who's that girl?

Mrs. Pincus and I made plans to meet some friends for dinner. We decided on The Pub, a restaurant that is somewhat of a local legend in the Philadelphia-South Jersey area. The Pub, as we often joke, is the "land that time forgot." It boasts an enormous dining room appointed with dark wood, suits of armor, various coats of arms and a number of taxidermied animal heads. (Perhaps some which have made it to the menu?) The Pub prides itself on serving huge hunks of steaks, broiled right before your eyes by a battalion of toque blanche-wearing chefs, plying their cooking skills over flaming coals. What — you may ask — would a vegetarian such as myself find to eat at a steakhouse? (Okay, maybe you didn't ask, but I'm telling you anyway.) In addition to a wide selection of animal-based dinners, The Pub also has twin salad bars that stretch a good thirty feet, laden with freshly-cut vegetables, giant vats of dressing, huge bowls of prepared cold specialty salads, house-made corn bread and zucchini bread, wedges of cheese from which guests can cut their own preferred-size slice and their locally-renowned Caesar salad. It's terribly overpriced, but you can help yourself as many times as you like.

Our trips to The Pub always include a pre-dinner visit to a large thrift store right across the street. Over the years, the store has changed ownership several times and now it has joined the ranks of 2nd Avenue Thrift, an international chain of stores — operating under a few different names — with over 300 locations across the United States, Canada and even Australia. Speaking of "the land that time forgot," that's exactly with a trip to a thrift store is. And the shelves at 2nd Avenue Thrift tell a story with every vase, knick-knack, appliance and donated wedding dress on display.

I am not a big fan of thrift shops, but this one I can tolerate. As Mrs. P scours the day's offerings, I usually find myself snapping pictures to post on social media, accompanied by a typical Josh Pincus smart-ass comment that you've come to know and love.... or at least know. 

Our friends — Cookie and Consuelo — arrived a little before we did and already had accumulated a little pile of items in their shopping cart. In the second aisle — the one filled with shelf after shelf of picture frames of varying sizes — Consuelo pointed out something that was definitely right up the Josh Pincus alley. Dotting the shelves among the variety of picture frames, there were a few that stood out like a sore thumb — a sad, neglected, forgotten sore thumb. 

Most of the picture frames were empty. Others had the sample photo that comes in the frame when it is originally offered for purchase in a regular retail store. It's usually a happy couple staring longingly into each others eyes or a serene view of a lake framed by fall foliage, mimicking a photo that you yourself may have taken on a cherished vacation. Stock photos like these are placed in frames much in the way an appetizing photo of a pizza slice or a gravy-drenched Salisbury steak appears on the packaging of a frozen dinner with the inconspicuous disclaimer "SERVING SUGGESTION" tucked just above the net weight. But a few frames showed a photo of a smiling Asian young lady in several different surroundings and in several different outfits. In one, she is beaming, seated at a restaurant table between two women around her age. One of the women's faces is slightly obscured by a large price sticker. The other woman is actually just an arm, but it is most definitely a feminine arm. The subject of the photo is wearing a dark blue shirt with white pinstripes. She is also sporting a blue lei around her neck, leading me to believe that this is a moment from some sort of celebration — captured in time. There is a hint of a gift bag in the foreground, offering further support for my "celebration" theory. Next to this photo was another one of the same young lady. In this shot, she is displaying the same smile as in the other photo. She is seated — rather closely — to a man whose face is mostly covered by a price sticker. They appear to be in a formal setting, like a reception or a fancy restaurant, as the man is wearing a sport jacket and the young lady is wearing a red, sleeveless top, possibly a dress.

Further along the shelf was a fancy frame with another photo of the same young lady. In this one, she is crouched down to put her on the same level as a perky-eared German Shepherd. She's wearing a spaghetti-strap dress and she has a different style to her hair, a possible clue that this was taken in a different year than the other photos. Next to that was a smaller gold frame showing an older couple with a young child between them. Upon closer inspection, one can surmise that the young child is the young lady from the previous photos. The child is wearing pajamas or a costume of some kind and her face is dabbed with colorful make-up, specifically a big red dot on her nose. She is smiling in a similar fashion as the young lady in the adjacent frames. The same older couple (though slightly younger) are in an nearby framed picture. In that one, they are pictured without the little girl, but it is absolutely the same couple. 

Then, there was a larger frame with a slightly older version of the little girl in a swimming pool. She is floating inside an inflatable ring decorated with colorful stripes. Her bowl-cut hairdo is wet against her head, but the smile gives her away as being the same child. Then, there's a group photo in a square frame. It's a typical family including — I can only imagine — brothers, sisters, spouses, cousins and their children posed on the front steps of a home. At the very bottom, next to a happy woman holding a baby and a toddler, is the young girl. Again, she is smiling. It should be noted that everyone in the photo appears to be stereotypical "white bread and mayonnaise" Caucasian, right down to their restricted country club outfits and corporate America haircuts. The young lady is the only Asian in the photo... adding to the gathering mystery unfolding on the thrift store shelves. Further down, separated by several empty frames propped up on their built-in easel backs, was another photo. This one was sort of faded as though its original display spot was a windowsill or a shelf in the path of daily direct sunlight. But there was the young lady, this time in her pre-teen years. She appears to be about eleven or twelve and is posed with two Caucasian girls and a Caucasian boy, all about her age. The four youngsters are gathered excitedly around Chip, the beloved Disney chipmunk, sans his otherwise ubiquitous "partner-in-crime" Dale. Noting the collapsed beach umbrellas in the background, this picture was probably taken on a family vacation at the Walt Disney World resort. I don't recognize any of the other children from the group photo on the house front steps, but I'd venture to guess that they are close acquaintances or maybe adoptive family.

