stupid boy

When I'm not drawing pictures of dead people or wandering through a cemetery or watching a fifty year-old rerun of That Girl, I go to an actual job where someone actually pays me (albeit poorly) for my modicum amount of expertise in the very objective field of graphic design.

I work for a large commercial printing company that prints hundreds of thousands of advertisements for retail businesses, mostly supermarkets. One of the customers that has been assigned to me is a small chain of supermarkets that is part of a larger, nationwide franchisor. The four, independently-owned stores are operated by a family. I know this because I see the same last name on a majority of the emails I receive from them. I deal exclusively with the son of the owner. He, apparently, has been put in charge of the advertising for the stores. After dealing with this guy — on a weekly basis — for nearly four years, I have come to the conclusion that he is Fredo Corleone from The Godfather. Remember when Fredo was sent to Las Vegas so he wouldn't get under the feet of Sonny and the rest of the family while they plied their "business?" They made sure he was well out of the way, so his tendency to screw things up was now Moe Green's problem. Well, that's this guy. This guy is a total moron. He so desperately wants to be part of the "cool supermarket business," but he is a dope. Dad passed the advertising end of the business on to "Fredo" to keep him out of the way of day-to-day operations You see, the weekly ad is supplied by the corporate franchisor. The individual stores are free to substitute items or change prices, but the layout and design are predetermined. However, "Fredo" loves to use industry lingo, like "merch" and "chub" (that's the name for pre-packaged ground beef... a term no one really uses). But, as I said, "Fredo" is an idiot, so, while he's trying to be cool and use cool lingo, he often fails to include pertinent information like.... oh, I don't know.... PACKAGE SIZES, ITEM NAMES AND PRICES! 

Not a week goes by where I don't have to ask — three or four times! — for prices on at least five items in an ad. He also has a propensity for adding eight or nine additional items after the ad has been composed. Sometimes he will make additions after having seen three proofs of an ad. I regularly explain that the ad only has a limited amount of space and adding items — especially that many items — will greatly reduce the size of the existing items in the ad. This is a weekly conversation. The concept of "limited ad space" has yet to sink in to his empty head.

In the past, I have also created two-sided store hand-outs with a unique design that differs greatly from the designs distributed by the corporate office. These hand-outs are, by no means, anything I am proud of. They are gaudy, garish pieces with giant prices and big logos and stars and balloons and lots of other bullshit. But, the customer loves them and that is what's most important. This week, I received the weekly ad layout with these additional instructions: "We like the weekly hand-out design, but we also like the way the corporate ad is laid out. Can you combine the two?"

These two designs could not be more different. They share no design elements except for the company logo. I explained this to the sales rep (he is a co-worker at the printing company and serves as sort-of a liaison between me and the customer... when he actually does his job). I told the sales rep: "I'd like to go to this guy's store and tell him I really like his deli case, but I also like his parking lot. Can he combine the two?" The sales rep — who is also an idiot — didn't get it.

Perhaps, now you understand why I enjoy wandering through cemeteries. Nobody speaks to me.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

do you know where you're going to

It's June. I graduated from high school in June. Not this June, of course. A different one. One that was forty-four years ago.

I don't have fond memories of high school. I dreaded every day. I didn't like going there or being there. Despite the Jewish population of the student body tallying nearly 85%, I was subjected to my share of anti-Semitism. I wasn't an especially good student. I didn't bring home good grades. I experienced the ache of unrequited love and, conversely, avoided some female classmates who came on a little too strong for my liking. However, I met some people who, for four years, grew to be inseparable friends, but whose camaraderie waned post-graduation... only to re-connect decades later via the magic of social media. I even re-connected with some classmates with whom I wasn't particularly close. But, time is the great equalizer and once you breach your 60th year on Earth, you begin to understand what was meant by the old adage "life is short" and you finally see just how short it is.

A classmate
wearing the winning button.

