I'm on the hunt I'm after you

In keeping with our current campaign of downsizing a houseful of stuff, Mrs. Pincus and I had a yard sale last weekend. I printed out a stack of signs to hang up around our neighborhood. One evening after work, Mrs. P drove me around and I hopped out of the car to tack my paper advertisements on strategically-determined wooden utility poles within a ten (or so) block radius Chez Pincus.

So, we had our little yard sale and when the new week began, we put off the tedious task of taking down the signs until mid-week. (Yes, we are civic-minded people, who do the right thing and take down the signs we put up. Unlike most people who advertise their yard sales, choosing to leave the responsibility of removal for the "sign fairy" or until they deteriorate in the elements.) On Wednesday evening, Mrs. P got behind the wheel of her car and I took the passenger seat, ready to retrace our route through our neighborhood.

As we tooled around our small, suburban community, we saw that someone (or someones) had beat us to the punch. Many of the signs I had attached to utility poles were now just bright-colored corners held in place by heavy-duty staples. In some instances, a long strip of neon green paper sporting the first digits of our address flapped in the breeze. But, for the most part, only corners remained. Sure, there were plenty of signs still intact and I was determined to get each and every one, provided we could remember where we hung them all.

On a long stretch of Church Road, a main thoroughfare that bisects Elkins Park and continues on into the next township, I had hung a number of signs on consecutive poles. I jumped out of the car, finding it easier to just walk the whole way, instead of getting in and out of the car every few feet and have Mrs. P continually halt traffic. So, I got out and my wife drove on ahead to circle the block and eventually meet up with me down the road. I strolled the sidewalk, grabbing and ripping down each sign as I came upon them. At a forked intersection, a small car slowed down next to me and a young man emerged from the passenger side door. He was tall, athletic-looking in a University of Pittsburgh t-shirt and a dark ball cap — the bill pointing backwards — on his head. He hesitantly approached me. I assumed he was going to ask directions like a guy did last week when I was hanging the signs up. (A guy in a rusty heap, its backseat filled with assorted stained boxes and bolts of dirty fabric, leaned over and shouted through the open passenger window, "Which way's Glenside [another nearby town]?" I pointed over my shoulder and said, "Back there." "Back there!?!," he repeated in angered disbelief. He gunned his engine, ignored my reply and continued in the opposite direction.)

The young man smiled. "Sir, would you mind if I took your picture?"

I cocked my head and squinted to indicate I need further explanation. He complied. "My friends and I are on a scavenger hunt. We need a picture of a red-headed stranger." He offered a forlorn look, punctuated by a sorrowful pair of puppy dog eyes.

I laughed. "Sure," I said, "You can take my picture."

A look of relief and elation came across his face. "Really? Cool! I gotta call my friends. They'll be here in a minute." He quickly tapped his cellphone and then shoved it into his pocket. While we waited for his friends, I asked him what else was on his scavenger hunt list. "Any call for old yard sale signs?," I asked and gestured with the stack of spent signs in my hand.

He allowed a small laugh. "Ha! No.," he continued, "We had to walk a stranger's dog."

"Someone let you walk their dog?," I questioned.

"Oh yeah, and she was very nice about it," the young man said proudly.

"I would have run off with the dog.," I joked. He didn't get that I was joking and briefly gave me a look of slight horror. I quickly changed the subject. "So, have you been driving around Elkins Park looking for a red head for a long time?"

"Not really.," he replied, "Well, not too long."

After a minute or two, another small car parked illegally across the street, its two right wheels up on the curb. The doors flew open and four kids in their 20s bounded out, each wearing a heather gray t-shirt emblazoned with the logo of a different college. The group gathered around me like we were posing for a family reunion picture and I was the long-lost relative, discovered after years of searching. I announced, "Before you take your picture, is it okay that I'm not a natural redhead?" They laughed and assured me that it was fine. They took their picture, thanked me over and over again and bounded off in much the same manner they arrived.