I spent a little bit more time in the picture frame aisle as my wife made her way towards knick-knacks and a wall of bagged, mismatched toys. I looked at the photos on the shelves for a good long time, devising a story about how these frames met their final fate and wound up for sale on the shelves of a thrift shop in Pennsauken, New Jersey. Based on the approximate age of the constant young lady in the photos, I imagine that she was adopted by a member of the Caucasian family also featured in the photos. I envisioned a young couple enrolling into an international adoption program and filing for the adoption of a child from a distant Asian country. They probably took a long flight to the other side of the world to meet their new child and bring her to her new home. On the return flight, they anxiously discussed introducing her to their family — and what would become their new daughter's new family. At first, Mom and Dad (or Grandma and Grandpa) did not approve of the whole affair. Their rigid, upper class, elitist and segregated upbringing shunned the mingling of races. The very thought of an Asian grandchild was positively unheard of and could prove to be an embarrassment in the eyes of their longtime friends at church, the tennis club and other social circles. But, as time went on, they softened. They relented and, most importantly, they came to love their granddaughter as much as they loved their natural-born grandchildren (as is revealed in the third photo described above). The young girl grew up and was accepted by her adopted family. She was welcomed with unconditional love and became a part of the family. And she loved being with her family — really the only family she ever knew.

Then, tragically, the girl passed away. Suddenly. An illness, undetected and undiagnosed at first, but sadly, untreatable, took her swiftly and unexpectedly. When she died, at such a young age with her entire life still ahead, her family was devastated. Soon after the funeral, several members of her family volunteered to gather up her belongings in her small apartment — the apartment she just moved into after landing a new job. Feeling helpless and distraught, they dropped the few boxes of clothing and other belongings off at 2nd Avenue Thrift. In their hurry, they didn't even take the time to remove memory-filled photos from frames. It was just too painful and they weren't thinking straight. The family just wanted to move on and, in the process, hastily erase the memory of their young daughter/granddaughter/cousin/niece. The unfettered employees at 2nd Avenue Thrift just did their jobs. They assessed the haul, priced the individual items and placed them out for sale in the appropriate sections of the store — laying bare the short, bittersweet life of this poor young lady for the vulture-like clientele of 2nd Avenue Thrift to pick over, like the carcass of a mangled animal exposed on the African veldt.

Or maybe she just had enough of this shit cluttering up her apartment.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

running with the devil

This morning, my wife and I drove down to our son's house in South Philadelphia to feed his cat while he is away this weekend. The route we took from our suburban home was straight down Broad Street. As we drove though the stretch of Broad Street that bisects the campus of the hospital of Temple University, I glanced out the window and saw something that caught my attention. Emerging from one of the many hospital buildings was a family — Mother, Father and two teenage daughters. What intrigued me was their appearance. From their clothing, it was quite obvious that they were Amish. Dad was wearing a royal blue button-down shirt and black pants with black suspenders looping over his shoulders. He sported a wide-brimmed straw hat atop his head. The three ladies — Mother and the two daughters — all wore similar dresses. They were long and all fashioned from a single pattern of cloth. They each wore a white apron tied around their waist and a white kerchief tied around their head. Dad stood on the pavement in front of the building and surveyed his surroundings. He looked as though he had been dropped out of an airplane blindfolded and had just removed the blindfold. He scratched his jaw as he turned his head from left to right and to left again. Then, he raised his head and considered the multi-story cement and steel structures that surrounded him and his brood. The three women cowered behind him. They appeared to be lost. To be honest (and based purely on their appearance) they would seem lost in most environments that did not feature at least one barn and several cows. Yes, I managed to take in and assess this situation from the passenger's seat in a car traveling in the neighborhood of thirty-five miles-per-hour. Okay.... maybe I embellished a little.

The whole scenario reminded me of a story that appeared on my illustration blog in 2011. It was a funny story when the incident actually occurred (in 1993) and it was a funny story when I wrote about it (and even illustrated it) years later. It's still a funny story...

My son and I experienced Niagara Falls for the first time at the same time. My wife, whose parents took their three children on numerous family vacations, saw the renowned natural spectacle in her youth. I went on my last furlough with my parents at the age of seven, and Atlantic City, New Jersey is severely lacking in the waterfall department. When I became a father, I was determined to travel with my own family as much as time and money would allow. They would need not be extravagant, cultural excursions — just good, old-fashioned family fun time. So, in the summer of 1993, the three-member Pincus family loaded our typically-domestic minivan with suitcases and snack foods and headed in the direction of our neighbors to the North. 

Niagara Falls, in all its majestic aqueous glory, is truly breathtaking. However, after staring at an enormous wall of furiously rushing water, one’s sensibilities tend to shift from awestruck to bored to “I really have to go to the bathroom.” The Niagara Falls Chamber of Commerce is obviously aware of this emotional phenomenon. That has to be the reason that one of the most glorious displays of natural wonder and beauty is surrounded by kitschy souvenir shops, wax museums, arcades, miniature golf courses, spook houses, fast-food joints and budget motels. The average traveler might be turned-off by such vulgarity but this was right up the Pincus family’s alley.

Once past the brief, yet friendly, interrogation by the international border patrol, we crossed the Rainbow Bridge at Niagara Falls, New York and entered its bright and sparkly Canadian namesake on the other side of the Niagara River. As our son E. peered out of the backseat windows at the flashing lights and colorful building facades of frantic Clifton Hill, Mrs. Pincus navigated our Plymouth Voyager to the Quality Inn that would be our accommodations for several midsummer nights. We pulled into the Victoria Avenue driveway of the Quality Inn and my wife let me out by the front office entrance to check in. The motel was standard, no-frills lodging consisting of a two-story, horseshoe-shaped structure encircling a small in-ground swimming pool surrounded by unassuming chaise lounges and enclosed by a chain-link fence. The rooms were nondescript and served their purpose in cleanliness, convenience and affordability. 

Our first evening included a search for restaurant food that didn’t contain meat — evidently, a fairly difficult task in Canada. Afterwards, we strolled Clifton Hill, its surreal promenade alight with exuberance that spilled out of every open door and into the streets. E. was amazed and excited and we capped the night with a stop for ice cream before turning in. As we made our way back to our motel, we noticed a large group of Amish* teens — the boys in straw hats and dark vests with dark colored shirts; the girls in solid color dresses and starched white bonnets — heading in the same direction. As we walked, the population of the Amish youths steadily increased. When we reached the Quality Inn, the Pincus family proceeded to our first-floor room and the faction of Jakob Ammann‘s young disciples climbed the open-air staircase to the second story and retired to three adjoining rooms. 