Recently, a few silly "snapshots" from my high school days popped into my head. I recall in my sophomore year, an open solicitation to design the "official" Class of '79 button was announced. The winning button design would be mass produced and distributed among our class, where it could proudly (proudly?) be displayed on a shirt, jacket or other piece of clothing. Even back in my teenage years, my budding art career was beginning to emerge. Art classes were the only ones I attended with any interest. In other non-art classes, I found myself doodling in the margins of American History tests or lengthy algebra equations. I was somewhat excited at the thought of having my design grace the "official" button representing my class, having all 1100-plus of my classmates sporting a 3" metal circle of my original artwork. I made a bunch of sketches and after rejecting several preliminary ideas, I settled on a mystical-looking wizard waving his hand above a glowing crystal ball, with the phrase "Class of '79 - We Make It Happen" floating in a semi-circle above his pointed blue, star-spangled cap. I'm not one to brag, but it was pretty good for a 16 year-old. Unfortunately, the rest of my class did not agree. In lieu of my design, they selected a strange depiction of two silhouetted figures standing on a royal blue hill before a bright yellow sun (our school colors) along with the sentiment "Class of '79 Walks Tomorrow's Paths Today" in a swirly, hand-written font. I don't like to knock other artists' work, but there were other designs — that weren't mine — that were waaaaay better than the one that was chosen. I would have been okay with not having my submission chosen. Just not this one. In my opinion, it was poorly executed and the slogan didn't exactly roll off the tongue... and that's not just sour grapes. Although, I retained some keepsakes from my tumultuous high school years, my button currently rests at the bottom of the man-made lake beneath the roller coaster at Great Adventure amusement park in Jackson, New Jersey. Great Adventure was the destination of my year-end Sophomore Class Trip. A friend picked the button off my shirt and flung it skyward with the gusto of an Olympic discus thrower. I wasn't terribly upset.

A classmate
wearing the winning shirt.

My Junior year in high school brought about a similar art-related project. This time, the task was designing the Class T-shirt. This was a big deal. Everyone's wardrobe was comprised almost exclusively of t-shirts. Concert commemoratives, sports teams, "peace" signs held over from the 60s — t-shirts and jeans were the accepted "uniform of the day" throughout the 70s. Even those students whose wardrobe was influenced by the burgeoning disco trend could sometimes be spotted in a t-shirt emblazoned with a glittery iron-on decal. Once again, I repurposed my "also-ran" button design of the wizard. I embellished my original design with more stars, brighter colors and a more detailed main figure. Again, my design lost out to a reworked take on the cover of Steve Miller's Book of Dreams album. Done in the school colors, the shirt featured a near-identical to the album depiction of Pegasus surrounded by stars, beneath the words "Flying High" in capital block letters. I will admit, it was a good design. It certainly was good enough for Steve Miller. It just wasn't an original design. However, the school "powers that be" including the principal, several administrators and an English teacher who served as our "class sponsor," debated the insinuated "drug" overtones of the slogan and mulled over the message that it conveyed. After many heated "back-and-forth" squabbles, a compromise was reached. The slogan would be changed to "Class of Dreams" before the shirts went into production. I believe the designer played dumb regarding any potential drug reference in the original design, only to create a custom-made short run of the original design for him and his pot-head friends. He wasn't fooling anyone.

The next item on the class agenda was choosing a song as our Senior Prom theme. Traditionally, the "prom theme" is a ballad that accommodates slow dancing. A number of songs were nominated with Billy Joel's "I've Loved These Days" declared the winner. A track from Joel's 1977 album Turnstiles, "I've Loved These Days" expresses the heartfelt feelings of a man reflecting on his life's accomplishments — a fitting narration for the end of high school and, of course, an opportunity to hold your prom date close... however awkward. But.... just a few weeks prior to the prom, the same committee that forced the alteration of the class t-shirt, got around to actually reading the lyrics to "I've Loved These Days." Four verses into the unfeigned sentimentality, someone discovered the line "we soothed our souls with fine cocaine." Frightened that this single line would turn the innocent prom into a deranged orgy abundant with narcotics, a meeting was held. Then another. Until another compromise with the incorrigible Class of '79 was reached. Billy Joel's composition on reminisces would be replaced with Diana Ross's 1975 hit "Theme from Mahogany" — a song priggishly subtitled "Do You Know Where You're Going To." I believe the school administration was making a backhanded assessment of my class's actions up to that point. A day or so before my senior prom, there was an afternoon luncheon where speeches were made, awards were presented and yearbooks were distributed. A few of the more musically-inclined students performed for their classmates. One young lady brazenly treated us to a rendition of "I've Loved These Days" — waving her acoustic guitar in the air at its completion in sort-of last ditch exhibition of her middle finger.

