will the circle be unbroken

Mrs Pincus and I spent the first couple of years of our marriage living in a small townhouse apartment in Northeast Philadelphia. We had accumulated a small savings in the bank with regular deposits of our meager paychecks. One day, Mrs. P, who maintained and monitored our finances (because we certainly didn't want me taking on that responsibility, seeing as I have difficulty with any equation whose answer is more than double digits), brought up the possibly of purchasing a house. I was puzzled by the idea at first. After all, I was just 24 years old and buying a house was something that adults did. Even though we were married, I still viewed us as two crazy kids. For goodness sake, we still frequented Chuck E. Cheese, despite not having any children of our own. We attended performances of Disney on Ice. We even went to the circus in full clown make-up. Are these the kind of people who buy a house? Well... we would soon find out.

We did things in the proper order. We looked at a number of houses in Elkins Park, the suburban community where Mrs Pincus grew up. Elkins Park is a lovely little area known for its classic architecture, close proximity to public transportation and ridiculously high property taxes. After seeing a few potential homes, we chose one and made an offer... which was promptly accepted. Our next step was to gather all of the required forms and receipts and paycheck stubs and tax returns to prove to a financial institution that these two youngsters could be responsible for a mortgage. We submitted everything that was asked and we waited. Eventually, we were approved for a mortgage and we had to go to a big, sterile looking office to sign the final paperwork.

A young woman — a secretary — led Mrs. P and I to a room and we were offered seats at a large table. The secretary returned with a comically huge stack of paper, which she plopped down on the table's surface. She then informed us that the mortgage officer would be joining us momentarily. True to her word, the doorway was soon breached by an expressionless man in a very conservative business suit. (If I recall correctly, he resembled actor Joseph Maher, who portrayed a drunk airplane passenger in a Season Three episode of Seinfeld.) The man introduced himself as "Mr. Cassidy" and he extended his hand for the the obligatory shake. As Mrs. P shook Mr. Cassidy's hand, she smiled and proudly stated that we have a cat named Cassidy. (Our "beloved" pet was just one in a long line of cats that we would own whose names were inspired by the titles of Grateful Dead songs. Cassidy was a beautiful tabby cat with very distinct striped patterns on her sides. She had the disposition of someone with a perpetual toothache and she liked to sit on high shelves and push knick-knacks off to watch them shatter on the floor.) Our assigned mortgage officer — in his starched white collar and equally starched demeanor —was less than thrilled to hear about his feline namesake. With the exception of an ever-so-slight grimace, Mr. Cassidy did not acknowledge my wife's comment. Instead, he removed the top sheet of paper from the stack and pushed it in our direction, pointing our where we were to sign. This procedure was repeated over and over for the next 90 minutes until the stack of paper was reassembled in reverse order, now boasting the Pincus signatures on the majority of its pages. Mr. Cassidy thanked us, begrudgingly congratulated us and left the room. We were now officially members of that exclusive club and heretofore would be known as "homeowners."

Flash forward to today — forty years after two crazy kids signed on to become homeowners. Today, we were just approved for a home equity line of credit. This procedure differed greatly from the very tactile experience of gathering hard-copy documents to present to an actual face-to-face person at a desk in a brick-and-mortar bank. This time around in the age of the internet, electronic documents were uploaded to a secure website with instructions from faceless people working from various locations across several states. We were assigned a specific online portal with passwords and two-step verifications and several other security measures that weren't even dreamed of when we applied for our mortgage. During this application process, Mrs. Pincus received an actual phone call from an actual human being. In this rare case, she needed to clarify some minute piece of information that was previously submitted. The woman on the phone identified herself as "Cassidy" before proceeding to explain the reason for her call. Mrs. P laughed and interrupted. The woman asked what was funny.

Mrs P told her about our mortgage application. She told about the staunch gentleman who presided over the mass signature process on the day of closure. She told the woman on the phone — Cassidy — that the man's name was "Mr. Cassidy." Mrs. P explained that — at the time we had a cat named "Cassidy" and the little anecdote about name similarity did not amuse Mr. Cassidy in the least. The "Cassidy" currently on the phone, however, giggled. She said she thought the story was sweet. She even momentarily dispensed with any sort of financial conversation to find out more about the origins of the "Cassidy" name. Mrs. P was only too happy to expound on the Grateful Dead connection. She mentioned that the song "Cassidy" is a beautiful acoustic ballad that was rarely performed by the band (339 times as opposed to "Playing in the Band" which was performed nearly 700 times. This is for your benefit. These facts did not make it into the Mrs. Pincus/Cassidy phone exchange.) Cassidy thanked Mrs. Pincus for the information. She also said that she would seek out the song on YouTube during her lunch break. Quickly, the conversation switched back to the request of clarification of some financial document. Before the call ended, Mrs. P noted to Cassidy that our experience as homeowners had come full circle — beginning and concluding with a "Cassidy."