Our next day was spent doing all the activities that tourists at Niagara Falls do. We donned disposable rain gear for the famous, yet drenching, Maid of the Mist boat ride. We retained our slickers for the equally waterlogged tour of the tunnels behind the Horseshoe Falls. We snapped photos along the guardrails protecting us from the hundred foot drop to the churning river below. Our whirlwind expedition sapped our collective energy, so we retreated to our motel for a rejuvenating dip in the pool. We hurriedly changed into swimming attire and started toward the small oasis in the middle of the parking lot. I laid claim to several recliners and accompanied my wife and son in the humble, water-filled cement tank. A few laps and splashes later, we were toweling off and relaxing. 

Soon, two boys emerged from the second floor rooms where the Amish family had disappeared the night before. They joined the small congregation of hotel patrons at the pool and commenced to splashing and cavorting and doing the playful things boys do in a pool. While the usually sheltered youngsters amused themselves, two attractive, bikini-clad young ladies sauntered across the parking lot from the far end of the hotel property. Their sights were set on the same midday refreshment the swimming pool offered their fellow guests. The girls idly chatted to each other as they dropped their towels on some chaise lounges on the opposite side of the pool and absentmindedly kicked off their sandals. The two Amish boys froze in mid-movement, their bodies rigid, their eyes transfixed. The young ladies — unaware that their every move was being observed and tracked by two innocent and bewildered 12 year-olds — continued their conversation. It was obvious that these two young men had never, ever, in their short lives, witnessed anything that remotely resembled the figures now on display before them. The female members of their traveling contingency sure as hell didn’t look like these… these…. females. Suddenly, one of the girls rose from her seat and strode to the edge of the pool. The boys’ eyes widened. The young lady pointed her leg and slowly and precariously dipped her toe into the water. At the exact same pace, the two boys slowly and precariously backed out of the water, never once taking their gaze away from the girl. It was as though Satan himself had chosen this small, man-made body of water to cool off his cloven hoof. The girl lazily stirred the water around with her extended leg, then withdrew it and patted it with a towel — never once glancing in the boys’ direction. By the time the young girl returned to the seat by her friend, the two boys were, no doubt, on their knees in their room praying and repenting for whatever they had done to have been subjected to the Devil’s temptations. 

Sometimes, vacations yield more sights that just the ones for the average tourist. And that works on several levels. 

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

* For over fifty years, my wife’s family owned and operated a general merchandise store in a farmer’s market located in the heart of Pennsylvania’s Amish population, so we are well-acquainted with their practices, observances and attire.

back in time

Actual, unretouched photo of Facebook

Well, I blocked another one.

In 2008, I reluctantly — very reluctantly — joined Facebook. I really had no interest in connecting (or in some cases, reconnecting) with names from my past. And anyone I wanted to currently interact with, well... I just did. I'd call or text or email. I didn't need to know what they were doing every second of the day. I didn't need to see a picture of the sandwich they had for lunch or the bowl of soup they were about to eat before their dinner's main course. I didn't need to see a picture of their kid not wanting to have his picture taken. And, by the same token, nobody was particularly interested in the day-to-day minutia of my life. Nor did I see the point in sharing.

But things change... right?

Now, my days and nights and hours in-between are filled with many of the things I just listed. My Facebook feed is filled with photos of sloppily-decorated cakes and wide expanses of unmarked highways and pictures of rash-cheeked children that I have never met and who, most-likely, never want to meet me. In addition, I read dozens — no, make that hundreds — of examples of misinformation, incorrect movie quotes, inaccuracies about historical events, skewed, opinionated and largely irrelevant commentary regarding how good a particular restaurant's hamburgers are and which classic rock groups suck. Yes sir! Facebook is a swirling, bubbling, stinking, festering, garbage-filled shithole. And.... I'm here for it!

Against my better judgment, I accepted many, many Facebook friend requests from a number of high school acquaintances, as well as some that went back to my elementary school days. Of course, those little schoolmates of mine — the ones I ran around with at recess, in addition to the ones who taunted me with contentious catcalls of "Jew!" and "Kike!" — are now approaching Medicare age and have, no doubt, faced the joys and adversities that life dealt them. And now, letting bygones be bygones, we share stupid jokes and silly pictures and sanitized memories. I have also become "friends" with folks who, to be honest, I do not remember from my youth. These are people with whom I have a dozen or so mutual friends but, for the life of me, I have absolutely no memory of meeting them, interacting with them or even ever hearing their names before. I had to look a couple of them up in my high school yearbook (after dusting it off) to try to jog my memory. Even then — nothing.

One woman — I'll call her "Terri" — sent me a friend request, which I accepted. We allegedly went to high school together. There were 1100 in my graduating class and I only knew a fraction of them. Her recent photos on Facebook showed a woman who, I would have guessed, was ten years my senior. She did not look familiar at all. When I tracked her down in the pages of my yearbook, she looked nothing like her recent pictures and still she did not ring a bell. In the days and weeks that followed, I saw lots of photos of her dog and her "amazing" husband. More pictures of her dog (whom she identified as her "best friend," leaving her "amazing" husband to occupy second place ...or maybe lower). I saw pictures of celebratory dinners at Olive Garden and IHOP (where the food is "amazing." As "amazing" as her husband was not made clear). Terri would regularly post memes about how dreadful Mondays are and how Friday is almost here, baby! I caught glimpses of her filthy house when the real focus of those pictures was her "amazing" son, who appeared to be less-than-excited at having his photo splashed across Mom's Facebook page and who did not exactly fit my vision of "amazing." I found Terri's posts to be annoying, while at the same time, highly entertaining. 

But, alas, Terri had to be blocked. And not for the reasons you might think.

As we have already established, Facebook is a disgusting, squalid wasteland brimming with volatile and extreme opinions on every subject from healthcare, government, television, music, life, parenting... you name it, someone on Facebook will gladly offer their opinion on it, whether or not it was requested. And, of course, no one — and I mean no one! — apologizes for their statements, especially if they have been proven wrong (sometimes just a short Google query away). There is more "doubling down" on Facebook than in Las Vegas. 

Most of the memes that Terri posted were benign, filled with unauthorized usages of Peanuts and Disney characters accompanied by a message about working or family or — gulp! — some vaguely religious sentiment. But recently, Terri crossed the line. Say what you will about your political convictions or some wild conspiracy theory. I will even let a thinly-veiled anti-Semitic remark slide by. But what Terri did was... was... downright unconscionable! She posted a blatantly inaccurate meme referencing Back to the Future, the globally-acknowledged, indisputable Greatest Movie Ever Made.