In June 1979, my years-long stretch in public school came to a close. My rambunctious class caused its share of controversy through music selections and  t-shirt designs. We thought we were tough little rebels, going toe-to-toe with "the man" and doing our best to "stand our ground." Over the course of four years, there was a certain amount of shoving and name-calling and maybe even a physical scuffle or two. But no one brought a loaded gun to school and I never hid in a closet, huddled with classmates, silently fearing I would never see my parents again.

Maybe my time in high school wasn't as bad as I remember.

www.joshpincusicrying.com

love for sale

I suppose today's post on It's Been a Slice is the equivalent to an infomercial. For however long this blog has been raging on (it's been thirteen years, but who's counting?), I have referenced Mrs. Pincus's eBay store and the many places that have been my employer. Today, however, I offer a blatant plug for a little side hustle I got going. Perhaps you have seen it on Instagram or Twitter or Facebook if you are one of the tens of people who follow me and my internet antics. For those of you in the dark but still reading this far, I'll fill you in.

My first sale!
(No longer available.)

For the past few months, I have been selling t-shirts on a great website called TeePublic. I have been sitting at home, watching TV of contributing to my blogs (yes, that's plural. I have two) and wondering how I can make a few extra dollars from my silly little drawings and my slightly off-kilter sense of humor. I began to explore some options and decided that TeePublic's set-up made the most sense for me. One Sunday afternoon right around Thanksgiving, I created a few designs and selected a few drawings from my illustration blog (see? I do have another blog!) and uploaded them to my newly created storefront on the TeePublic website. Because I have a background in advertising and marketing, I also created a few graphics to promote my new business venture on several social media outlets. Almost immediately, I made a sale... giving me a false sense of security. It turns out, my first sale was to someone I knew. Nevertheless, a sale is a sale! I thanked her for her purchase and sat back, waiting for more sales to roll in.

They didn't.

However, I did get an email from TeePublic, that one of my designs was taken down for copyright infringement. A day later, I received a similar email and another one of my designs was removed. TeePublic is rampant with non-licensed designs of copywritten properties, yet I got busted right out of the gate. Still determined, I added a few more designs to my storefront. I chose designs of recognizable images and characters, trying my best to be discreet.

A few days after my first sale, I made two in one day. I began to think this little endeavor was gonna be great! Both, I found out later, were to someone else I knew personally.

Then, my entire store was pulled by TeePublic. Just four days after I "opened for business," I received this sad little email that began...

This is to notify you that, as a result of a violation of our terms and conditions, we have removed or disabled access to the material that appeared at www.teepublic.com/user/Josh Pincus and have deleted your account.

I stewed for a little bit, but I was determined. I rethought my approach and, with a different email address and a slightly altered name, I boldly relaunched my business as "JPiC Designs" on TeePublic. I scoured my website for drawings that I had done that were not overtly recognizable or could be altered so movies and names or references if they too drew much attention to a particular celebrity, movie or the like. I also began a series of illustrated song lyrics. Sure, that sounds like trouble in the making, but I was careful to select lyrics that did not mention a song's title. I figured these would appeal to true fans of a particular band. I also mixed in some famous movie quotes, again, careful not to use the actual title of the movie, but slyly employing recognizable typefaces and using images that could be.... well.... anything.... nudge, nudge.