Our "Cassidy" — gone over thirty years — would be happy. She'd knock something expensive off a shelf in celebration. Then, she'd bite me.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

give my regards to broad street

I have been driving for 44 years and I have never enjoyed a single minute of it. Admittedly, I am not a particularly good driver. I'm an average driver. I try to avoid driving when at all possible. I have driven to work as a necessity. For nearly ten years, I took the train to work and that was a pleasure. (Well, the public transportation in the Greater Philadelphia area leaves a lot to be desired, but it was a pleasure in that I didn't have to drive on a daily basis for a decade.) Currently, my commute to work is about 40 minutes and comes at a time when I am actually ahead of the common "rush hour" on my route. I also get to leave work everyday a half-hour before the crush of homecoming traffic.

When we go out — anywhere — Mrs. Pincus is behind the wheel. We have a great marriage in so many ways, one of them being her love of driving and my dislike of the same activity. I happily occupy the passenger seat* while Mrs. P navigates the car on short jaunts to the supermarket or long journeys to Florida — both of which we have tackled often, much to her delight.

Dead end.

Our adult son lives approximately 16 miles away in the congested bustle of South Philadelphia. Due to ongoing construction in our fair city (which I'm pretty sure began just after the last cobblestone was put into place outside of Independence Hall), our choices of routes to his house often change based on whim-driven road closures or the placement of poorly-parked dormant construction vehicles. The nearest entrance to I-76 (the quickest access to South Philly from our suburban home) has been closed since Benjamin Franklin flew a kite in a thunder storm. Our choices to enter the Schuylkill Expressway (I-76's name as it passes through the city) is a roundabout course through small neighborhoods whose streets are — SURPRISE! — also under construction. Our alternative is PA-611, which runs a block from our house and becomes Philadelphia's notorious Broad Street once it crosses the city limits. Beginning at Cheltenham Avenue, Broad Street substitutes for 14th Street for its entire 13-mile length until it morphs to join I-95 just behind Lincoln Financial Field. We have opted to drive Broad Street, purely out of convenience.

The cat in question.

A little while ago, my son went on vacation for a week and my wife and I were asked if we could feed his cat while he was gone. We happily obliged, having been cat owners for years, although our house has been "cat free" for almost twenty years. Our son's cat is a beautiful — if not a bit quirky — little guy whose eating regimen is as idiosyncratic as his personality. Because of health issues, he needs to be fed twice a day — early in the morning and later in the evening. During the week, Mrs. Pincus took the task solo is the morning and I would join her for the evening trip and both times on Saturday and Sunday. Feeding a cat for a friend or, in this case, family member is fine if you live around the corner, but when you live 45 minutes away, it can be.... um..... dicey. Especially if the route to said cat is Broad Street. Don't get me wrong! We enjoy taking care of the cat. He's sweet and playful... until he's not. It's pretty obvious when he's had enough (usually of me). When he takes a "claws out" swat at my hand, that usually signifies that it's time to go. 

Prepare to qualify!

Every evening, after we finished our dinner, Mrs. P and I ventured down to South Philadelphia to give our son's cat his dinner. I have driven down Broad Street for years, but it's only recently I noticed a pattern in the other drivers that I never noticed before. Perhaps from my perspective as a passenger I got to observe... or witness... things I never noticed before. It appears that drivers have taken a page from the current crop of concert-goers playback with the "I'm the only one in the world" attitude.

Once we crossed into the official realm of Broad Street in Philadelphia from the pastoral quiet of suburbia, all hell broke loose. Drivers straddled lanes with their cars, the painted white dashes exiting the dead center point between their rear wheels as though they were being dropped at regular intervals from a secret hatch under the trunk. Other drivers barreled out of curbside parking spaces with nary a glance at a rear-view mirror. Still other drivers just stopped — stopped! — in an active lane of traffic, click on their four-way hazard lights with the understanding that those illuminated flashers grant them full permission to stop wherever the heck they wish. Holding up a line of cars behind me? Hey! I got my flashers on, so its okay! There are those that stop their cars for no apparent reason. Some take an incredibly long time to make a turn, either at an intersection or to enter a driveway (like a gas station, shopping center or even their own at their house), leaving the rear portion of their car blocking the lane an not allowing any cars past until the turn is fully completed. Others change lanes from the far left to the far right with no indication of their proposed maneuver. If you don't want to get hit, your spider sense better be tingling. Then there are the texters. In Philadelphia, one does not need to use a "hands-free" device. Although "hands-free" is infinitely safer, Philadelphians still insist on having conversations by holding their phone two feet from their faces and screaming. As long as you're making a call, you might as well text while you're driving, too! There is no reason to adjust your habits just because you are operating of a two-ton death machine that requires your full attention. In addition, a recent phenomenon has entered the equation. Groups of young men driving unlicensed, off-road, non-street-legal vehicles (mini bikes, dirt bikes and ATVs) travel up and down Broad Street in packs numbering from two or three into the dozens. These guys prefer the late night hours to cruise the blacktop, often popping wheelies for most of their journey as well as blowing off traffic lights and other posted road regulations. (Their vehicles are not licensed, so why should they abide?) For reasons only known to them, the police turn a blind eye to this activity. Come to think of it, the police turn a blind eye to most law-violating activity I have seen on Broad Street. It has become like driving through a real-life video game. Prepare to qualify! Avoid the hazards and score points!

