the-spot technology, the entire incident was captured on cellphone video and posted to various social media outlets online. Within minutes, the whole scenario swept the internet. We were treated to a front-row seat, as poor Colleen Campbell's career unraveled before our eyes. She slurred her words, She reeled around on the sidewalk. And, best of all, she spewed a stream of vulgarities at an extremely patient and utterly professional Philadelphia police officer. He remained calm and unfazed, even when she called him a "fucking piece of shit," referred to the entire police force as "fucking cocksuckers," and then ordered the officer to "lick my asshole." She was eventually arrested, charged with resisting arrest, criminal mischief, and disorderly conduct. It was revealed later that Miss Campbell was informed by her employer, WB affiliate Channel 17, that her reporting services were no longer required by the station.

The morning after the incident, in typical Josh Pincus fashion, I tweeted this little observation:

It was a joke, of course. Most of my tweets are jokes, placed online in good-natured, if sardonic, fun. It even got a couple of "likes" and "retweets," and that is the goal of every, red-blooded "tweeter," isn't it? Well, a few hours later, I received this reply from one @liljohnmac77061, a Twitter handle that leads me to believe that there are 77,060 other Lil John Macs also logged on to the social media micro-blogging service. John — I think — appreciated my original tweet, although he ended his reply with a backhanded provocation:

What? A non-sequitur election comment? My tweet had no political content whatsoever. As a matter of fact, I recently (after a tiny bit of scolding from my son) made a conscious decision to avoid any blatant commentary about the presidential election, its subsequent results and the sorry state of turmoil our country is experiencing — thanks to the unhinged dipshit that currently occupies 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue (except on weekends, when he's cheating at golf and wolfing down beautiful slices of chocolate cake at his resort in Florida). I'm not sure what prompted this guy to take a sucker punch at me on a tweet that had nothing to do with any political agenda. But, Mr. @liljohnmac77061 chose the wrong person to accost. Especially on Twitter. I returned fire — not with words — but with a single photo. One culled from a quick Google search:

Yes sir, that's a troll and it expressed my sentiment exactly. For those of you who are social media novices, a "troll," according to the good folks at Wikipedia, is "a person who sows discord on the Internet by starting arguments or upsetting people, by posting inflammatory, extraneous, or off-topic messages in an online community with the intent of provoking readers into an emotional response or of otherwise disrupting normal, on-topic discussion, often for the troll's amusement." The website The Urban Dictionary puts it more astutely, defining the term as: "being a prick on the internet because you can." Well, @liljohnmac77061 was being just that. And to prove it, he responded to my photo with a photo of his own. This one, in fact:

Lovely. If this isn't an actual photograph of the rear window of his car, I wonder what he searched to find this image. No matter, without even thinking, I sarcastically offered this bit of encouragement:

Then, nothing. No further reply. No profanity-filled tirade. No meaningless threats delivered in tough-guy bravado emanating anonymously from the cloistered security of his tiny corner of the internet. Just dead air. Was it a retreat? Was he pondering the perfect comeback? Was he just dumbfounded by my rapier wit?

I scrolled through a column in my Twitter feed, listing all of the tweets in which I was mentioned. I thought, perhaps, I may have missed a response that got buried among the hundreds of tweets I blasts out in a day. (I am currently at 51,000 tweets and counting.) There was nothing from this guy. I resorted to searching his name on Twitter. My questions as to why this volley came to a hastened end were answered.

@liljohnmac77061 blocked me.

Mission accomplished. Another banner day for Josh Pincus on the internet.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

* I would include a link, but it seems this guy's Twitter account has been suspended.

let the jerk-offs clean it up

I have been writing this blog, in one form or another, for nearly seven years. When I first began, I was invited by another blogger to contribute to his existing blog. I was flattered, but since my main focus was maintaining my illustration blog, my offerings were infrequent. After the untimely demise of the original blog, I created my own version. I actually enjoyed writing about the mundane things I see every day, the usually unnoticed quirks and foibles exhibited by people, the weird sights I have spotted and the funny situations I have encountered. I also began to realize that this blog has become a sort-of therapy, a cathartic outlet for frustrations and outrage. Although I am not a writer by trade (and I don't pretend to be), the act of putting aggravation into the written word can be a comforting release. But the main goal of my blog is to be funny. If you, dear reader, don't think it's funny, be assured that I do and, in all actuality, I write this thing for my entertainment, not yours.

However...

Although cloaked by the powerful anonymity of a pseudonym, I am still not entirely free to write about anything I like. Believe it or not (if you are a frequent reader of this blog - God bless you), there are certain subjects that are off-limits. You see, I know some people who read this blog regularly. People with whom I have a personal relationship. There are some topics and incidents that would elicit bad feelings — very bad feelings — if I were to elucidate in a public forum.

