the sporting life

I am not particularly athletic. My brother — now, there's an athletic guy! He has played on various softball teams. He has participated in several marathon runs. He has bowled. He has golfed. He was on the wrestling team in college. He bikes. Me? Not even close. 

Except that one time.

Back in the early 90s, I worked for a legal publisher. I was a layout artist, responsible for the composition of several dozen newsletters dealing with specific aspects of the legal industry. This was the first job I had that could be considered as part of the "corporate" world. Prior to this, I was employed by small companies with a client base that did not stretch beyond the Philadelphia area. At this job, however, I dealt with coworkers in several different states, across many departments and sub-departments. My department itself, was divided into different divisions, with each one made fully-aware of their responsibilities and how they were to interact with the other divisions. It was very regimented and very structured. I got used to the culture and, to my surprise, I enjoyed it. It was also the first job in which I actually socialized with my coworkers. Previously, at other jobs, I came in to work, did my job and went home — with little to no interaction with co-workers. At this job, there was a very close camaraderie among co-workers. I ended up going to after work "happy hours" with co-workers, as well as other friendly, so-called "morale building" extra-curricular activities.

I was hired in March and as spring rolled around, I was recruited to join the company softball team. Although I was a pretty avid baseball fan, I had zero skills on the field. I worked with a group of guys who rivaled my brother in athletic ability. Of course, there were also a few who were at my level of ineptitude, so the playing field was evened, so to speak. But, everyone was very enthusiastic about the upcoming softball season. We would be playing other teams comprised of employees from neighboring office complexes. Once the team was assembled — a co-ed group, as dictated by league rules — we decided to get in a little practice before our first scheduled game.

Oh, man, did we suck. We were terrible in the field. With a few (very few) exceptions, we were terrible at bat. All that was missing was the mocking tones of Bizet's Carmen serving as the accompaniment to our version of the beleaguered Bad News Bears. Nevertheless, we all had fun and, I think, that was more important than anything. Actually, a cooler full of beer. That was most important.

On the day of our first scheduled game, the team spoke excitedly throughout the day. After work, we gathered at a nearby public park, where a ballfield had been reserved for us to play a team from a computer software company from our industrial park. As we lazily batted balls around and half-heartedly fielded grounders, a van pulled up and a group of guys claiming to be the software team exited. We collectively stared as these guys looked like professionals, right down to their matching jerseys and well-worn spikes. An impartial umpire, hired by the corporate league, called for the game to commence. And commence it did... much to our dismay. We got our asses handed to us, as ball after ball flew over our outfielders' heads and each infield grounder was played in an uncannily accurate recreation of Bill Buckner's infamous play in Game 6 of the 1986 World Series. By the third inning, the ten run "mercy rule" was implemented and we all got to go home early.

As the season progressed, things didn't change. We didn't get any better. The competition, however, did get better, as the "ten run rule" came into play earlier and earlier. But, we didn't care. We were there to have fun. And have fun we did, After a few games, the cooler full of beer went from one to two per game. Our team laughed off poorly executed plays. We snickered at swings made at purposely bad pitches. Our opponents, at times, grew angry at our on-field antics, but we didn't care. We were having fun. 

We adopted the team name "OBI," which stood for "one bad inning. (We even got t-shirts with a logo I designed depicting a hapless fielder watching an easy ground ball pass between his ankles.) That was our typical downfall — one bad inning. It usually came early and it was usually enough to end our games early, too. But, still, we were having the most fun of anyone on the field. 

One game, a few guys from our on-site printing plant showed up to play. They belted enough long balls to rack up a win for our team. (Granted, the other team was playing with a bunch of first-timers, as their regular players were away at a conference.) Our celebration prompted our self-appointed manager to suggest that we — as a team — visit a nearby batting cages to get in some extra practice. The team returned his suggestion with a look of dumbfoundedness and rousing chorus of "fuck you!" We still weren't interested in getting better. Most of us were only interested in getting together and drinking beer.

We ended the season with just that single win, surrounded by a whole bunch of empty beer cans.

But, boy! did we have fun!

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

don't know nothing

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

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

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

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

I was wrong.

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

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

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

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

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

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

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

if I can't have you

On Sunday, my wife and I took our son to one of his favorite stores - H Mart. We actually live equidistant from two H Marts, but he chose to go to the larger one. (Just as a side note, the smaller H Mart is the actual one that is referenced in Michelle Zauner's best-selling memoir Crying in H Mart.) Okay, maybe the larger H Mart is a bit further from our house than the one that traumatized the lead singer of Japanese Breakfast, but, nevertheless, we obliged my son and his shopping list and drove the extra mile.

This particular H Mart is at the end of a large, L-shaped shopping center. Closer to where we parked in the very busy, very congested parking lot is a Family Dollar store. When we got out of our car, my son made a beeline towards H Mart, while my wife announced that she was going to check out the Family Dollar store and we would meet up with him shortly. I had never been in a Family Dollar store, despite their having over 8000 locations nationwide. As a matter of fact, before their 2015 acquisition by rival Dollar Tree, Family Dollar was the second largest retailer — of its kind — in the country.... and neither Mrs. P nor I had ever been inside one. Well, that was about to change. As they say, you're never too old to do new things... although I suppose the proverbial "they" were referring to skydiving or learning a foreign language.