Heavy.

Now, I've seen my share of memes using stills from the beloved 1985 science-fiction comedy starring Michael J. Fox and Christopher Lloyd. They range from a bewildered Doc Brown and the single line "Great Scott!," which can be used as an all-purpose response to any number of astounding statements made on social media to more topical takes on the COVID-19 pandemic and uncanny similarities between future Biff Tannen and a certain 21st century president. In 2015, a new batch of memes flooded the internet displaying a wide array of manipulated dates on a screenshot of the digital readout of the DeLorean time machine featured in all three films of the trilogy. As every true Back to the Future fan knows, Marty McFly left present day 1985 on October 26. He landed in the 1955 of his parents' high school days on November 12, just prior to the "Enchantment Under the Sea Dance." (You know, the one where George and Lorraine had their first kiss.) In the final scene of Back to the Future, Doc Brown, in his now-ultra modernized DeLorean, returns from the future with a warning to Marty and girlfriend Jennifer. The teens hop into the time machine, their destination being October 21, 2015 — because, according to a rattled Doc Brown, something has to be done about their kids! For the few who do not have these events committed to memory (you know who you are), a quick Google search will confirm everything — dates, sequence, everything! However, any idiot with rudimentary Photoshop skills can produce a somewhat convincing version of that iconic shot of the DeLorean dashboard with the dates of their choice. And because most people take what they read on the internet as gospel (despite multiple warnings), these fake images are passed off as real and a vicious cycle begins. I thought that everything would have come to an end when the actual October 21, 2015 came and went, with numerous news outlets proclaiming the real-life arrival "Back to the Future" Day and even USA Today reproducing the newspaper front page as featured in Back to the Future II. But no! It was not to be. The inaccurate memes kept right on coming, thanks in part to a rogue website that allows visitors to plug in any dates they like to create their own version of the DeLorean control panel.

Did you jump ship?

Well, obviously Terri didn't know about this Back to the Future custom generator. Instead, she used a poorly-doctored version where some of the numbers weren't even digital numbers. They were plain old Arial. She posted her little wrong picture with the comment "As a die-hard Back to the Future fan, this is pretty cool." The picture displayed the date January 22, 2023 and the explanation "Today is the day the Marty arrives in the future." I saw this and began to fume. I couldn't restrain myself and I left a comment. Look, say what you will about the Bible or the government or the way I live my life, but don't you dare — dare! — mess with Back to the Future! "Terri," I began, "while this may be cool, it is wrong. Marty arrived in the future on October 21, 2015." Look, I may not know much. I cannot do math. I don't understand astrophysics. I don't know what goes on under the hood of my car. But — goddammit! — I know the entire series of events in the remarkable life of Marty McFly as though I experienced them myself. And I know that not only did Marty arrive in the future on October 21, 2015, but that the year 2023 plays no part in any of the three Back to the Future movies.

Terri, replied to my comment, saying: "In the second movie, he goes to 2023. They say it in the first one." What? What does that even mean? And that, as a matter of fact, was my reply to her nonsensical attempt at clarification. Almost instantly, I received a private message from Terri. She said:" You know everything. Please don't bother me any more."

No apology. No "are you sure?," leading to a continuing open dialogue allowing either of us to present evidence and prove our respective points. Nope! The internet won't have any of that! The internet would prefer that we behave like spoiled children who have just been told they cannot stay up another 30 minutes to watch a TV show they've seen a hundred times. The internet wants us to solve disagreements with name calling, sarcasm, insults and ultimatums. The internet encourages us to hold our breath until we turn blue and take our ball and go home. I am 61 years old. I stopped acting like a child when I stopped being a child.

But, this is Back to the Future we are talking about. Terri had to be blocked. What choice did I have?

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

bread and circus

Let me warn you. This story has no real resolution... except if you count a thorough — and well deserved — spanking from my mother.

When I was a kid, my family — as well as the majority of the families in my Northeast Philadelphia neighborhood — had many household staples and services delivered right to our house. On an almost daily basis, long before I awakened for the day, the little metal box that rested just outside our kitchen door, was filled with glass bottles of milk by a mostly unseen (at least by me) milkman. Sometimes, the milk was accompanied by butter and perhaps a dozen eggs. In summer, my mom would order lemonade or fruit punch and they would arrive along with the milk, in the same type of glass bottles. Every so often, on a weekend morning, I would actually get to see the milkman when he would come to our house to collect payment for his deliveries. He looked just like the guys I saw on TV shows and commercials. He wore all white with a black bow tie and shiny-brimmed cap. He'd park his truck at the foot of our driveway, bound up to our house and gently rap on our kitchen door. My mom would let him in and, depending on the amount of the bill, she'd pay in cash, extracting a few dollar bills and coins from her purse. If the Pincus family tab had gone unpaid for a few weeks (which was normal for my family, in keeping with my father's notorious mishandling of funds), my mom would pull her checkout from her purse and dash off a voucher for the outstanding dairy balance.

In addition to milk and dairy products, we'd get potato chips, pretzels and other assorted snacks from the Charles Chips driver. Once a month or so, that familiar truck would pull up and the driver would carry two big metal tins up to our house. The light-tan colored one was filled with crispy potato chips and the dark one was filled with pretzels. My brother would practically wrestle the pretzel tin out of the driver's hands. My brother laid unspoken claim to any pretzels that entered our house, almost demanding permission if a small sample of his private stock was to be had by anyone who wasn't him. Charles Chips offered cookies once in a while. I liked those. I liked them so much, my mom would often hide them somewhere in the kitchen so I didn't consume them all as soon as the package was opened. She knew what little Josh was capable of.

When I went to the supermarket with my mom, I marveled at the fact they sold items that we got delivered right to our house. Who was buying these items here?, I would think. Doesn't everyone get these things delivered? 