Oh, I can be sneaky though. I have written about touchy subjects with slight changes to the actual scenario. I have changed names and twisted around timelines, but the gist of the story remains fairly clear. Mostly, I embellish by injecting humor, but still am able to make my point and satisfy my original grievance. See, I still know who the stories are about, but the unknowing main character remains clueless. I have dropped subtle hints alluding to actual incidents and people, most of which only I am aware. A handful of readers get the reference and are suitably amused. That's the fun part.

Sometimes, I don't have the ability to cleverly camouflage the particulars in a story without revealing who I'm writing about. I have avoided publishing several stories because they are far too offensive and potentially damaging to either a specific person or my relationship with a specific person I have described. I usually get away with my cryptic references, because only I know what I mean. But I don't always have that luxury. Sometimes, I just have to completely pass on a subject in order to keep and maintain the peace. Sometimes, I have to write about how much I hate snow or a bad restaurant experience instead of a serious, personal injustice that I would prefer to scream about.

A while ago, I coined this proverb that I use quite often: "Everyone can act like an asshole, but if you act like an asshole, then you're an asshole." Some people just behave like total arrogant, entitled, self-centered jerks. But they are the first ones to be angered and offended by someone exhibiting the exact same behavior. Because of behavior like that, I am kept from writing about certain scenarios.

So, if you continue to read my blog (and I hope you will), be warned. If you are confused by the roundabout way in which I approach certain subjects, I may be writing about you.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

please release me, let me go

In 1997, my very first job in the corporate world was obviously drawing to a bad end. I worked for a national publisher of books, magazines and newsletters for the legal trade. It was a great job with a great working environment and nice co-workers. However, for the entire two years of my employment, the threat of the company up and moving to Florida always hung over our heads. There was a small, West Palm Beach office and the CEO spent a good portion of the year there and rumors circulated regularly about the suburban Philadelphia office shutting down. But, we soldiered on.

A black cloud fell on the production department (where I worked laying out over 35 monthly newsletters). There was a drop in morale and a lot of employee turnover. My boss, Babs, suspiciously began arriving late several times a week, until I confronted her, asking if she was looking for another job. She confirmed that she was. I so began to seek other employment as well. 

I came across an ad in the "Job Opportunity" section of the Sunday Philadelphia Inquirer (may I remind you that this was 1997) offering the position of art director at a start-up ad agency specializing in the real estate business. I called and made arrangements to meet the fellow I spoke with at a restaurant in a hotel near my job, so I could just go into work after the interview had concluded. Along with my portfolio of samples, I brought my years of varied experience — production, design, illustration — my marketing ability and my sense of humor. I shook hands with a guy who vaguely resembled media bad-boy and one-time child star Danny Bonaduce — someone who I seriously despised — but I went ahead with the interview. We spoke at length. I walked him through my work and work experience. He painted a stunning picture of the work he had lined up with a fairly large client — RE/MAX realtors, as well as several small local business. He told me about his previous job at another ad agency and his desire to start his own. He hired me on the spot. I told him that I had to give a reasonable amount of notice to my current employer. he was anxious to get started, so he requested that I give just one week notice. I reluctantly agreed.

I left the interview and drove to work. As I walked across the parking lot, I thought about how I would tell my boss that I would be leaving. I didn't get the opportunity, however, because as I entered my department, Babs was being escorted out by company security. Just a few minutes earlier, she had given her notice and her superior deemed her a "hostile employee" and ordered her removed from the premises. With my boss gone, I gave my notice to the next person up the corporate ladder, began gathering the few personal items I had on my desk and counted the hours until I started my new job.

The Happiest Place on Earth

Monday morning arrived. I took my new, shorter commute to work. I climbed the stairs to my new office, where I was to be the art director for an ad agency — a position I dreamed about since my graduation from art school. I hung a few pictures I brought with me (including a newly acquired framed print celebrating Walt Disney World's 25th anniversary) and tried to make my new digs my own. My new boss — the Danny Bonaduce doppelganger — was anxious to begin work. He explained that we would mostly be producing newspaper ads for a slew of RE/MAX agencies in the Philadelphia area. The more explanation I heard, the more I understood that very little creativity would be involved. These ads would be jammed with grainy, black and white photos of homes, accompanied by a description of the dwelling that would require a translator to read, based on the amount of abbreviations in each brief sentence, (4BR w21/2B, LR, eiK, DtchGr, FnBSM. That means "four bedrooms, two-and-a-half bathrooms, living room, eat-in kitchen, detached garage, finished basement.") Each ad would be packed with two dozen individual listings, totally devoid of any design, structure or spacing. The idea was: the more homes that could be crammed into an ad, the more money my boss made — based on the "column inch" rate he negotiated with the newspaper. (Column inches are units used by newspapers to determine the cost of an ad. The particulars are a bit complicated, so let's just say that it is very difficult to get a cheap rate from the largest newspaper in the fifth largest market in the country.) My new boss, as I soon discovered, did not fully understand what was involved in negotiating a good rate. He panicked when he realized he had to nearly double the listing content of the same size ad in order to turn a profit. I started to get a bit nervous about the career move I had just made.