Excitedly, we breached the door of Family Dollar and — let me tell you — this place was a shithole of the highest level. I mean it put other shitholes to shame! If they gave awards for shitholes.... well, you get it. I'm not sure what I was expecting, but I should have been expecting the same strange amalgamation of mismatched, out-of-fashion, discontinued, brand name knock-off crap that I have seen in other dollar stores. Family Dollar was no different. Its aisles were alternately jammed and empty. Some were stocked with big bottles of laundry detergent whose alternative brand labels were faintly reminiscent of Tide or Cheer. Adjacent aisles sported empty shelves with just one or two items — a pair of generic sneakers and a few cookbooks by a TV chef whose show has not presented new episodes in years — and all sorts of other merchandise littering the floor. The toy department displayed boxes of things that looked like Lego alongside packaged superhero figures from a movie that made its big premiere in theaters for the lucrative Christmas season... the Christmas season of 2019.

Mrs. P, with her keen eye, spotted a small counter display box with PVC figures of characters from the film The Nightmare Before Christmas. These, she thought preemptively, could serve as small gifts for children (neighbors that Mrs. P undeservingly fawns over) or could eventually make it out to one of our world-famous (or neighborhood famous, at least) yard sales — if they were cheap enough. There was a small sticker on each figures' backing card that showed the price as $1.25. Mrs. P grabbed all of them (about eight or nine) and handed me the box to carry as we scouted the store for more "treasures." In the very next aisle, there were hooks of various hair accessories. "Ooh!," my wife said, "I should grab a couple of hair ties for my mom." Mrs. P — as we have already established — is the nicest person in world. She regularly checks in and tends to her parents who are of an advanced age and are not nearly as mobile as they once were. Especially, my mother-in-law. On a regular basis, Mrs. P washes and combs her mother's hair, often tying it back to keep it neat and out of the way. Being the nice person she is, my wife thought some new hair ties would be a sweet surprise for her mom. She selected two different styles and tossed them in the box with the Nightmare figures.

We made our way through the narrow aisles until we decided we had seen enough. (Actually, I had seen enough as soon as I walked through the doorway.) Anyway, we took our small purchases up to the checkout counter and laid them out. We were greeted by a friendly young man who picked up the first figure and waved it across the electric eye of the price scanner. It beeped and the LED readout on the cash register showed ".01." The cashier scrunched up his face at the price and turned to another young man who was by the doors straightening the small shopping carts. The other man craned his neck to see the lighted display. He explained to the cashier, "If something comes up 'just a penny,' that means you can't sell it. It's old merchandise and you just gotta throw it away."

I have been shopping in stores for many, many, many years. I have even worked in my share of retail stores, some on the large chain level and others of the "Mom & Pop" variety. Never — and I do mean never — have I ever been instructed to throw away a perfectly saleable item — in full view of a customer — because a "secret code" price popped up. But this guy stood firm. He was adamant about not letting the cashier sell these figures to us at any price. He stood by as the cashier gathered up the nine or so figures, walked them over to a nearby trash receptacle behind the counter and deposited them with an audible clunk. He returned sheepishly from carrying out his duty as a loyal and abiding employee of  Family Dollar and asked if we still wanted the hair ties. The man who was straightening the shopping carts stood defiantly with his arms crossed, a smirk on his face, silently exuding pride in his flagrant toeing of the corporate line.

"Yes, please," replied Mrs. Pincus and the cashier continued to ring up our remaining item, in this case, just the hair ties. A woman, in some managerial capacity, stood behind the cashier and slowly shook her head in soundless disagreement. Once the now-abbreviated transaction was completed, we left the store. Mrs. P politely held the door for someone who followed us out. It was the manager woman, whose shift for the day had just ended. We all walked out to the parking lot together. The manager woman was still shaking her head, adding a few "tsk tsks" under her breath. Mrs. P chuckled. The woman smiled and said, "I would have sold them to you or just given them to you... if he wasn't there." The "he" was obviously the shopping cart straightener whose job — it appeared — also included loss prevention, inventory control, corporate policy and telling the teacher it was five minutes before three o'clock and homework had not yet been assigned.

We took our purchases — our two purchases — to our car and tossed them in the back among a collection of shopping bags, a few empty boxes and  assorted other items that have accumulated in Mrs. P's vehicle. We went to meet our son in H Mart.

A few days later, Mrs. P asked if the hair ties she bought for her mother ever made it into our house. I said I didn't bring them in and I wasn't sure where they were. She called our son to see if he inadvertently picked them up along with the stuff he bought at H Mart. He had not. Mrs. P looked in the back seat of her car. She looked in the surplus bags. She looked in the boxes. She even checked with her mother's belongings to see if she brought them in to her parents' house and simply forgot. Nope. Nothing.

I am never going to Family Dollar again.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

my wife

I remember my first job in the corporate world. After years of working for small, "mom & pop" businesses, I started working in the production department of a large legal publisher. Initially, it was great. It was very structured and very regimented. There were procedures to follow and meetings to attend and a corporate hierarchy to adhere to. Within my department, it was more relaxed. But outside the doors of our small office, there was a specific, though unwritten, protocol that dictated behavior. I enjoyed it... until I didn't.

A few jobs after that, I worked in the main office of a large retailer. I sat in a cubicle in a room filled with a dozen other graphic artists. On a daily basis, we cranked out newspaper advertisements like machines. Here, too, there were meetings and procedures and protocol. Again, I enjoyed it... until I didn't.