My wife pulled up as the episode was ending and I filled her in as I climbed into the car. When I finished, she laughed and told me she had passed them on her drive around the block.

"They were putting clothes on a fire hydrant and taking a picture.," she revealed.

Who says nothing exciting ever happens in the suburbs? 

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

hush, hush, keep it down now

This has been a pretty adventurous year for Mrs. Pincus. A die-hard driver, she agreed to take the train into Center City Philadelphia a whopping three times this year! I, of course, have been a daily train commuter for nearly eight years (as chronicled regularly on this blog). But there is still something both cute and quaint in Mrs. P's fascination with "how the other half lives." I love watching her scan the train car in the same wondrous manner as when she boards a ride at Disneyland. I smile when she earnestly thanks the conductor when we exit at our destination — something no regular, monthly pass-carrying train passenger would ever consider doing. After all, those bastards make us late for work most mornings.

"Meet me at the Eagle"

Our latest adventure on the train took us to the annual Wanamaker's (now Macy's) Christmas Light Show. The display, a multimedia presentation comprised of blinking lights synchronized to a soundtrack of familiar Christmas songs, has been a Philadelphia staple since its introduction in 1956. Every two hours, crowds pack the famous first-floor Grand Court, surround the famous bronze eagle sculpture (a central meeting place for Philadelphians for decades with the universally understood direction: "meet me at the Eagle") and marvel at the animated lights that stretch several stories high. The highlight of the spectacle is the musical accompaniment by the world's largest, still-playable* pipe organ.

Mrs. P had not seen the show for years. I, coincidentally, just saw it this past Monday, taking advantage of a day off from work and meeting my Center City-dwelling son. The two of us stood among the throng of shoppers who ceased their bustling long enough to enjoy a bit of free holiday entertainment — a rarity in these times. It was hokey and endearing and very cool.

Afterwards, we strolled the store like tourists in our own city (or at least former residents who had been relegated to the suburbs thirty years ago). The once-majestic store, featured in several motion pictures like Blow Out, Mannequin and Twelve Monkeys, has lost some of its unique grandeur and now looks closer to its cookie-cutter mall counterparts. My spouse, never one to pass up an opportunity to buy something, made a couple of small purchases before we headed out to nearby Chinatown for dinner. It was like an old-fashioned "Date Night."

"No meat! None!"

We walked five or so blocks through a blustery December evening to New Harmony, a small, nondescript restaurant, one of the few in Chinatown offering an exclusive vegetarian and – gasp! – vegan menu. And the place has Kosher certification, to boot! We entered the restaurant and were shown to a table in the nearly empty dining room. As we studied the menus, a group was seated at the table next to us, a mere foot or two away. It was two young ladies and a fellow approximately of early college age. We tried to disregard them and concentrate on our dinner selection, but that was difficult.

They were loud. Very loud.

And their conversation was inane. Distractingly inane.

On my daily commute to and from work, my train makes a stop at Temple University. I am both intrigued and appalled by the conversations I have involuntarily overheard between students boarding at that station. Considering they are (allegedly) furthering and honing their education, they can passionately discuss, at great length, such riveting topics as the pros and cons of various protective coverings available for earbuds. I've heard interactions that were fraught with incorrect information, mispronounced names and locations and improbable accounts of events... all punctuated with nervous twitches and insecure giggles. This is the future of our society, dammit. An awkward, uninformed, ill-mannered, unwashed faction, poised to keep things running smoothly when you and I are sucking our meals through a straw.

So, the small representative group who were nearly our dining-mates loudly perused the menus, reading selected entrees to each other, as though none of the others had menus themselves. Every so often, they'd stop and loudly question if the "meat" that was listed for each entree was indeed a vegetarian substitute... despite the large, bold headings noting "IMITATION MEAT" on every single page. When the waiter came to take their order, the fellow (the loudest, and obviously dimmest, of the bunch) again asked, "It's not real meat, right?" The waiter assured them several times. 