Little did I know that my brand-new, padded swivel chair was poised at the fiery portal of Hell.

As the days and weeks went on, it was apparent that we were not making the amount of money (and profit) that Danny had envisioned. It was also apparent that Danny had absolutely no idea how to run a business. The more I observed how he did things and how he spoke to various people on the phone, the more I realized that I had been sold a lie during my interview. I came to realize that he was just an account agent (read: salesman) at his previous job and was jealous of the boss, convincing himself that he could be the boss and do, y'know, boss stuff. This was not the job I had been promised. I was not the art director. I was the only one doing any work. I answered the phone. I did the filing. I maintained a hand-written spreadsheet (I'm an artist. I still don't understand Microsoft Excel.) tracking contracted ads and ad placement. While I did this, Danny sat in his office, reclining in his comically large, leather-upholstered chair, feet up on his desk, and spoke loudly on the phone with friends from high school, telling them he owned an ad agency now. After his morning of phone calls, he would go out and bring back lunch — for only him — and noisily slurp it down at his desk. (Once, he even borrowed my car to go get his lunch... and still didn't ask if I wanted anything.) In the afternoon, he would continue his phone bragging, pushing my completed ads aside. Their approval (of which he and he alone determined) would wait until he was goddamned good and ready. Soon, I learned that he had a strained relationship with his wife and dreaded going home. This office — this tiny, second-floor shit hole office — was his sanctuary. He was "king of the castle" here and I was his loyal subject. During the course of an eight-hour work day, he did no actual, work-related work.

I worked quickly. I deftly assembled the ads, tweaking and closing space where I could. My mouse cursor whizzed around my monitor and I tracked it with my full attention. Danny, however, with nothing to do, would wander around the office, sometimes making his way towards me to watch me compose ads. He would stand close behind my chair, his hot breath uncomfortably warming my neck. He would point out errors on my screen, only to rescind them when he saw I just hadn't gotten to it yet. Sometimes, he stood so close to my chair that he kicked the wheeled base with his big feet. By this point, I was barely speaking to him, only conversing when absolutely necessary and only if it was work-related. When he began to kick my chair, I couldn't take it. I bit my lip and politely asked — through gritted teeth: "Could you not kick my chair, please?" He seethed and growled back at me: "It's my chair." He did not move. He stayed behind me, almost daring me to continue this. I did not.

When I left work in the evening, I would come home and have little to say to my family. On weekends, I would silently count the hours until I had to return to work on Monday. At times, I actually fought back tears. After only a few weeks, I actively began searching for another job. One evening, after Danny left, I called another agency who had advertised a position. I spoke to a woman and arranged an interview later in the week. The next morning, Danny confronted me about my looking for another job. It seems he came in early to check the last number dialed on my desk phone. He screamed and berated me, telling me that he pays me well (he actually did pay me very well) and I had no right to look for another job. He made me promise that I would cease my search. He also increased my salary again, as gesture of good faith. "Fuck him!," I thought, as I agreed to his terms out loud.

My torture continued. As a matter of fact, it got worse. Danny was constantly in a foul mood, as his wife began divorce proceedings. The RE/MAX ads grew smaller, thus generating less income. He undermined my designs for brochures. His belligerence almost ruined my relationship with a local printer, a fellow I had known for years.

Finally, I lined up another interview. This one required me to sneak out early in order to drive nearly forty-five minutes, where my prospective new employer graciously offered to stay later for me. I did something I hadn't done since I was a kid. I faked being sick. Here I was — 36 years old — and I was pretending I was ill so I could leave. Danny bought my act and I dashed to my car and frantically drove out to the interview. Once again, and for the second time in my career, I was hired on the spot. When asked when I could start, I replied, "You'll see me on Monday." I came home with a smile on my face, something my family hadn't seen in a while.

I arrived for what would be my final day of the most hellish work experience of my life (and I worked for my father-in-law at one time). I decided I would be nice and give Danny a full two-weeks notice, so he could find a suitable replacement for me. Of course, I would wait to tell him after I got my paycheck. Too bad for him, he waited until late in the afternoon to pay me. As soon as the check was folded neatly and safe in my wallet, I cleared my throat.

"Danny, " I nervously began, "can I talk to you for a minute?"

He stopped mid-step and pivoted around. He didn't say a word. He just raised his eyebrows to indicate that he was ready to hear what I had to say.

"I am giving you my two-week's notice. I have another job."

"You son of a bitch!," he spat, "I thought you weren't going to look for a job. I thought we had an agreement."

"Well, I have another job and I'll stay for two weeks." I didn't owe him any explanation. He was lucky I didn't just walk out.