After that job, I dove headfirst into the real corporate world. In 2007, I was hired to join the marketing department of a large law firm with offices up and down the East coast. I was the sole graphic designer in a department that consisted of fifteen colleagues. There were tech people and copywriters and event planners and a bunch of people who had the title of "manager" but had no actual staff. I was never quite sure who or what exactly they managed. Over the course of my dozen years at that job, there was a revolving door of perky young ladies who shared one brain among them. They smiled and carried little leatherette portfolios and had meetings with attorneys. I was not sure what they discussed at their meetings. I suppose it was some sort of marketing plan. When any one of them breached my office doorway to explain the sort of informational marketing piece I would need to produce as a result of a meeting, their explanation and instruction was offered to me with all of the articulation of Mushmouth. I could only imagine when these young ladies went out with their friends or attended a family gathering, when asked what they did for a living, they say "I work at a law firm." When further pressed for the nature of their actual job, they'd reply: "Y'know.... work with the lawyers."

There was a guy in my department who also was bestowed with the title of "manager." He may have even been a "senior manager." I wasn't exactly sure what he did either. He butted into everyone else's business. That is, when he wasn't in a meeting. And he was always in a meeting. He had meetings scheduled to cover his entire day. When one would end, he'd hurry down the hall to attend another meeting. Sometimes, he'd have to leave a meeting early so he could be on time for the next meeting on another floor. He had breakfast meetings and lunch meetings. He was always rushing down a hallway with his laptop in one hand and a half-eaten danish or sandwich (depending on the time of day) in the other.

On a monthly basis, our Marketing Department would have its own meeting. These hour-plus affairs were tedious. The standard procedure was to go around the big meeting table and, one-by-one, explain what we are currently working on. There was so much indecipherable corporate jargon tossed about, one would have thought it was an English as a Second Language class. Most of the time, I had absolutely no clue what was being discussed. The metaphors and symbolism where confusing. Phrases like "low-hanging fruit" and "vertical advertising" were bandied about like they were included in everyday conversation. One guy — the meeting guy — would even mix metaphors to make things even more obscure. He'd say things like "herding ducks" and "getting our cats in a row." And then he'd rush off to another meeting before what he said could sink in.

But even with all the corporate policies and structure and protocol, there was one thing I absolutely hated — hated! — about the corporate world.

The one and only.

I got married in 1984. This summer, my wife and I will celebrate our forty-first wedding anniversary. I love my wife. She is my companion. She is my best friend. She is the one person I can always count on for anything. We have been together for so long, one of us sometimes speaks what the other one is thinking. Like Anna and Hans (before he was revealed to be a jerk), we finish each others sandwiches. We're like Lois Lane and Clark Kent. Like Rufus T. Firefly and Mrs. Teasdale. Like Catherine and Heathcliff (if they end up together at the end of that book. I actually never read it.) We're like Calvin Coolidge. Put together! We have so much in common. I'll say it again, she is my wife. My only wife.

There is a term within the corporate world that angers me. It infuriates me. It makes be cringe. I don't find it funny or cute or endearing. As a matter of fact, I find it stupid and demeaning and insulting. The term I am referring to is "work wife." Eeechhh! Just typing it makes my blood both boil and run cold. I don't know who coined that disgusting phrase, but I curse them! 

Over the course of several jobs in the corporate world, I have had a few female colleagues to whom the term "work wife" was applied. These were women with whom I had a close working relationship. There were a couple with whom I could commiserate over a lame decision made by a superior or some dumb new corporate policy. Others were fellow artists who could help with a new perspective on a difficult task or offer a different way to tackle a problem. I would sometimes go out for lunch with these female co-workers and think nothing of it. It would be no different than going out for a bite with a male co-worker. But, there are folks within the corporate world who can't keep their fucking mouths shut and who feel the need to stir the fucking pot, creating "controversy" where none exists. 

The term "work wife" is supposed to be cute and and little dangerous in a playful sort of way. I find it dangerous in a dangerous sort of way. I am not one of those people who hides things from my wife. I don't sneak anything behind my wife's back. I don't say things like: "Oh don't tell my wife!" or "I hope my wife doesn't find out." My marriage is not a sit-com. I am not Ralph Kramden trying to keep another hare-brained scheme from Alice. But there are certain people in the corporate world who think that scenario is funny. But, it is only funny on TV. They like to hint at more than just a friendship... which, of course, was ludicrous (as well as nobody's goddamn business anyway). But, that's how the rumor mill grinds in the corporate world.

I have actually had co-workers refer to a female co-worker as my "work wife" right to my face... even after I have expressed my feelings towards the term. To all of my female former co-workers who have been labeled my "work wife," please understand that it was not me doing the labeling. While I enjoyed our friendship and our relationship as working colleagues, I have just one wife. Just one. And she's probably checking this blog post for typos right now.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

big boss man

I officially entered the "working world" just after I graduated from art school in the spring of 1984. Yeah, I had jobs before that, but my actual "career," if you will, actually began with a series of freelance jobs in the summer of that year forebodingly immortalized by George Orwell. 