Along with milk and snacks — and even dry cleaning — the Pincuses had home delivery of bread. Following approximately the same schedule employed by the milkman, the bread man would supply us with loaves of bread, as well as hot dog and hamburger rolls. In direct competition with Charles Chips, Freihofer's Bakery (from whom we got our delivery) would offer cookies. Their marketing strategy was different, however. The driver — a genial, avuncular gentleman that the kids in the neighborhood called "Uncle Ben" — would tear open a package of cookies and hand them out to the kids, in hopes they would beg their moms to purchase additional boxes. Of course, it worked... at least in my house it did. Uncle Ben would wave to the kids as he drove his open-door delivery truck through the streets of my neighborhood. He'd politely tip his hat to the kids as he visited their homes, toting loaves of bread that would soon be used for school lunches and weekend breakfasts.

Before I was aware of an unprovoked pall of anti-Semitism befalling my neighborhood, I was friendly with several kids on my block. Prior to bigoted parents filling their children's impressionable minds with ideas that my family and I were responsible for killing the savior they worshiped on infrequent Sunday visits to church, we were all content to play tag and dodgeball and kick-the-can together, regardless of our religious beliefs. One of my closest friends was Lou, who lived across the street from me. Lou was a year or two older than I. However he, nor any of his siblings, ever attended the same schools the rest of the kids in the neighborhood attended. They all went to what was referred to in the 60s and early 70s as "special school." This, of course, was a euphemism for a facility for either delinquents, incorrigible troublemakers or learning disabled students. Lou and all of the children in his family fell into some or all those categories. Lou's father reminded me of the title character of a popular newspaper comic strip called "Moose Miller." Moose was a slovenly, scheming, unkept, ne'er-do-well who spent most of the daily three panels and Sunday eight panels reclining on a threadbare and patchwork sofa surrounded by stray animals, beer cans and trash. That was Lou's house. It was dark and dank and it smelled of burnt food, pet waste and sweat. No one was quite sure what Lou's father did for a living, as he was always home when other dads were off at work. Lou's mom was equally as disheveled. She would sometimes join a little sidewalk klatch of neighborhood moms to discuss household matters and maybe even a little gossip. Lou's mom would casually reveal some sort of unusual quirk that she obviously thought was the norm. Her views on personal grooming and child care were always points of astonishment among her peers. Once, she told my mom that she and Lou's father were never "officially" married — which was positively shocking in the pseudo-suburban world of the late 1960s. Lou had two unseemly older sisters who were both — as I recall — slutty and scummy. He had an athletic older brother who was friendly with my athletic older brother. Lou's younger brother was creepy in a "Damien" from The Omen sort of way. He often yammered on nonsensically and I don't remember understanding too much of what he had to say.

One summer afternoon, Lou and I were cavorting on our front lawns, as kids on summer vacation were prone to do. Our playtime was interrupted when our pal good old Uncle Ben pulled up in front of my house in his Freihofer's Bakery truck. "Hiya, fellahs!" he said, as he bounded out of his truck carrying two loaves of bread and his ledger book. He was obviously going in my house to collect on the outstanding balance owed by the Pincuses. Would my mom be able to satisfy our debt with the few bucks she had stashed in her purse... or would she have to dip into the available funds in the checking account?

This is where memories get a bit fuzzy. To this day, I am still not sure how, why or by whom the idea was hatched... but hatched it was. Lou and I stopped our playing and approached the rear of the parked Freihofer's Bakery truck. With Uncle Ben otherwise occupied in my house, one of us opened the back door and together we entered the truck. Inside, the back portion of the vehicle was lined with aluminum wire shelving, fully stocked with dozens and dozens of packaged loaves of bread, assorted rolls, cookies and a smattering of other baked goods that the Pincus family never requested. As though possessed by a controlling but unseen force, Lou and I began tossing loaves of bread out the open back doors and into the street. Acting like we were a crucial link in a makeshift "bucket brigade" that ended with us, we seemed to be determined to empty that truck of every last example of bakery product we could grab. Again, after 50-some years, I seemed to have blocked out the motivation behind our actions. We were just two dumb kids throwing bread out of a truck for no good reason.

As Lou and I were engaging in our decidedly illicit behavior, my brother and Lou's brother were sitting across the street on Lou's front porch. Their discussion was abruptly cut short when, in his peripheral vision, my brother caught a glimpse of several oven-fresh projectiles being launched out the back doors of the nearby Freihofer's truck.

"Hey!," my brother exclaimed, "There's bread coming out of that truck!" He directed Lou's brother's attention to the scene. Just then, Uncle Ben, having finished his financial dealings with my mom, was greeted by the same scenario as he ambled down my driveway. He quickened his step and advanced towards the posterior of his truck. He stood, dumbfounded and speechless, at the open doors, finally mustering up the strength to say "Hey!" Almost instantaneously, he was joined at the back door by my mom... and she was none too happy. She shrieked! She didn't say any actual words, she just shrieked. She took a small step into the truck, grabbed my forearm and yanked me out. My mom dragged my up the driveway — still shrieking — and threw me into the house. A few seconds later, Lou's mom appeared and led Lou to his house in a similar fashion, although she clamped two vise-like fingers onto his earlobe instead of his forearm... but the sentiment was the same.

I honestly don't remember too much of the aftermath. No doubt, I received a severe spanking from my mother who was tasked with keeping order in the Pincus household and was a much more feared disciplinarian than my ineffectual father. I'm not sure if home deliveries from the fine folks at Friehofer's Bakery continued. I do remember eventually purchasing bread from the supermarket, so perhaps my mother severed all ties with Uncle Ben's employer out of sheer humiliation. However, this story received many a retelling over the years. First in high school and continuing on in my life. When he became old enough to understand what his father did was dead wrong, I related the "bread truck incident" (as it had come to be known) to my son — who delighted in its stupidity and reveled in my childhood shortcomings. At recent gatherings in our home, I have even caught my son beginning the story to an eager group of listeners and inserting himself as the main protagonist. "That didn't happen to you!," I'd say, "That's my story!" 