"Well, what the fuck am I supposed to do? I'm gonna have to close! You can't do this to me!" Then, his tone changed. "How dare you do this to me, you ungrateful bastard!"

Well, Danny's luck just ran out. "There is no way I'm going to take another two weeks of this bullshit," I said. Danny continued ranting as I gathered up my mug and the few small tchotchkes that littered my desk. I never looked up. I could hear Danny screaming as I descended the stairs.

Unfortunately, I left my Disney World poster hanging on the wall. But, that was a small price to pay in order to leave that eight-month nightmare.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

I'm tense and nervous and I can't relax

I got on the train yesterday, much like I do every morning. My morning train has been fairly crowded this week, ever since Mother Nature dumped nearly two feet of snow on Philadelphia (and its surrounding area) last weekend.  SEPTA, the entity behind public mass transit in Southeastern Pennsylvania, regularly struggles with equipment problems regardless of the weather, but the aftermath of the brutal storm wreaked extra havoc on their regional rail machinery and service. Most trains were short their standard amount of cars. Trains that typically run with four or five cars were now reduced to two or three. If you are the math wizards that I think you are, you understand that this situation greatly cuts down on the amount of available seats. With less seats available, obviously more passengers will be standing for their morning commute. (Not happily, I might add.)

My train eventually pulled up into the station (late, as usual - no matter what kind of weather we are having) and I boarded along with fifty or so of my fellow passengers I see nearly every morning. I walked the narrow aisle as the few available seats were filled in by those who boarded ahead of me. Proceeding to the last train car, I spotted an empty seat near the end close to the rear door. As I got closer, I saw the seat was occupied, on one side, by a gentleman in his forties. He looked like the kind of guy who reclines at the table in a corporate conference room with his index finger poised above the screen of his external-keyboard-equipped iPad, ready to make his presence at the meeting known by interjecting terms like "organic," "synergy," "thought leader" and "let's not reinvent the wheel" and then commencing with an attempt to reinvent the wheel. The other half of the seat, while expected to be unoccupied, was covered by a multitude of items belonging to Corporate Guy. These items — a folded train schedule, a yellow legal pad and various groupings of business cards — were strewn across the empty seat while he busily pored over the assemblage, arranging and rearranging the mess.

I stood alongside the seat, looking down. I was trying to glare his collection of paper products off the seat. When my telepathic powers failed, I cleared my throat and said, "Excuse me, please.," in the most polite voice I could muster at five minutes to eight in the morning. Corporate Guy looked up, loudly, almost theatrically, exhaled and   s   l   o   w   l   y   gathered up his paper belongings. I sat down and, as per my usual ritual, situated myself within the confines of the space allotted for one passenger on a seat on a train. I removed my current book from my bag and fumbled in my pocket for the small vinyl case that houses and secures my monthly train pass. I began to read, holding my pass out for the arrival of and inspection by the conductor. Corporate Guy, however, had transferred his activity to the workspace created by his right leg crossed over his left and laying flat, the knee creeping obnoxiously into my personal space. In my peripheral vision, I could see him furiously shuffling the cards, stacking and re-stacking them into assorted sized piles. He did this through two full station stops. Once he was satisfied with the classification into which he had determined for each card, he wrapped them securely with one of a handful of rubber bands he produced from a supply concealed within his heavy coat. Each bound pile was then flexed for a considerable amount of time between his fingers, as though he was about to use them to deal a hand of poker. He finally dispensed the cards into a backpack he had placed at his feet (but not before testing each and every one for its full flexing ability). He fidgeted more. He crossed and uncrossed his legs. He reached and groped inside his coat. The first few times his hand came out empty. The fifth or sixth time he did it, he removed a large greeting card and envelope. From the opposite side of his coat, he extracted a pen. Again, he crossed his legs to create a flat surface, presumably on which to inscribe the card. (And, again, that fucking knee was encroaching into my territory.)

As he fiercely scribbled ink across the blank surface of the card, his whole body rocked and jiggled, not just the executing arm and hand. I casually looked around at the other passengers in my general area. Each was sitting quietly. Each was still. Some fiddled with a cellphone. Others silently, almost motionlessly, pored over Kindles. Others read physical books or newspapers. All were barely moving, save for the occasional, nearly undetectable, page turn or finger flick. Lucky me, I found the seat next to the proverbial "whirling dervish*." I was tempted to turn to him and shout, "Sit still, for Christ's sake! What are you — four years old?" But, alas, I did not. I remained quiet and I continued to read, finding that I read the same sentence six times while I soundlessly berated this guy in my head.

Finally, the train rambled into my station. I stuffed my book back into my bag and I stood to exit. Behind me, I could sense that Corporate Guy was also readying himself to leave the train. The door opened and I stepped onto the platform, making my way thorough the crowd and towards the stairs.