In early 1985, I was hired as the art director for a small, but popular, chain of ice cream stores in the Philadelphia area. My boss was a slick, slimy, fast-talking, deceitful, underhanded, arrogant piece of shit named Len. He was the first in a long line of asshole bosses that I would work under for the rest of my life. Len would ignore me most of the time, preferring to keep himself busy with a Pac-Man machine that was tucked into a corner of the employee breakroom. For a good portion of the work day, Len and his two puppet vice-presidents would hover in the soft, colorful glow of the video game — placing bets, cursing loudly and smoking cigarettes. The breakroom was just a few feet from my tiny workspace and I found it difficult to concentrate over their raucous behavior. Every so often, Len would barrel into my office, stinking of nicotine, and order me to bring everything I was working on down to his office at the other end of a long hallway. So, dutifully, I would carry an awkward armful of tracing paper and sketches and scribbled ad copy down to his office, where I would neatly arrange everything on a large wooden table opposite his huge desk. I would begin to point out and explain each ad concept or signage idea, gesturing to drawings I had made as a visual aid. After a few minutes, I would catch Len glancing around the room, looking everywhere but at me and my make-shift presentation. Then, he'd interrupt me and say, "I wish I had more time to teach you the marketing business." He'd follow that by feigning a headache and begin rubbing his eyes. "We'll have to continue this another time." he'd say, waving me off in the direction of the office door. I'd gather up all my stuff and leave. This little ritual would occur every few weeks. I worked for Len for a little over a year until I was let go.

As my career as a full-fledged graphic designer continued and evolved, my bosses grew increasingly difficult and infuriating. I had one that stood behind me and kicked my chair while I worked. At one job, while my immediate supervisor was wonderful, her boss was a terror. She would scream and stomp and demand... for no apparent reason, as the department ran smoothly and efficiently... except for her. At my next job, the owner of the company was a wealthy, out-of-touch guy who appeared gracious and charming, but was, in reality, a calculating, shifty, ruthless know-it-all who ran his business like a cheap conman. He lied to customers. He lied to suppliers. He lied to everyone. When he would review ad layouts I had done, he'd pick up a red pen to make corrections before he even glanced at the ad. Oh, there were going to be changes because he was the boss and that's what bosses do. They change things that don't need changing to constantly show they are in charge. I worked for him for a little under three years.

My next job was in the advertising department of a national retail company. This was a huge corporate setting, with multi-level management — a true example of the proverbial "corporate ladder." Weekly sales meetings were hours-long affairs with category managers duking it out with advertising executives, while the poor rank-and-file (me and my colleagues) scrambled to write down everything that transpired in order to produce an ad. When there wasn't a meeting, it appeared that the "higher-ups" in the advertising department had little to nothing to do. They would often be seen wandering aimlessly through the hallways of the company headquarters or sitting behind their massive desks staring off into space or sometimes even dozing. In the busy production department where I worked, we would often play a little game called "Walk Me Through Your Day," in which we would wonder what exactly these guys do with themselves all goddamn day. How would they keep busy and how could they justify their obviously large salaries? I didn't have a clue. One Advertising VP would often stumble into the production department and amiably attempt to "shoot the shit" with a roomful of frantic graphic artists on tight deadlines. We concluded that this guy was always high at work.

I worked in the marketing department at a law firm for nearly a dozen years. While I certainly had my share of day-to-day complaints, I genuinely liked that job. My boss was great... for a while. After a few years, her superior was replaced by a belligerent loudmouth man who made her workday a living hell. His noxious demeanor could be felt throughout the entire department and morale was at an all-time low. One day, he crossed the behavioral line with the wrong person and was escorted off the premises. His replacement was a shrewish hellion with a superiority complex who took an instant dislike to me. My boss, however, cozied herself up to the new marketing manager and the two of them were thick as thieves — turning herself against me in the process. In the meeting where I was let go, my boss — who at one time I considered to be my friend — sat silently as my work and my attitude were attacked and insulted.

So here I was, 56 years old and back on the streets, looking for work. I was getting too old for this. After six weeks of collecting unemployment, I got a job at a small company that printed take-out menus for restaurants across the country. After a lifetime of working under the watchful, sometimes unjustifiably suspicious, eye of a boss... I was now in my very first supervisory position. I was officially the "Design Coordinator" and my staff consisted of three graphics designers. One worked at a desk across the hall from me, where he sat in a darkened office and produced beautifully-designed menus. He had little to say and gave off a very menacing vibe. I would assign work to him and he would silently listen to my brief instruction — never questioning, never nodding. He'd take the paper work from my hand and it was just understood that I would get the first drafts of designs when he was damn good and ready. I never gave him a deadline for fear he would kill me if I did. The other two artists were in Ukraine. That's right. Ukraine. I never met nor saw either one. We corresponded via Skype and exchanged assignments by FTP file transfer. The process took a bit of getting used to, but it worked fine. It was understood that I was their boss.

I made the conscious decision to be a different kind of boss than those I had worked for in my past. I believe I truly was. I allowed my staff to create at their own pace. I offered no criticism unless it was asked for. I offered no assistance unless it was requested. I never ever asked "What are you working on?" or "When will this be finished?" I sometimes made a list of current projects in order of priority, but never did I make unreasonable demands. I figured that these people were adults and they were hired based on their ability. They knew their jobs and didn't need someone to constantly tell them what to do. They knew what to do. And I let them do it. 

To be honest, that company was barely keeping itself afloat. Every day I came into work, I thought would be the last day. After a year the company was purchased by a larger commercial printer and suddenly this shitty little job became a really good job. Until the new owners didn't see the monetary return on their investment they hoped for and I was let go.

In my current job, I'm back to being a staff artist. I am no longer in a supervisory position. That's just fine. I know what is expected of me. I do my work and no one leans over my shoulder. My immediate boss is my son's age.... and he's got his own work to do.

And I really don't think about who my horrible bosses are irritating today.