Well, I don't want to score any more points. I just want to get where I'm going. Actually, I just want someone else to drive me to get me where I'm going.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

*One of my ex-sisters-in-law used to call it the "pussinger's seat" when the husband sat in it as the wife drove.

what's new pussycat?

I guess it's time for a little explanation. If you follow me on other social media outlets (and — face it — why wouldn't you?), you probably have seen pictures of a mature black and white cat keeping a watchful eye atop a set of cement steps and a white wooden doorway whose frame is in need of a fresh coat of paint. As far as I'm concerned, this stoic little fellow is named Ambrose.

Maybe.

Probably not.

I love Kung Fu

My wife and I became active walkers well over a year ago. And by "active," I mean "active for our age." We are not in training for a 5K or a 10K or any other K that may exist. (I thought "K" stood for "strikeout." I don't know what it means in relation to walking or running.) We like the exercise and, as we approach the twilight of our lives, a bit of leisurely exercise is a good thing. We're not trying to break any records. We just want to stay healthy. So, instead of purchasing some bulky piece of commercial exercise equipment that will only become an expensive clothes rack after the initial novelty wears off, Mrs. Pincus and I do a couple of rounds around to block as often as possible. Like David Carradine's "Kwai Chang Caine," we walk the earth — seeing what we can see and meeting who we can meet. Mrs. P sees people she knows and even waves to people she doesn't know. We find unusual things along the way, like discarded full meals still wrapped in the logo-emblazoned paper from McDonald's and, more recently, a trail of newly-discarded face masks as though Hansel and Gretel were blazing a path but still trying to keep COVID-19 at bay. 

Most days, we take the same route. Actually I follow my wife's lead, since she knows the neighborhood better than I do — even though I have lived here for thirty-five years. Some days we head to the right once we've exited the house and descended our porch steps. But, most days, we head south on our suburban Philadelphia street. It's on this route that we see Ambrose.

A mere four houses away, Ambrose surveys his feline kingdom from the top step of the stone and wood house of our unseen neighbors. Ambrose watches regally as I fumble in my pocket for my cell phone. He waits patiently as I awkwardly enter the passcode and scroll to the camera icon. He poses obligingly when I raise my phone to eye level and snap off a couple of quick pictures. Then, he watches as Mrs. Pincus and I continue on our little jaunt around the block — or sometimes even further. If we happen to double back on our return trip to our house, taking a portion of the same homebound route as we started out on, Ambrose is frequently in the same position as earlier. Sometimes, he has dozed off behind one of the large cement urns that flank our neighbor's front door. Sometimes, he has stretched himself out upon the welcome mat, experiencing a slightly different perspective of his domain. Rarer, though, Ambrose is gone, perhaps off to chase a bird or a mouse or to see what awaits him in the backyard.

In the winter, although we kept up our regular walking habits, Ambrose had vacated his usual spot, opting — no doubt — for a warmer place. Cats can always find a place to keep warm. But once spring returned and the warming sun was out, Ambrose was back, silently surveying the area. 

Ambrose has a tendency to disappear for days at a time. We've passed his familiar steps and, sadly.... no Ambrose. Day after day, we walked slowly by our neighbor's house, craning our necks to hopefully catch a glimpse of Ambrose lurking behind a bush. Then, one day, Ambrose would reappear at the top of the steps — staring at us with his confident look, letting us know that he would not be offering an explanation of his absense.

As you may have seen, I post a picture of Ambrose whenever I see him. Mrs. Pincus gets a little nervous when I stop to take a picture. "What will you say if someone comes out of the house and asks why you are taking a picture of their cat?," she asks.

"I'll just explain that Ambrose has a little following on my social media." I reply.

The problem is — if the owner hears my explanation, the first thing they'll say is: "Who the hell is 'Ambrose?'"

You see, we named him "Ambrose." We actually don't know this cat's name. There's a good chance it's "Fluffy" or "Whiskers" or "Misty." There's a better chance that it's not "Ambrose."