I saw Corporate Guy heading in the opposite direction. Off to fidget and squirm next to someone else today.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com


*Although I have heard the term for many years, I'm not quite sure what a "dervish" is but, apparently, they whirl — and this guy was a-whirling.

come on over to my yard

My wife is driven and determined. When she sets her mind to something ― goddammit! ― it gets done and it gets done right! So, last summer, when a neighbor invited us to bring a few items over for a yard sale, Mrs. P was bitten by the "Yard Sale Bug" just after our modest contribution (our rarely-used, wrought iron patio furniture) was snapped up quickly ― and for a pretty good price. Mrs. P already envisioned the spectacle that would be our next yard sale.

Almost immediately after our neighbor began packing up their unsold offerings. my spouse began a mental inventory of additional items from our home that could she could easily part with. When items were weighed between "do we really need this?" and the possibility of extra cash, the cash always won. So for the next several weeks, our back porch  ― and soon, dining room and living room ― slowly accumulated an inventory of housewares, clothing, jewelry, books and knick-knacks that could put a Woolworth's* to shame. She also saw a yard sale as the perfect opportunity to thin out some "slow movers" from her eBay store**. So, more gathering and storing took place until the first floor of our house resembled a compact flea market. This was going to be the mother of all yard sales. Mrs. P would personally see to that.

We plastered our neighborhood with hundreds of signs tacked up on every available utility pole. Mrs. P posted notices on various social media sites, including electronic community bulletin boards and township Facebook pages. She placed and regularly updated announcements on Craig's List. And she told everybody who glanced in her direction. On the designated morning, we carted load after load of merchandise out to our small front lawn, thoughtfully arranging everything for maximum visibility and, more importantly, sale-ability. (Mrs. P's many years of experience running her parents' retail store came into play.) The potential customers milled about as we were still covering our grass with a mish-mash of appliances, toys, decorations and who-knows-what!. Mrs. P tied on an apron, dumped change into the big front pockets and proclaimed us "Open for Business." To quote Brad Pitt from Inglorious Basterds, "And cousin, business is a-boomin'." At the end of a long, grueling, yet satisfying day, we took in a very nice sum of money ― plus we got rid of a ton of shit that our son won't have to weed though after we die. Very nice indeed.

Around mid-afternoon, a man strolled up to our yard. He was wearing a pristine pink polo shirt (actual Polo brand; little horse logo and all) with the collar popped up and a pair of sharply pressed khakis. A pair of actual RayBans were perched on top of his head and a shiny iPhone 6 was clipped to his braided belt. He smiled and offered a "Good afternoon," as he looked over our wares. He knelt down and picked up a small trowel that I used once to apply a small amount of Spackle to a nail hole in a wall about twenty years earlier. My wife had marked it $1.00.

"I'll give you fifty cents for this." he said, waving the trowel in our direction, a cocked smile across his face.

My wife considered the offer and, ever the seasoned businesswoman, countered with, "Will you be getting something else? I can give you a deal on a lot."

He picked up a few more items, proposing a "fifty cent" price for each one, regardless of what it was marked. I began to fume, but the ever-patient Mrs. P negotiated and finally they agreed on a price for all of his selections. Mrs. P thanked him. I muttered a few unsavory phrases under my breath.

A week ago, we had our first of several planned yard sales of this year. We followed the same ritual and set-up and, once again, with our small front lawn laden with a cornucopia of treasures, we did a pretty good business.

And guess who made an appearance ― The "fifty cent" guy.

This year, he chose a never-used box of Crayola colored pencils (these, as a matter of fact), each with the factory-sharpened point still intact. My wife had marked the box one dollar.

"I'll give you fifty cents for this." he said, waving the box of pencils in our direction, a cocked smile across his face.

My wife considered the offer and, ever the seasoned businesswoman, countered with, "Will you be getting something else? I can give you a deal on a lot."

He pointed to a stack of five terracotta flower pots at the foot of our driveway. There were several different sizes and each one had a matching tray. "I'll give you fifty cents for them," he said, "I don't see a price on them."

My wife, smiling, walked toward the flower pots. She discovered a large cardboard sign stuck in the top pot of the stack. Bright red letters on the sign proclaimed the stack to be two dollars. One could easily read the sign from several feet away.

"No," Mrs. P began, "I think two dollars is a fair price for those. And a dollar for the pencils is fair, too. Name brand. Never used. Yeah, a dollar will be fine." The smile never left her lips.

The man removed a thick leather wallet from his immaculate, designer trousers and extracted three crisp singles. My wife thanked him graciously and sincerely. I would have told him that those items were not for sale.

Obviously, our yard sale was successful because I was not in charge.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

*Woolworth's was a store that... um...that.... oh, just ask your Mom.

** Check it out early and often.

deliver the letter the sooner the better

Email has cut considerably into the United States Postal Service's business. For goodness sake, the USPS lost two billion dollars in 2014.