Somehow, that made the story funnier.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

living in the past

When my son was little, he loved to go to the supermarket and check out what was new. If any product had a bright "NEW" banner splashed across the front of the package, my son wanted it. He fancied himself the unofficial taste-tester on behalf of the food-consuming public. Whether it was a cereal one week (or even a new variety of a favorite cereal) or a snack or drink the next, he wanted to be the first to sample it. His testing often yielded different results. The more common outcome was that the product was deemed "yucky" and was never to darken our kitchen again. Sometimes, the product in question would receive a favorable rating by my son. He would request a subsequent purchase, even before the initial supply had been depleted. This was often tricky. An immediate return trip to the supermarket to purchase the product would be made... only to be met with a rethinking of the test conclusion, leaving a surplus of said product to go uneaten, then stale, then trashed. Or.... if we delayed our next trip to the market to buy more, the particular item was no longer being manufactured, because of the opinions of other self-appointed taste-testers across the country. Some foods, like the recently reintroduced Dunakroos were winners from the start. A self-contained serving of cookies and frosting in which to dip them...how could you go wrong? But, purple ketchup? What on earth was Heinz thinking?

This ritual was not new to me. I was guilty of putting my mother through the same consumer demands when I was a kid. And the products were just as weird.

In the late 60s through early 70s, I was enrolled in a Philadelphia public school. The student body was culled from surrounding neighborhoods filled with middle-class families who couldn't afford to live in the "ritzier" suburbs. The classroom sizes averaged an overcrowded thirty-five students and each grade was made up of two or three classrooms. Lunchtime was an unruly free-for-all, with exasperated adult "lunchroom monitors" trying their best to wrangle students and maintain something that resembled order. The lunchroom could have easily been mistaken for a rodeo by an unaccustomed visitor. There was an area of the lunchroom where food could be purchased. Each month, a mimeographed menu was sent home, listing the upcoming menu choices. The food prepared by the cranky, hair-netted women who comprised the lunchroom staff, as I recall, was horrible. There were offerings like pizza made from hamburger buns, pre-formed Salisbury steak and something passed off as "shepherd's pie," that presented itself as a pre-digested bolus with stray peas, carrots and mashed potatoes as the only identifiable food components, and those were, at best, iffy. I, along with most of my classmates, brought my lunch, so as not to be subjected to that slop.... and that's being nice.

There were several components of my school lunches that I remember distinctly. There were trendy products that, like my son's enticement in later years, were very irresistible to me. My lunches would usually include a sandwich and two snack-type foods. The sandwich alternated between bologna (usually that assembly-line Oscar Mayer stuff from the yellow plastic "easy seal" package that was never easy to seal) or peanut butter and jelly. When I was 10, the standard, everyday peanut butter was replaced by a new product called Koogle. After being assaulted by commercials between Saturday morning showings of The Funky Phantom and Archie's TV Funnies, I asked — no demanded — my mother to buy Koogle, Kraft's take on peanut butter. It was like regular peanut butter, but it was flavored! How did nobody think of this before? Koogle came in banana, cinnamon, chocolate and vanilla varieties. It was available in jars that were smaller than other peanut butter packages that, I'm sure, was a nightmare for grocery clerks trying to stock shelves. Koogle, if I remember correctly, was awful. But, I ate it because I begged my mother to buy it and television told me it was delicious. I ate it just to hold up my end of the "being a kid" bargain. My lunch would also include a foil-wrapped Drake's Yodel, a chocolate covered cake roll similar to Little Debbie's Swiss Rolls. Yodels were great, but the best part was trying to see who could flatten the foil wrapping the cleanest and bring it back to its most original pristine state, getting out all of the folds and wrinkles, until it looked as though it just came off the roll at the factory. (Hey, we didn't have cellphones or Nintendo Switch.) If I was lucky, my lunch would also include a foil packet of Shake-A-Pudd'n and a plastic cup in which to "shake-a" it. With the simple instruction to "just add water," kids were promised an envy-inducing treat in just a few shakes. Plus, the actual activity of shaking was somehow perceived as fun itself! Again, I remember that no amount of agitation would allow Shake-A-Pudd'n to achieve the consistency of the pudding you'd get to cap off your meal at a diner or off the kid's menu at that fancy restaurant your parents took you to. However, at any given time, there would be a dozen small children scattered throughout the lunchroom, performing their closest approximation of the hula in hopes of creating a restaurant-quality dessert. The real goal — I believe — was to make the pudding-less children jealous.

The new product appeal was not limited to school lunches. Oh no! My mornings would start with a big bowl of Sir Grapefellow or some other unnaturally-flavored, overly-sweetened breakfast cereal that couldn't possibly have been good for me. When I got home from school, I would plop down in front of the television with a box of Tid-Bits and shovel those cheese-flavored choking hazards into my mouth until dinnertime. If my mom wasn't cooking that night, my evening meal would be one of a selection of Libbyland frozen dinners specifically formulated for kids. That meant I could choose from the "Pirate Picnic," which featured a foil pan that held a mini hot dog in a mini bun, a small serving of dog food that claimed to be "sloppy Joe," French fries, corn and chocolate pudding or a "Safari Supper," offering the main course of fried chicken and a side of spaghetti and mini-meatballs, along with the standard-issue corn, fries and pudding. The problems with these meals were numerous. The hot dog bun became rock hard under the same oven conditions needed to heat the corn and fries. The pudding, which, theoretically, should have been served chilled, was also subjected to the same heat as the rest of the meal's components. Plus, the decision to include corn, potatoes and pasta in the same meal was questionable — both by the Libby Corporation and by responsible parents. The actual appeal of the Libbyland menu wasn't the food (surprise!). It was the activities that were printed on the box that, with a little creative cutting as instructed by directions on a tiny section of the packaging, created a colorful holder for the foil pan once it was removed from the oven. The food was secondary to the minutes of fun provided by that box. Nevertheless, I still forced that pudding down my throat.

Now, I am less discerning about my grocery purchases. We buy what's cheap. We buy store-band equivalents of national brands... except for ketchup. That's still Heinz... although current, healthier-leaning eating habits preclude any food that requires ketchup. But, cereal, crackers, salad dressing.... all store brand. And my "advanced palate" doesn't know the difference, where my wallet does.

Only now do I appreciate and understand my son's interest and excitement in new products. He was just carrying on a family tradition.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

book I read

Recently, as part of a promotion at the radio station that employs my son, E. was asked to select a few special books from his youth to share with the listening audience. He was at our house, wherein his childhood bedroom remains a veritable shrine, practically undisturbed since that traumatic day he moved into his own house several years ago*. His bookshelf is still stacked with a large library that reflects the progression of reading material collected throughout his formative years. Okay, we sold his bureau, desk and lamp at a yard sale, but still....