I launched my TeePublic store 2.0 a week or so before Christmas. I made my first sale in the early weeks of the new year. I started the reboot with about two dozen designs and slowly added more each week. I have not bee sticking to any particular theme or style. I try to create what I think will sell, not necessarily what I like... but what the people will like. You know... give the people what they want! If you visit my storefront, you'll find movie quotes, song lyrics, goofs on famous works of art, silly drawings featuring both Jesus and Satan and a lot of designs depicting food.... because everybody like food. There are even a few designs aimed to please my fellow Philadelphians. Besides t-shirts, TeePublic offers a wide variety of other products, including hoodies stickers, buttons and mugs. Everything can be emblazoned with your favorite Josh Pincus created design.

So, there you have it. A word from our sponsor. Go take a look at what I have for sale. At last count, there are 240 different designs available. Some are drawings you may have seen on my illustration blog. Others are unique to TeePublic. I add new designs fairly regularly. Maybe there's something to fill that hole in your life you didn't know needed filling.

Or something like that.

CLICK HERE  >>>> JPiC DESIGNS TEEPUBLIC STOREFRONT

 

We now return you to your regularly scheduled blog post.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

 

art for art's sake

For forty or so years, I have made my living as an artist. Over that period, the title has changed a few times. I was "artist," "designer," "graphic designer," "graphic artist," "desktop publisher," "desktop graphic design artist." These were all labels applied to me and my profession by non-artists for whom I was employed. But, for all intents and purposes, I was a simple artist. I took someone's poorly-explained concept and made it a tangible thing of beauty. As a matter of fact, I have had many employers drop a scrap of paper before me — riddled with childish scribbles and illegible hieroglyphics — and instruct me to "pretty this up." And, of course, I would. That's what I got paid to do.

When I first entered the working world, I used ink and a pen and markers and actual paper. When computers entered the scene, I balked at first, but now, a mouse and a monitor are my go-to "tools of the trade." I have been plying my "craft" (ha ha! what a bullshit phrase!) in the realm of pixels for the past 30 years. Over that time, I have designed everything from simple forms to elaborate displays for trade shows. I have also created countless logos for a wide variety of businesses.

Nearly every artist will tell you, we sometimes obsess about design. It doesn't always come easy. It is work. It is hard work. Sure, it can be enjoyable, but getting that perfect design is a process. And artists look for inspiration from anywhere it can be found. Because we are always looking and observing and scrutinizing our graphic-embellished surroundings. We also take note of bad design. I mean poorly conceived, poorly executed, just plain lazy design. That type of design can be spotted a mile away. While a client may be impressed and satisfied by such a final product, other artists — who understand the process — know the lack of effort that goes into a bad design. Sure, the client's word is the final word, but an artist knows when his best efforts (and worst efforts) have been passed off for the sake of earning a buck.

I worked for a company in Pennsauken, New Jersey for a short time. On my commute from my suburban Philadelphia home, I would pass a building just before I made the turn into the small industrial park where my job was located. As I approached the intersection to make the turn, I studied a logo plastered on a sign just outside this building. The building housed an auto auction and the logo was hideous. It was garish. It was "in your-face." It screamed "WE ARE A FUCKING AUTO AUCTION AND WE HAVE CARS!" It was probably just what the owner's of the business wanted and the artist that created it probably knocked it out between quarters while watching a football game on a Sunday afternoon. It looked like it was picked out of a book of t-shirt designs at one of those airbrush places on the boardwalk of a seaside resort. Every day, I stared at this logo — angrily — as I crept towards the intersection to make a right-hand turn. As someone who has been designing logos (some good and some admittedly bad) for four decades, I was insulted that this logo was displayed prominently, in full view for the public to see. It was not that far removed from that spiky "S" that decorated everyone's three-ring binder in high school. You know, that easy doodle that everyone could do, but still looked impressive and cool. It infuriated me every morning. I would pass it and think to myself: "That is one ugly logo."

Well, I lost the job in Pennsauken and started a new position near Princeton, New Jersey. My new commute would take me north in The Garden State. I would no longer pass the auto auction and its horrible logo. At my new job, I worked with art directors from international companies to create innovative and sophisticated designs to be used at business-seeking tradeshows. It was a new and exciting experience in my career and the eight months I spent with that company were the best of any job I had held previously... until the bottom fell out of the trade show business when the worldwide COVID-19 pandemic forced humans to practice social distancing under the threat of sickness or even death. With trade shows a casualty of the coronavirus, that business shut down and I had to seek employment elsewhere. 