Although I pay almost all of my bills online, I still mail a check or two over the course of a year. My wife and I, like most folks over forty, still mail actual, physical birthday cards to loved ones annually. So, there is still the need for the Postal Service. And just this morning, I attempted to put that need to use.

My train pulled in to Philadelphia's Suburban Station this morning around 8:15, like it does pretty much every morning. I exited the train and fumbled around in my bag for the birthday card my wife left — on my bureau next to my wallet — for me to mail. I climbed the stairs from the subterranean train platform up to the main floor of the train station, where, among the bustling coffee shops and newsstands, I would find a mailbox. I pass one every morning. It's right in front of one of four Dunkin Donuts I pass on my usual route to my office building. 

And — sure enough — there was the mailbox. But there was a guy standing right in front of it. Actually, leaning on it! He was a real corporate-type. Expensive-looking briefcase in his hand and an expensive-looking haircut on his head. He wore a tailored trench coat and was peering over the tops of his designer glasses, frowning as he thumbed through the contents of his iPhone. And he was blocking all access to the mailbox.

I approached him and the mailbox. "Excuse me, please." I said. I tried to force my lips into a smile.

He looked up from his phone with the most annoyed, the most evil scowl on his face. An expression that would be the result of someone asking if they could drop dog shit on your head or a doctor informing you of a surprise rectal exam. The disdain on his face was palpable. And he didn't seem to want to make an attempt at moving.

I raised the birthday card up so he could see I had something to deposit in the mailbox and I was not just asking him to vacate his staked parcel of linoleum tiled floor as a matter of aesthetics. Slowly — painfully slowly — he slunk over to the side of the mailbox, graciously allowing me to open the access door and drop in my card.

The train station is a huge building, three city blocks long and a city block wide. It is a transportation hub for 13 regional rail train lines, as well as the city's two subway routes. It handles approximately 25,000 passengers per day. Per day. PER FUCKING DAY! And the only place this guy could find to stand in the whole fucking building was right in front of a fucking mailbox?

I suppose this is what they mean by "going postal."

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

baby, what a big surprise

Nearly every morning, I see this guy on the train. He's one of those people that — just based purely and superficially on appearance — you know is an asshole. You know the type. I can't quite pinpoint what it is about him that assures me that he's an asshole, but I know that he is. It may be his default facial expression. It's sort of a haughty sneer; mouth turned down slightly at the corners, furrowed brow, heavy-lidded judgmental eyes. Maybe it's that fact that, despite numerous cautions and warnings from SEPTA, he still insists on placing his expensive-looking briefcase on the seat next to him. Perhaps it's the one time, on a particularly crowded train, the only available seat was the case-filled one next to him. When I asked to sit, he hesitated before he moved his bag and then refused to give up the full 50% of the seat. He encroached on my space for the entire journey to work, trying to edge me out onto the aisle. I think he even leisurely crossed his legs at one point, revealing a designer sock between a tooled-leather shoe and a hairy shin.

Know your train.

This morning, I saw him in his usual spot (last car, left-hand side, briefcase on seat). The train was unusually empty this morning, so I grabbed an aisle seat on a three-seater two rows behind him. I removed my book from my messenger bag and began reading. Suddenly, someone's cellphone began to ring. The ringtone wasn't the generic, factory-installed, synthesized series of "beeps and boops". This was a customized ringtone. A popular song chosen specifically to reflect the owner's light-hearted and carefree outlook on life. A song that hearkened back to a simpler, less-complicated time in the owner's life, when innocence was the driving force and the sweet sounds of four mop-topped lads from Liverpool held a place of high esteem. Someone had purposely sought out and selected the Fab Four's international chart-topping hit "She Loves You" as a way of alerting them to an incoming call. 

It was the asshole.

He fumbled from pocket to pocket in a mad search to locate his phone. All the while, the bright vocals of Lennon and McCartney soared loudly above George Harrison's jangly guitar, filling the train car.

"Wow!" I thought, "Maybe I had this guy all wrong. No asshole could possibly have a peppy, cheerful song like 'She Loves You' as their ringtone!" I looked up from my book, cocked my head, and silently pondered this guy again, reconsidering my earlier stance. 

Then he stepped out into the aisle, blatantly cutting in front of a woman trying to exit the train. He had that regular scowl on his face. 

Looks like I was right all along.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

do this, don't do that, can't you read the sign?

I am a rule follower. Actually, I am a fanatical and militant rule follower. If a policy is explained and implemented, I'll adhere to it. I wait in lines. I follow procedure. I come to a full stop at stop signs. I may not agree with a particular rule, but if it is posted or communicated in a clear and obvious fashion, I will honor it. And I expect everyone else to do the same. If someone decides to ignore a rule and do what they wish, it really pisses me off. (Well, to be honest, a lot of things piss me off, but breaking rules is high on the list.)