My wife and I tried to ignore them. However, at times, conversation between us (just inches apart) was overpowered by the loud, atonal squawks emanating from our young co-diners. A few times during their meal, I still heard the guy's grating cackle ask, "This isn't real meat, right? I keep forgetting." Nervous laugh.

We finished our dinner (it was really good, in spite of the company). After paying the check, we stood and began gathering our scarves, gloves and coats for our trek back to the train station. As I was threading my arm into my jacket sleeve, I glanced in the direction of the nearby diners, now finishing up their meal. The fellow — his big, gawky head cocked to one side atop his elongated, Adam's-Appley neck — was shoveling spoonfuls of rice into his mouth... straight from the serving bowl. I bit my lip to stop my gut-reaction of screaming, "You moron! That's for the whole table!!" I covertly gestured to my wife. She rolled her eyes. He continued to feed from the community bowl, to the slight chagrin of his female companions.

We left. We left a future generation of decision-makers stumped by the ponderous choice of fortune cookies.

The future looks bleak. I hope they have good Chinese food.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

* The world's largest pipe organ is in Boardwalk Hall in Atlantic City. Like most things in Atlantic City, it is in a state of decline and no longer fully operational.

my baby takes the morning train

On my short commute to and from work, my regular train makes a stop at Temple University. Temple is the alma mater of several prominent members of the local and national media, as well as many respected individuals who have contributed to the fields of literature, art and entertainment. Oh, and Bill Cosby.

Usually, I occupy my time on the train by reading, being one of only a handful of commuters reading from a book that has actual pages and a cover. However, when I am between books or if I had a particularly trying day at work, I doze - careful not to allow myself to fall into a deep slumber, as my trip home lasts a mere 25 minutes.

Yesterday was one of my "in between books" days, so once securing a seat after boarding at Suburban Station, I closed my eyes. I remained aware enough to count the four stops until we arrived at the station in my neighborhood. More passengers boarded at Market East Station and the train lumbered out of a tunnel towards Temple.

Without opening my eyes, I could tell when the train entered Temple Station. Considering that Temple is a renowned institute of higher learning, handing out countless undergraduate and graduate degrees, I would be hard pressed to find a single student — over the course of its 128 years of existence — to have earned credits in personal hygiene. I draw my conclusion from the unmistakable aroma that instantly fills the train car when the backpack and book-toting students file in. One does not need to raise an eyelid to know you've reached Temple, you need only to inhale the fermented mingling of sweat, tobacco and hormones wafting throughout the vehicle. As one young adult body pushes up against another as the train fills, the air is heavy with the stench of unwashed laundry and stale breath. It makes for a lovely and memorable ride home.

So, I'm already uncomfortable as I wedged the knuckles of my right hand under my nose in a futile effort to block my already violated nostrils. The doors slide shut and, as the train pulls away from the platform, a young couple take up temporary standing residence just inches from my seat. As they began to converse, I noticed something odd. They were in such close proximity, that I had no choice but to overhear their verbal exchange, but something was not right. I thought maybe a glob of earwax had dislodged and was preventing me from hearing clearly. I quickly and discreetly jiggled my pinky inside my ear canal. Nope. No help. The voice still sounded weird — flat and alien, with no discernible words.

Then I realized it wasn't me, it was actually the way the young lady was speaking. Her voice was a tone, not a voice at all. It was a single, unwavering monotone. She was just making noise. White noise — the echo-y sound a radio makes when it's not tuned correctly to a station. She sounded like the unseen adults in the old Charlie Brown holiday cartoons... that "wahwahwahwah" that made us laugh as children. I stared. I was dumbfounded. I could not believe my eyes... I mean my ears. She was forming no intelligible language, yet her traveling companion hung on to everything that came from her mouth, as though she were imparting the wisdom of the ages. Then again, he didn't look like he was in any great rush to split the atom.

How could she carry on a conversation? How could her professors understand her? How could she tell a story or ask for directions or be interviewed for a job or..... or.... or.......

The train pulled up at my stop. I got off and walked home.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com