When E. was little, bedtime always included a story. I loved to read to him and he loved being read to. The nightly ritual was always the same. After a bath, E. would get into his pajamas and choose a book. Then he'd climb up on his bed, where we were joined by our cat Scarlett — without any sort of prompt or enticement. The two of them would settle in as I read the evening's selection, be it an installment from the "Curious George" series or a dose of Dr. Seuss silliness or any number of off-kilter volumes that Mrs. Pincus and I thought would tickle E.'s developing sense of humor or trigger his budding imagination.

E. browsed the spines of each well-worn (and well-loved) and picked out three books. Three books, I assume, that had special meaning to him and stirred pleasant memories from his youth. The first book was Where The Wild Things Are by Maurice Sendak, a familiar book, popular since its publication in 1963. The version that E. chose, however, is translated into Hebrew and reads from right to left. (Curiously, the illustrations are mirror images of the original.) The second book was It Happened in Pinsk by Arthur Yorinks. This quirky tale concerns shoe salesman Irv Irving, who wakes up one day without his head. The story unfolds with nary a sense of panic, as Irv's wife fashions a new head for her husband out of a pillowcase stuffed with socks. E. loved this story and the "matter-of-fact" way it was told. I provided different voices for the different characters that Irv met in his pursuit of his missing head — much to E.'s delight. The third book was The Giant Jam Sandwich by John Vernon Lord and Janet Burroway. This implausible yarn — presented in rhyme — addressed a terrible wasp problem in the fictional town of Itching Down. The inhabitants of the town constructed the title assemblage as a way to trap the pesky insects.

Of course, we read a lot of books over the years. We read classics like The Wind in the Willows and A Wrinkle in Time (which I remember being a lot better in my youth). We read a number of Roald Dahl's twisted tales, as well as the first Harry Potter novel, just after its publication. (I found it to be a Roald Dahl rip-off.) And we read a lot of silly stories about pigs and bears and other amusing characters. We enjoyed reading together. I like to think that it had a positive and memorable impact on E.'s development into the adult he has become. 

On occasion, I have called E. — out of the blue — to ask if he looks back and has good memories of his childhood. Once he confirms that I am not dying, he answers "yes," and then realistically adds "for the most part." 

I'm okay with that.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

*Don't bring this up to Mrs. Pincus

songs from the big chair

This story was originally published on my illustration blog in 2009. - JPiC

My brother was born in 1957. The Pincus family was a nice, sweet, calm family for four and a half years. Then little Josh was born and all hell broke loose. 

It began when I was brought home from the hospital. My parents thought it would be nice if the baby brought a present for his big brother. They stopped at a toy store on the way home from the hospital. My father ran in and, being 1961, had no problem purchasing a wood and metal rifle for his older son as a gift from his infant. My mother and father arrived home with brand new baby Josh. At first, my brother expressed disappointment at the sight of a baby. When my mom had explained that a “new playmate” would be coming, he expected one of his own age immediately ready to play. He never imagined it would come in the form of a whining and crying poop machine. The gift of the rifle softened his initial reaction — until years later, after mastering walking and hand-eye coordination, I broke that rifle. 

The family home, in a budding Northeast Philadelphia neighborhood, was a great place. My brother had a huge backyard in which to romp and play and develop his eventual athletic ability. Access to the large front lawn was unobstructed and it offered a comparable open space. When I gained confidence in my walking skills, my parents were forced to construct a chain-link fence around the perimeter of their property, complete with a hinged gate with a large steel padlock. My mother often told of the endless hours I would spend trying to pick that lock and plotting my escape. 

I started kindergarten at Stephen Decatur Elementary School in 1966. My mom began a small business of transporting my classmates from the neighborhood to kindergarten. She drove a station wagon that featured a large flat area behind the front seats when the rear seats were folded down. Approximately fifteen tykes were sloshed around the back of that car, unencumbered by seat belts or any sort of safety restraints. After all, this was the freewheeling 60s and child safety was not a concern. My classmates’ parents were happy not to be burdened with driving their kids to school themselves, so, for this service, my mom received a small weekly fee. My mom kept that service up for thirteen years, with the fee escalating only slightly. 

My parents were a bit apprehensive about the start of my school career. They were very familiar with my out-of-control behavior, but few people outside of the family were. Once I entered the classroom and was introduced to my classmates, things were pretty uneventful. I listened to my teacher and did as I was instructed. I happily and complacently participated in playtime, story time and whatever-else “time” that was part of the curriculum. One day, I witnessed a fellow kindergartner push another student. In full view of the entire class of wide-eyed, innocent pupils, the offending five-year old was led to a large wooden chair situated in a corner of the room. He was reprimanded by the teacher and made to sit in “The Big Chair” to think about what he had done. He sat as if in the pillory in a colonial town square, on public display, open to the class to levy their silent mockery upon him. After a period of time, his sentence was served and he was free to rejoin the class activities. I, however, was intrigued by the Chair. It was so big and ominous, sitting at the far end of the classroom in a veritable “no man’s land”. During regular class time, no one played near it. The teacher read stories far away from it. When we rested on our mats for nap time, the Chair stood silent and menacing in that dimly-lit room. As the days and weeks went on, several more of my classmates committed offenses worthy of a stretch in The Big Chair. As I observed them in their dire, sometimes tearful state, suddenly, it occurred to me — I needed to sit in that chair. I thought about what horrible act, what heinous deed I could perform to get to sit in that Chair. I was determined. 

Honestly, I don’t remember what I did. After all, it was well over 40 years ago. But, it was something. Something so awful that my teacher had no choice but to make me sit in that Chair. I was elated. I was led to the Chair as a death row inmate is led to his final destination. I climbed up the wooden rungs of its thick legs and planted my butt on its huge flat seat. The view from up there was not as rewarding as I had imagined. The emotion that those staring tiny and forlorn faces offered me was not what I had hoped for. 