Well.... maybe I do a little.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

put out the fire

This story was written nearly two years ago, prior to the global COVID-19 pandemic.— JPiC

Mrs. Pincus and I just returned from a cruise that departed from Port Canaveral, Florida. We opted to drive to the Sunshine State from our suburban Philadelphia home. We covered the approximate 16-hour drive over the course of two days, leaving on a Thursday before the sun came up and taking the second leg at a more leisurely pace. We arrived at our destination — a somewhat seedy Best Western motel in Titusville that offered a shuttle and parking for the length of our trip — in the late afternoon on Friday. At the conclusion of our cruise, we hopped into our waiting car for the return trip. We got a late start, but pressed on through the south until Mrs Pincus had had it for the day. I secured a room at a Hampton Inn in Lumberton, North Carolina and we headed across the street to a shopping center to grab a quick take-out dinner to enjoy in our room.

Mrs. P had noticed a sign for "Firehouse Subs," a chain for which I had seen commercials but never had the opportunity to patronize. Actually, we are kind of partial to a few Philadelphia sandwich shops, regularly steering clear of the Subway chain after several "less-than-favorable" experiences over the years. Honestly, I don't even know if there are Firehouse Subs in our area. (A quick Google search shows me that the closest one to my house is 13.1 miles away..... pass.) Curiously, the commercials for Firehouse Subs stuck with me, as I found it unusual that they focused primarily on the fact that each purchase benefited community firefighters. There were numerous shots of firefighters in full gear, along with scenes of fire stations, fire fighting equipment and fire engines. There was little mention of the food or even if it was good.

Anxious to eat after a long drive, we decided to give Firehouse Subs a try. How bad could it be? Besides, it certainly wasn't going to be our last meal ever.

The brightly-light store was nearly deserted. One table was occupied by a burly man clad in the uniform of local law enforcement. He stared off into space as he shoved the final bit of a drippy sub into his maw. We turned our attention to the massive and way-too-confusing menu board that covered the entire wall behind the food prep area. The overly-wordy menu was dotted with impossibly delicious-looking subs, piled high with succulent meats and colorful vegetables glistening with fresh-washed goodness. Now, Mrs. Pincus and I don't eat meat. Actually, I never eat meat and Mrs P follows a strictly kosher diet, so when we eat outside of our home, we both eat as vegetarians. Firehouse Subs doesn't seem to accommodate the vegetarian diet, offering a single "Veggie" sub among its numerous animal-flesh options. We asked the young lady at the cash register about a custom sandwich containing just cheese and vegetables. She stared back at us, as though we had addressed her in an African Khoisan language that employs a series of "clicks." It took several attempts at an explanation until she simply stated that we could just order a meat sub without the meat. (For a second, I felt like Jack Nicholson ordering wheat toast in Five Easy Pieces.) Mrs. P specified that she did not want deli mustard, but would prefer cucumbers on her sandwich. I asked that my sandwich did not include tomatoes. The young lady seemed to understand our request and set off to begin preparing our order. We paid and our receipt was handed down the assembly line to another disinterested young lady who would be tasked with assembling our sandwiches. The unusually high counter prevented us from watching our order being made, making it impossible to see that deli mustard was liberally applied on the roll that would contain Mrs. Pincus' sub (without the requested cucumbers) and that my sandwich was topped with two thick slices of tomato.

During the way-too-long preparation process (the place was empty of customers), two more young ladies, dressed in Firehouse Subs uniforms, bounded through the front door, carrying a cardboard tray laden with an assortment of hot and cold drinks from the Starbucks next door. They squealed with delight as they distributed the various liquid concoctions to the other Firehouse Subs employees. The distribution was accompanied by a detailed play-by-play recap of the entire ordering process at Starbucks. Suddenly, the fulfilling of our sandwich order took a back seat as full attention was given to the frothy and condensation-covered cups from Starbucks, along with additional analyzation of each individual beverage order. Finally, our sandwiches were wrapped in Firehouse Subs branded paper and placed in Firehouse Subs branded hinged trays, then into a large Firehouse Subs branded bag with a wad of Firehouse Subs napkins.

Nothing at Firehouse Subs looks like this.

We returned to our hotel room. I emptied the bag and Mrs. P ripped the bag in two, creating improvised place mats. We each opened our trays and unwrapped our subs. In no way did they come close to resembling those beautiful photos on the  menu board. They were misshapen, sloppy, drippy assemblages, flattened by the too-small containers and fairly unappetizing. But, it was 9:30 and we had been stuck in the car all day. So we suffered. And I picked the tomatoes off my sub before I ate it.

Mrs. Pincus fired off an email to the folks at Firehouse Subs, recounting the dissatisfaction with our experience. Surprisingly, they responded pretty quickly with a very apologetic reply. They told us that the issue would be addressed at a staff meeting and subsequent training would be implemented. They reiterated that everything we experienced goes against company policy and they hoped the offer of a gift card would entice us to return for a second chance. My wife thanked them for the offer. She said we would be happy to give it another try, but a little closer to home. Lumberton, North Carolina is a little far to go for a disappointing sandwich.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

you load sixteen tons and what do you get

Just after my father served a two-year stretch in the United States Navy, assisting the Allied Forces in defeating Emperor Hirohito's army, he returned to Philadelphia to search for employment. For reasons only known to him, my father entered a Penn Fruit supermarket and inquired about filling the available position of apprentice meat cutter. He was hired and soon began to be taught the ins and outs of slicing up stripped cow and pig carcasses into consumer-tempting cuts of meat. He worked long and dedicated hours, honing his craft, as well as honing his knives. As time moved on, he became extremely adept in his ability, deftly gliding that blade through the marbled flesh, with the result being a beautifully-appealing roast or chop that would become some lucky family's dinner.