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

cool for cats

There are two kinds of people in the world — those who like cats and everyone else. I have had cats in my life ever since I was a little kid. One Saturday afternoon, my dad took me to the local SPCA to pick out a pet. I have always had a natural fear and dislike of dogs, so I gravitated towards the cages on the "cat side" of the building. I wandered in and out of the aisles that were stacked high with small, cage-front kennels each containing a tiny, mewing kitty — their small, fuzzy faces pressed to the thin bars. I smiled at each one, poking my finger through the openings between the metal shafts to touch their soft fur. One little cat, a dapper black and white tuxedo kitty, licked my finger and I was sold. "That's the one!," I announced to my father. He called an attendant over and forked over five dollars, for which we received two cans and one box of food, in addition to the cat itself. They placed the cat in a small, elaborately folded cardboard carrier and we made our way home in the car, the carrier perched on my lap, my fingers again, poking through the holes in the side of the cardboard. Later that evening, we purchased a litter box and a collar with little silver bells on it. I named our new cat "Tinker."

Tinker, as it turned out, was a vicious little shit. That whole "licking my finger" act at the SPCA was an obvious ploy just to get her sprung from the feline hoosegow. Once she got herself fully ensconced in the Pincus household, her true personality came out. She was nasty! She hissed and bit and scratched. She didn't like to be held and she didn't like to play. Who the hell needed a cat then? Luckily, after a year or so of this bullshit, my brother came home with a sweet little kitten with the nicest, most affectionate disposition. We named him "Jingle" and we were very happy. So was Tinker, because now everyone would leave her alone.

When I met my wife, she owned the first in a long line of cats with Grateful Dead-inspired names. "Cassidy" was a beautiful tabby with unusual markings and a disposition so foul, it made me long for bad temperament of Tinker. Cassidy, in addition to her standoffish attitude, liked to climb up on shelves and knock things off to watch them fall and shatter. Cassidy came with us to our newlywed apartment, where she was soon joined by "China*," a sweet-natured little creature that we affectionately called "Kidden." Kidden was the perfect "yin" to the acerbic "yang" that was Cassidy.

Over the many years, we owned many cats. We had as many as three at one time. That meant regular purchases of cat food and, in turn, regular cleaning and changing of cat litter. I remember a friend of mine called one evening to tell me of his recent scuba-diving excursion in the crystal blue waters of Cancun. I listened on the phone as he detailed the underwater sights and his exotic experiences. When he called, I was in the middle of taking the trash out. As he described the clear, azure depths and the colorful schools of fish, I looked down at my hands. One was gripping a bag of soiled disposable diapers from my son's room and the other was heavy with shit-spiked clumps of used cat litter. Was this what my life had been reduced to?

Having cats, while thoroughly enjoyable, can be a burden at times. We often arranged for someone to come over and feed them when we went away on vacations. We would leave detailed instructions for food distribution and procedure for cleaning the litter box (a job my father-in-law absolutely detested). Our cats broke numerous knick-knacks in our house. They threw up on carpets and beds and, at various times, pissed on the floor. But, don't get me wrong! They also played and purred and brought us a little bit of joy.

However, my favorite thing about cats is: if you want to play, they'll play. If you want to just sit, they are happy to find something to do themselves. With a cat, you can have a pet when you want to and they are fine with that as long as you and your thumbs are around to operate the can opener for feeding time. You can't say that for dogs. Dogs need constant attention and care, like a sick child.

When our last cat, Maggie**, died, my wife and I (mostly me) decided that we were through with pets. That was eight years ago and it was quite liberating. We gave away the remaining, unopened cans of cat food and bags of cat litter to friends who were still deep in the throes of pet-raising. Suddenly, we could come and go as we pleased — no longer concerned about rushing home to feed a cat or worse, cleaning up vomit. We could go away for an extended weekend without making a frantic phone call to get someone to look in on our cat. I still liked cats, I just didn't need to own one.

Kitteh.

My son and his girlfriend bought a house recently. After unpacking the boxes and arranging the rooms and hanging the pictures, they did the next logical, domestic thing they could think of — they got a cat. It's a cute, playful little guy that my wife refers to as our "grandkitty." I find it funny that my son, who never changed a litter box in his life and only fed our cats a handful of times, is now tasked with the responsibility of full-time caregiver to his four-pawed roommate. And while I love to see that little guy (the cat, I mean), I am quite happy to be permanently retired from the cat business. Occasionally, my wife has suggested getting another cat, but I quickly remind her of how accustomed we have become to our freedom. 

Plus, we no longer have a box of shit in our house.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

* short for "China Cat Sunflower"
** short for "Sugar Magnolia"