It sucked being in The Big Chair.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

I know what I like

When I was a kid, going out to a restaurant was not that big of a deal because my family did it a lot. I'm not talking about an extravagant, fancy place that required my dad to wear a tie and my mom to call ahead and make a reservation. My family most frequently ate at the Heritage Diner, an unassuming establishment just outside the confines of my Northeast Philadelphia neighborhood. My father — a staunch traditionalist, very set in his ways — ate breakfast there most mornings and it was always the same. So much so, that the waitresses knew what to bring without even taking an order. Two scrambled eggs, toast and coffee. Never — I repeat never! — would his breakfast platter ever include "home fries," as the sight of potatoes in the morning made my father nauseous. Fifteen cigarettes before 7 AM were just fine, but potatoes.....

Besides my father's solo, potato-less breakfasts, my family would often have our dinner at the Heritage Diner. The Heritage had standard diner fare — a menu the size of a small novel and a two-sided, typewritten page of "Daily Dinner Specials" that included soup or salad, choice two vegetables, bread and butter, a beverage and a limited selection of desserts — all for one low price. (Or so I imagined. The price of dinner didn't matter to me. I was a kid, after all. My dad was picking up the check.)

Eating at The Heritage during the week, the unspoken rule was to order a hamburger or a tuna sandwich or maybe an omelette. The "Daily Dinner Specials" were reserved for weekends, specifically Sunday. We had Sunday dinners at The Heritage probably twice a month. Those were the times when we were permitted to order off the "Daily Dinner Specials" menu. I would scan the two sides of that poorly typed sheet, reading each and every entry — even the ones I had no intention of ever ordering... which was most of them. I was always intrigued when my mom — after reading those enticing offerings — would tell the waitress that she would like liver. In my little mind, I would think to myself: You can have anything you want! Why would you order liver in a restaurant? That's like punishment! Once, I actually asked my mom why she always gets liver. She smiled and explained that she loves liver, but no one else in the family does (not even my dad — who was a butcher by trade). So restaurants presented the only opportunity she had to get liver. And she didn't have to cook it! Made perfect sense — even if the end result was a plate of liver.

I, however, usually ordered one of two entrees — alternating on alternate Sundays. Sometimes I would get roasted turkey because it reminded me of Thanksgiving. It came with a salad, which I would automatically slide over to my mom just as the waitress set the plate in front of me. It also included a baked potato, which I would eat (except for the skin) and (at my mother's insistence) string beans, which I would stare at. Alongside the mound of sliced turkey drenched in that unnaturally-yellow gravy, was a small souffle cup containing a dollop of cranberry sauce, which I also never ate. My other "go to" dinner was fried flounder, which was essentially a giant fish stick. It, too, came with a second salad for my mother, a serving of French fries and a liquidy bowl of cole slaw which I stared at like it was a bowl of string beans. One time, I think I may have asked for, as my two side orders, French fries and a baked potato.

For me?

The choices of available vegetables that the Heritage offered to accompany their "Daily Dinner Specials" read like "Nixon's Hit List," if it was compiled by an eight-year old. String beans, broccoli, a mixture of broccoli and cauliflower, peas, carrots, a mixture of peas and carrots, a mixture of peas, carrots and string beans, apple sauce, creamed spinach, French fries or a baked potato. This was food for old people. I suppose that was the target audience for the "Daily Dinner Specials." I guess whoever decided what would go on the "Daily Dinner Specials" each day presumed that any children along for the ride would order from the special children's menu (with its entrees whimsically-named in honor of cartoon characters and storybook heroes, presented along with a 6-pack of crayons and a ready-to-be-colored place mat). They knew darn well that no kid was asking Mom if it was okay to order creamed spinach.

But a funny thing happened. I grew up. And I grew up to surprise myself.

Lately, I found myself actually ordering broccoli in a restaurant. Broccoli! Me! Little Josh Pincus! Imagine! I have done this more than once, too. I have ordered peas and carrots. I have ordered cole slaw. I have even ordered string beans and eaten them. I honestly can't believe that so many foods I shunned as a child have become some of my favorites. I don't even pick the lettuce off of my (veggie) burger! Me! And I'll eat the skin from a baked potato. My mom was right! It is the best part.

I became a vegetarian in 2006. (Not a vegan, a vegetarian. If I was a vegan, you'd know it. Every blog post would be about me being a vegan.) Since then, I have eaten more vegetables than I ever had in my entire life. I've even become more adventurous, venturing out into the world of succotash, asparagus, Brussels sprouts, Harvard beets, artichokes.... and enjoying every one of them. Okay, maybe not Brussels sprouts so much. Because I am a vegetarian, I won't order liver in a restaurant, but, I no longer pass the salad off to someone else.

My mom would be proud.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

leave those kids alone

My ten-year old nephew loves, lives and breathes basketball. He talks about when he goes pro, not if, as though it is already decided. He plays on a traveling basketball team with other ten-year olds, some of whom exhibit moves on the court that belie their years.

A few weeks ago, I got to see my nephew's team play against another team of ten-year olds. The kids took to the court and each one played their little hearts out. They looked to be having a great time passing and dribbling and shooting and blocking and scoring. The excitement was infectious and the fun was palpable. As the youngsters ran up and down the court, their teammates on the bench cheered them on and their coaches sporadically shouted out direction and words of encouragement.

But, from the bleachers side of the game, it was a different story.

I sat with my wife and my nephew's parents. Nearby were a few gentlemen that behaved as though this was the crucial series-deciding game of the NBA finals. Their entire existence hinged on this game. I don't know who's parents they were, because these few fathers were calling out strategy to everyone on the team, not necessarily just their kid. There were determined yells of "Block that!" and "On your left!" and "Behind you!" Some of the call-outs were louder than the coach's instructions, distracting the young players' focus from the game. These same fathers grumbled and stamped their feet against the wooden slat seats when a referee blew his whistle against the home team. Some even vocalized their displeasure with the rulings. At the end of the game, with a lopsided score, one second left to play and no chance of a comeback, I heard a few of the parents giving audible snickers.

It was embarrassing. I never played sports as a child, (Who am I kidding? I never played sports as an adult, either!) but, I always heard stories of frustrated "stage parents" living their failed sports dreams vicariously through their children, however witnessing it made my blood run cold. Their self-serving actions undermined the fun and sportsmanship that these games are supposed to nurture. After the game, some fathers didn't even congratulate their budding athlete. 

Can't these kids just have a little fun without your shortcomings entering into it?  Come on... they're only kids once. You had your chance.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com