With his apprenticeship behind him, my father was promoted to full-fledged meat cutter. Working alongside others in his profession, my father churned out stacks of cut beef, pork and poultry at an astounding rate. He rarely moved from his position in the "cold room," working like a machine, only stopping every so often to grab a quick cigarette or a cup of coffee in the alley behind the the store. He would return to his work as quickly as he could, adjust his bloodied apron and continue stacking cuts of meat on pressed paperboard trays with expert precision. 

This went on for years and years until he was once again promoted, this time to meat manager. In his new position, he would still perform the physical act of cutting and packaging meat for sale, but he was also responsible for ordering product, dealing with suppliers for the best prices, scheduling staff, preparing weekly specials for inclusion in the store's advertising, as well as any number of incidental tasks that would pop up along the way. He liked being in charge, but he loved working at cutting meat. My father was transferred to different stores around the Penn Fruit chain, quickly adapting to a new commute and a new store configuration. A new location, however, never impacted his work ethic or his allegiance to the company that paid him at the end of each week. He did what his company asked him to do and he never questioned their decisions.

Mr. Dedication.

Another promotion came for my father. This time, he was made store manager. Although it was a gesture of trust on the part of Penn Fruit, my father accepted the new title with reluctance. As manager for the entire store, he would no longer be able to ply his meat-cutting ability on a daily basis. His new job would keep him busy with figures and reports and scheduling and customer service. He would still venture into the meat department regularly, even picking up a knife to separate a steak from a strip of errant fat spotted during a routine inspection. During his time as store manager, my father was also transferred more often. His competence as a manager meant his skills were needed to increase business at more stores. His stints at stores would be for shorter periods of time, sometimes even under a year, until he was sent to another location to bring up sales. My father was happy to be wanted and his dedication seemed to be appreciated, though it was never overtly stated.

But Penn Fruit's overall sales began to slip. They made some poor investments and bad business ventures into previously-untried territory failed miserably. Then, Acme, a rival supermarket chain, waged a vicious price war against Penn Fruit, sending the once-dominant chain into a financial tailspin. They scrambled, quickly selling off non-grocery holdings and even resorting to closing some lesser-producing markets. But it was the way they closed stores that was so... so... devastating, callous and thoughtless. The modus operandi of the corporate representatives was to drive up to a store as it was closing and demand the keys from the store manager. The corporate rep would lower his car door window and bluntly state to the unwitting manager, "Hand over your keys. This store isn't opening tomorrow."

This is how my father was relieved of his employ after twenty-five years of blind loyalty.

Conrad Van Orten, Sean Penn's character in David Fincher's 1997 thriller The Game, put it so eloquently when he explained the nature of corporations and the business mindset: "They just fuck you and they fuck you and they fuck you, and then just when you think it's all over, that's when the real fucking starts."

Don't forget that.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

the heat is on

According to some flowery text on their corporate website, Zoup! is — and I quote — "the leading fast-casual soup concept restaurant that is defining the category with its premium and proprietary soups and other recipes." Before yesterday, I had never heard of Zoup!, nor was I aware of a rivalry among fast-casual soup concept restaurants. Actually, I was not aware of the concept of fast-casual soup concept restaurants. 

Mrs. P came into the possession of several Best Buy gift cards and we decided to extend the purchasing power of said cards by using them in Delaware, the self-proclaimed "home of tax-free shopping." (It's on their state-line "Welcome" sign, for goodness sake!) We have done this quite a few times, choosing to make purchases of large electronics in Delaware to save a few dollars of sales tax. Delaware is just under an hour away, so it's convenient all around. 

My wife picked me up after work and we headed south on I-95, fighting southbound rush hour traffic in the process. The Best Buy that is our usual destination has become something called a "Best Buy Outlet." When we pulled into the parking lot, it was suspiciously empty. We spotted a large sign in the window noting their hours of operation had been reduced to weekends only. Brushing away annoyance, I opened up the trusty Waze® app on my phone and discovered another Best Buy a mere 1.6 miles from where we were. (Thank you, urban sprawl.) Mrs. P swung the car around and we were back on the highway.

We followed the robotic-voiced directions and were led to a large, still under-construction shopping center. The complex occupied both sides of the street. There were a few dirty construction vehicles that rested in their tracks, ready to pick up at the start of the new day. A handful of businesses were open, despite their neighbors being empty storefronts or just framed-out shells. Best Buy, big and bright, stood at the far end of a parking lot adjacent to a Raymour & Flanigan furniture store and something that looked like it will be a movie theater in a few months. We parked, went in, marveled at the giant televisions and the fact that, in the age of Netflix, they still offer DVDs for sale and looked around the appliances for... whatever Mrs. P was looking to buy.

After Mrs. Pincus spent the full value of her gift cards, we turned our attention to dinner. Even in the sparse landscape of this not-yet-complete shopping mecca, there was a small selection of restaurants from which to choose. We briefly considered Zoës Kitchen, but passed when we discovered that the minimally-Mediterranean themed eatery did not offer falafel. (Mrs. P really wanted falafel.) Instead, we opted for Zoës' next-door neighbor, Zoup! Zoup's neighbor, it should be noted, was an empty store.