I am particularly annoyed by people who feel that rules do not apply to them. You know who I mean. Those who go into a building through a door marked "DO NOT ENTER." Those who park where it is clearly posted "NO PARKING" or where there is obviously not enough room for a car (like the curb next to my driveway). Those who skirt a long line and walk right up to the counter, even if someone is in mid-conversation with a service representative. "Oh, I just want to ask a quick question," they'll say and that "quick question" turns into six or seven questions and a full inquiry of a store's inventory. These are people who think: "Rules? The rules don't apply to me! Rules are for you assholes." 

I used to work for a guy who was very wealthy and drove a Porsche. He was a nice, generous guy, but no rule applied to him. One day, he took me out to lunch. We drove around a congested neighborhood with particularly narrow streets looking for a place to park. Suddenly, he noticed a spot in which his car would fit perfectly. As he spun the wheel in the direction of the cross street, I pointed out that he was headed the wrong way down a one-way street. "That's okay." he said, waving off my warning and not making an attempt to touch the brake pedal. He defiantly turned down the street, did a three-point turnaround and backed into the parking space. Why is there never a cop around when you need one?

The gallery of offenders.

I regularly ride the train to and from work. I carry a messenger bag daily. When I board the train, I choose a seat, remove the book I am currently reading from my bag and place my bag on my lap. I often see other passengers place their various briefcases, purses, backpacks, suitcases and other assorted parcels on the empty seat next to them. There are others that purposely spread their belongings — file folders, notebooks, iPads, laptops, clipboards — across an entire seat meant to accommodate three commuters. When the train is crowded, and seating is scare, some passengers still insist on using the seat as their own personal mobile workstation or an extension of their home. One rainy morning, when seats were at a premium, I saw an aisle seat that appeared empty from my vantage point. As I approached, I saw that the occupant — a sharply-dressed, executive-type woman — had a large, expanding file folder stretched across the seat as she made extensive notes on a legal pad balanced on her knee. I stopped alongside the seat, cleared my throat, and in the most polite tone I could muster, said, "May I please sit here?" She frowned and let out a long, exaggerated, annoyed sigh. Then, she slowly — I mean at a goddamn snail's pace — began gathering her belongings. She even stopped to do some filing and rearranging of documents, making sure they were in the proper order within her portable filing system. I stood by the seat, as patient as I could be, and the train already made it to the next scheduled stop before she had cleared a space to allow me to sit. Angered, I spoke up. "Sorry," I began, "I didn't realize I was riding on your train!" I moved on and took a seat next to a gentleman who respectfully had his briefcase stowed on the rack above his seat and his jacket folded neatly in his lap. I actually got some snickers and a small smattering of applause from my fellow, exasperated passengers.

SEPTA (the Southeastern Pennsylvania Transportation Authority, the company that provides public transportation to Philadelphia and surrounding suburbs) often makes announcements for bags to be put on the overhead luggage racks or on the floor under the seat. They have even taken to social media, repeatedly reinforcing the "Dude, it's Rude" campaign, with "tweets" making riders aware of the "bags off the seats" rule. Just last week, the campaign became more aggressive, as blunt signage began popping up at various places on train platforms and trains themselves. The two-color placards are unapologetic in their message. "Unless YOUR BAG Paid - MOVE IT!" the signs proclaim. There's no time for "please." You were warned. You had your chance. The gauntlet has been thrown down.

So, this morning, I boarded the train and sat in a seat next to a guy's bag. He was seated next to the window, headphones jammed into his ears, his head tilted down with full attention on his phone. I took the available aisle seat. We were separated by his leather overnight bag, upon which was draped his necktie. It being a Friday in summer, the train was relatively empty and there were many unoccupied seats. However, because I am a rule follower, my bag rested on my lap, as usual. I could feel the fellow's bag just scant centimeters from my elbow as I turned the pages of my book. As the train pulled into my destination stop, my expanded seatmate readied himself to exit as well. In my peripheral vision, I could see him remove his earbuds and stuff them into a pocket in his bag. Then, he lifted a travel coffee mug and swirled it a bit, in an effort to check its contents. He popped the lid of the mug and — I shit you not! — poured the remaining few drops on the floor. Yes! Right on the floor! I leaned forward a little to check if there was a concealed sink or even a drain that I hadn't previously noticed — knowing full well that there wasn't. Satisfied that his cup was empty, he packed it away in another pocket of the bag. He carefully folded his tie and, as the train slowed to a hissing halt, stood up, grabbed his bag and followed me down the aisle and out to the platform, even passing me on his way to the exit stairs.

I had found another one to whom the rules did not apply. As a mater of fact, this guy was making up his own rules.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

clowns to the left of me, jokers to the right

Twenty-eight years ago, we moved into our home in the small suburban community of Elkins Park, just outside of Philadelphia, not far from where my wife grew up. We live on a quiet block, though most blocks in this neighborhood are pretty quiet. The only real noise comes from the infrequent blasts from the nearby fire house siren and the clatter of the regional railroad that runs twenty feet behind my house. (Having the train so close is actually a plus, as I can practically roll out of bed and make it to the station at the end of my street in a matter of seconds. Literally, seconds!) Aside from those two sonic sources, there are few disturbances... except for my neighbors on either side of my house.