We entered Zoup! and immediately thought, based on the store's configuration, that we had entered Qdoba. (We felt the same in our short visit to Zoës.) Several framed "soup-related" photographs were placed artfully at irregular intervals along the earthy-painted walls. The service area at the rear of the long, narrow setup was bustling with apron-clad hipsters conversing with prospective customers. Every fifteen or so seconds, someone behind the counter called out "Hot soup!" and the other staff members responded with same call of "Hot soup!" While we perused the menu boards mounted, one fellow, decked out in full Zoup! regalia (hat, polo shirt, apron, name badge), greeted us with one of my favorite chain restaurant greetings.

"Have you folks ever been here before?"

Hot soup! Hot soup!

We answered in the negative and he commenced in delivering a rehearsed commercial for Zoup!, as though he was reading from a TelePrompTer set up behind me. He explained about the 12 rotating soup selections and the freshest ingredients and blah blah blah blah blah. I had lost interest in what he was saying. I knew what soup was. I had eaten soup before. I didn't need someone explaining the finer points of soup to me. What was interesting — and by "interesting," I mean "totally annoying" — was during his company-touting spiel, he kept interrupting his speech by calling out his "hot soup" response when required by the company handbook  — punctuating every other sentence  — each time a new pot of broth was brought out from the hidden kitchen or another server filled a waxed cardboard cup for a customer.

My wife and I each selected a soup and sandwich special. I chose a thick tomato bisque and the missus chose a "rustic"* vegetable, which was soon revealed to be much too spicy for her liking. As its sandwich pairing, we both picked the tuna salad. We paid. The server/cashier (same guy) read our order back to us at least twice. We sat at a nearby table and waited for our dinner.

Soon, two trays laden with food were placed on the counter behind me and the first guy who greeted us announced my name as though I was being paged at the airport. (Dude! I'm sitting right here. We just spoke a minute ago and there are only four other customers in this place.) I transferred the trays to our table and we began to eat.

Busted!

Almost simultaneously, Mrs. P and I bit into our sandwiches and had the same reaction. Something tasted foreign, like it had no business being in a tuna sandwich. Mrs. P was cautious, but I took another bite. Lemon! There was a distinct lemony taste. Not just understated notes, to borrow from the pretentious judges from shows on the Food Network. This flavor was as prominent as the tuna. Plus, several capers popped in my mouth on that second bite. My spouse decided it was time to call the greeter guy over. She caught his attention and he interrupted his greeting of another couple to come to our table. For some reason, he pulled up a chair from an adjoining table and made himself comfortable, a serious, customer service-focused expression across his face.

I didn't want to lead with "What's that lemony taste in my tuna?," because that would only evoke a reply of "Um, lemon, you moron," so I went another route. Instead, my wife, the more diplomatic of the two of us, inquired, more vaguely," What is that unusual flavor in the tuna?" Mr. greeter proudly stated "Lemon zest. We zest lemon in our tuna, then we add lemon juice and capers." He capped his little explanation with a forced smile. Mrs. P confirmed that the tuna wasn't accidentally hit with a shot of cleaning solution and Mr. Greeter assured us that was not the case. Then he echoed a "Hot soup!"  proclamation and started back towards the prep area.

I don't know about you, but I like tuna with mayo, maybe pickle relish, possibly celery... and that's about it. Did I mention lemons? Or capers? No, I did not. Y'know why? Because this isn't "Chopped" and those items are not included in my Round 1 Mystery Basket. This place is a re-worked Qdoba in some remote section of Christiana, Delaware. Not exactly a brasserie on Boulevard Saint-Germain in Paris.

We forced down the remainders of our sandwiches and finished our soup. Everything was, well, average. Soup is soup. Unless it's the stuff for which Oliver Twist begged a second helping, it is pretty difficult to ruin soup. The sandwiches were typical corporate versions of your local diner fare. The bread was pretty good, though.

As we walked back to our car, my wife offered her assessment, one I have heard more than once after trying someplace new. "Well, we don't have to go there again."

Maybe someday, we'll try one of the other fast-casual soup concept restaurants.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com


* "Rustic," I can only assume, is a well-meaning corporate descriptor that means "chunky," and not "primitive," as the Merriam-Webster Dictionary defines the word.

stop making sense

Você tem alguma idéia do que eu estou dizendo?

I entered the corporate world in the middle 90s when I took a job designing and composing newsletters for a large legal publisher. My background in newspaper composition coupled with my newly-gained experience in Pagemaker 4.0 made me a natural for the position. Prior to this job, I had worked in small businesses of not more than 10 or 15 employees. 

Within a few years, I grew bored and decided to move on. I became the art director for a Philadelphia-based chain of floor-covering stores. Here, I designed daily ads and weekly circulars. I knew nothing about carpet and yet, I managed to produce successful advertising during the three years of my employ. It was also during my tenure there that I was first exposed to the inane corporate jargon that is so prevalent in conference rooms and offices today. My boss — a shrewd, deceptive and despicable businessman — would regularly spew buzzwords at meetings. His favorite was "smartbombs." While discussing which lines of carpeting should be featured on the front of a four-page newspaper insert, he'd veer off course and say "We need to drop some smartbombs. That's what customers respond to — smartbombs!" I worked for him fifteen years ago and I still have no idea what a fucking smartbomb is.

Once again, I grew bored with my job and sought employment elsewhere. This time, I ended up in the marketing department of a national after-market auto parts supplier. Here's where the real corporate bullshit was. Advertising meetings were packed to standing-room. Executive Vice-Presidents in charge of who-knows-what would erupt in phrases like "low-hanging fruit" and "vertical thinking" and "tuna and bananas." Tuna and bananas? I thought we sold auto parts.