I have chronicled the unneighborly exploits of one neighbor (here and here and especially here), but the other next-door neighbors are giving that nut a run for her money.

Our house is colloquially known as a twin. In other parts of the country, this type of house is known as a two-family dwelling, semi-detached or a duplex (although a duplex means something different in the Philadelphia area). A "twin" (or whatever you choose to call it), is simply a single building, with a separate entrance to each dwelling and there is a shared center wall. The lot line runs down the middle of the house. You own the half of the lot your home is on. You are responsible for the maintenance and insurance on your half of the house/lot. You can paint your house a different color than the other side, different roof color, whatever you'd like. Clear? When we moved in, the house connected by that aforementioned center wall was the residence of two women who kept to themselves. We would see them when snow needed to be shoveled or grass needed cutting, but we never socialized. After they moved, a succession of nondescript occupants moved in for short periods. Then, Len, a young, hip accountant with no apparent accounting skills, overpaid for the place and turned it into a fucking frat house. He threw regular, loud parties that raged into the wee hours of the night, frequently spilling out onto his front porch and lawn. The limited available street parking was hogged by visitors who would repeatedly block my driveway. After several years, Len's employer transferred him to sunny southern California. Unable to unload his investment outright, he offered the house as a rental. A slew of college students moved in for an 18-month "par-TAY" that picked up where Len's inconsiderate celebrations left off. The parking situation grew worse, as the four tenants each owned a car (as did their numerous guests) and soon our block began to resemble the long-term parking lot at the airport. At the end of a year-and-a-half, the students vacated and, thankfully, a normal, respectful family moved in - Rae and O. O., a general contractor, had his sights set on the slowly-crumbling, long-unoccupied single home directly across the street. Not long after he moved his family in to the home adjacent to ours, he packed up the whole shebang and moved ninety feet away, single-handedly rebuilding the place around his patient family's daily life.

Then, Fan's family moved in.

I sensed something off about them from the moment I met them. They struck me as out-of-place hippies — in a Manson Family sort of way. The dad, (who I'll call "Cool"), gave the impression of one of those survivalist guys who stockpile canned food, drinking water and high-powered weapons in his basement, knowing that government agents are gonna come pounding at his door after they shut off the electricity. Mrs. P and I attempted to be friendly (well, Mrs. P anyway), even inviting them to our yearly "Night Before Thanksgiving" get-together. They came, stayed a very short time and left. And slowly withdrew. They turned down subsequent invitations, or just plain didn't show up. No more neighborly "Hellos." No more acknowledging nods as we simultaneously dragged our trash cans down to the curb on Tuesday evenings for the next day's collection. We didn't push it. If they wished to be left alone, I would happily grant that wish. I've been doing it to my other neighbors for nearly 30 years, so I'm pretty good at it.

One evening, Mrs. P and I were sitting down to dinner. With no effort, I have a clear view of my attached neighbor's backyard from my kitchen window. I looked up from my veggie burger to see Cool skip off the wooden deck at the back of his house. He was carrying a plastic food storage container in his hand. He walked toward the fence that separates his yard from the train tracks just on the other side. He stretched up on tip-toes, removed the container's lid and dumped its contents over the fence. He then returned to his house. Over the next few weeks, I saw this ritual repeated almost daily.

In 28 years, I have never seen nor smelled the noxious odor of a skunk in our neighborhood. Since I witnessed Cool's "dumping procedure," the stench of skunk fumes has been a weekly occurrence. It's odd and bit coincidental that they started at the same time. Soon, the skunk smell was accompanied by this:

A groundhog! A fucking groundhog was brazenly sitting in my neighbor's yard, munching on some delicious, discarded morsel, thanks to Cool's Wildlife Smorgasbord. Whatever shit he's been dumping over the fence (a violation of township regulations), is now attracting all sorts of property-damaging critters. My neighbor is a renter, so having no real financial interest in the property, aside from a possible security deposit, he obviously doesn't give a shit. And, with a landlord living two-thousand miles away, even less of a shit is given.

In the past, I have called the local police for various reasons (a stolen bike, an on-going annoyance lawsuit, a bat that got into our house) and they have always been attentive, helpful and courteous. I called the Township Municipal Services to report this woodland creature incident and I am still waiting for a return phone call. In the meantime, the skunk smell is overpowering, strong enough to bring tears. And I spotted the groundhog in the yard again this morning. I think he gave me "the finger."

I wonder when the next round of neighbors are due, because this one (and his four-legged, furry pals) has over-stayed his welcome.

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