At my current employer (a job I have had for nearly ten years, and after this blog post, I hope to still have), every day is a new lesson in the business world lexicon. I have scratched my head trying to figure out what some of my co-workers are saying. It sounds like English. I have heard those words before, just not in that order or in that context. When I started out in the field of graphic design, I used to make these things called "brochures." Now, they have become "deliverables." People "used" things. Now, they "utilize" them, Co-workers would "call" each other. Now, they "reach out" to one another. We no longer "talk about it later." Now, we must "take it offline." Unless, of course, you are "off reservation," though I honestly don't know what that one means. Not content with the already-confusing clichés, someone decided to start mixing them up, like a big, interchangeable, corporate Mad-Libs. I once had someone tell me that a specific task was "in my wagon wheel." Later that same day, in a meeting, someone said "let's get our cats in a row" followed two sentences later by "that's like herding ducks." I wanted to stand up and interrupt the proceedings by asking, "What the actual fuck are you talking about?" I often wonder if they spoke this way only when dressed in freshly-pressed Dockers and a button-down Oxford. 

I believe that the proliferation of this overly flowery, often nonsensical code-language attempts — over anything else — to make the user sound more intelligent. Often, these words are being used incorrectly (as is the mistaken synonymy of "use" and "utilize"), along with incorrect grammar ("me and him" or "contact Joe and I") for added effect. In reality, "corporate-speak" only serves to make the user look the opposite of intelligent. There's a word for that, but it eludes me at the moment.

You wanna come off as "intelligent" to your superiors and subordinates alike? Concentrate more on the substance of your ideas and less on how you talk about them.

Also, you could try using the word "proliferation" more, 'cause that's a cool word.

(That illustration at the top of this post entry is called a "word cloud." Another "buzzword." It makes for a great design, but it's total bullshit.)

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

tell me something good

I entered the working world a little over thirty years ago, when I graduated from art school. I worked in a small composition house for a while, then another small composition house, then another and another. After nearly ten years, I landed a job in the corporate world — the sterile land of cubicles and departments and a multi-tier system of management hierarchy. It was a far cry from just me and a typesetter doing paste-up and taking turns making coffee. It was structured and regimented and everyone knew his or her place and set of responsibilities. I did however come to appreciate the corporate atmosphere — its rules and its protocol — and I eventually found it pretty amusing.

In my first job, my boss was the owner of the business. She was very nice, but clueless when it came to design. I guess that's why she hired me and she seemed pretty pleased with my work. Over the five years that I worked for her, I was awarded several increases in salary, although not with any regularity. Desktop publishing was just coming into fashion, but it was becoming the industry standard at a lightning pace. The small composition house had become a dinosaur in a short five years and, sadly, closed. (Even more sadly, they closed while I was on vacation.) 

At my next job, my supervisor left on maternity leave, never to return. I took it upon myself to do her work, as the other idiots in that place would have banged into the walls without any sort of guidance. Based on the amount of extra work I was doing, I asked the owner for an increase in salary. The owner hesitated, hemmed and hawed and finally replied, "No one got raises this year." I corrected her, clarifying that I was not asking for a raise for everyone. I was just asking for me." She said she would consider it. My next paycheck included the slimmest of increases and I promptly went on the search for another job.

I dove head first into the corporate world when I was hired to do layout for a national publisher of legal periodicals. For the first time in my career, a computer would be my sole piece of work equipment. My primary responsibility was the layout and production of 45 newsletters — some monthly, some weekly. My work was assessed by my boss annually and I was given an increase in salary accordingly. Such is the way, I would come to understand, in the corporate world.

I eventually left that job (participating in that other corporate ritual — the "exit interview") and soon found myself in the marketing department of a large, after-market auto parts corporation whose mascots are three cartoon guys, one of whom smoked a cigar until 1990.* Once again, my progress and accomplishments were annually reviewed by my superior. After a couple of years, the novelty of the review process wore thin. I found out that, based on an edict from the executive powers above, managerial staff was expected to be extra critical of employees in their review, sometimes required to make up faults and setting unreachable goals to show that there is no such thing as a "perfect employee."

At review time, I was usually very busy and under tight deadlines. Any break in my daily routine would set my work behind schedule. So, when my boss announced that it was time for my review, I said, "Look, I'm really busy. How about I save us both some time. I'll tell you what you're gonna tell me, okay? I'm a hard worker and a conscientious worker. I'm opinionated and I've got a big mouth. Anything you'd like to add?" He looked at me. He looked at the printed pages in his hand. "Nope," he said, "that just about covers it." He went back to his office and I went back to my actual work.

Where the magic happens.

I have been at my current job for eight years. I have had the same boss for eight years. She knows me pretty well — my strengths, my weaknesses, my quirks and, most important, all of my schtick. I guess she knows me very well. Just this year, my sub-department (how's that for "corporate-speak?") has been shuffled and rearranged and whittled down to my boss and me. So, when review time came, I lumbered into my boss's office. She sarcastically said, "Okay. Let's get this bloodbath over with." I replied, "Seriously, what are you gonna tell me that you haven't already told me in eight years?" I silently read the printed assessment of my achievements over the past year. We discussed my job for approximately three minutes and then "bullshitted" for the next twenty. The corporate world requires that she submit a detailed review of her employee's performance. Whatever.

My raise kicks in Friday.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com


* Have you figured out which company I'm talking about?