After a year, I landed a job back in Pennsauken, right next door to the place I had worked previously. My morning drive to work — once again — took me past the auto auction and its heinous logo. On my first day of my new job, I passed the auto auction and became infuriated all over again. There it was! That logo. That horrible logo! I would see it every morning. It was unavoidable. I was being punished for.... something, I suppose.

One morning, traffic was particularly heavy and slow on Route 130. Cars moved at a snail's pace, inching along, as we approached some unseen blockage in the flow of traffic. As I moved my car closer to the intersection to make my turn, I spotted three fire engines occupying the right-hand lane, forcing traffic to merge into the left lanes. The fire trucks were shooting streams of water on the fire-damaged wreckage of the auto auction. The building was now reduced to a steaming, smoky pile of unrecognizable rubble, dotted with charred girders poking out amid the burned bricks and twisted rebar. I joined in with the car-confined group of rubberneckers, crawling past the scene, curiously surveying the aftermath of the previous evening's fire. I, however, took specific notice. The sign with the logo was gone, an obvious victim of the 4-alarm blaze. The walls that also had once displayed the logo were now demolished, laying in scattered piles among the other debris.

I eventually made it to the intersection and I made my usual right turn. I also gathered my thoughts for an alibi, in case I was questioned.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

let's give 'em something to talk about

When I'm not drawing stupid pictures or writing rambling blog posts or exposing violators of the "Dude, It's Rude" policy on my daily train commute, I work as a graphic designer at a large chain of bakeries*. They have locations up and down the East Coast and recently expanded to the Midwest. My company employs many supporting staff in addition to the 400+ bakers that are the lifeblood of the business. After all, where would a bakery be without experts in flour and mixing and frosting?

I don't work here.

One of the responsibilities in my job, in addition to producing long, wordy informational sheets detailing cake ingredients and regular newsletters informing customers of breaking news in the world of baking, is creating advertising for various publications. These ads are requested through a section of the company's intranet, on a page plainly labeled, "Advertising." Here, a selection of ad layouts is displayed. Once the appropriate design is chosen, a small form is filled out with pertinent information for getting the ad created (size, color limitations, recipients contact information, as well as the identity of the requester) and submitted. I, then, receive an automatically-generated email with the request. Shortly afterwards, using a set of previously prepared templates, I create the ad to the submitted specifications and send it off to the requester for review and eventual approval. Once approved, I send the completed, camera-ready ad to the publication and we are done. Simple? You'd be surprised.

Bakers are interesting people. They seem to believe that baking is the most important profession on earth. The also seem to believe that bakers possess a far superior intelligence than, say, police officers or barbers or postal workers or artists, for that matter. Somehow, working with hot ovens and proofing boxes makes them experts in all professions, regardless of any special training or years of experience other vocations may require.

Here either.

Recently, I received an indirect request from two bakers, via an email chain, on which I was copied. At no time was I actually addressed in the course of the correspondence. I was merely referenced and the fact that an ad was needed was discussed. Surmising that no official ad request was going to be made, I took it upon myself to be proactive and create an ad. Through an email attachment that I discovered on the third "go-round," I was able to find a spec sheet from the organization. The ad in question was for a small theater presenting their annual program of classical music. I chose an appropriate layout — featuring a photo of an orchestra — and prepared an ad to send to these two bakers for review.

I finished the ad, created a PDF (which is standard procedure) and sent it off, along with my regular accompanying email copy:

"Attached please find a PDF of the ad, as requested. Please review and reply with edits or your approval. Once approved, I will send this ad to the organization.
Thank you. Josh."

Within seconds of clicking the "send" button, I received a reply from one of the bakers. His single-line, signature-less correspondence read:

"Is this ad in black and white?"

I reread the ad specifications on the original solicitation from the theater (that was first sent to the bakers before it was attached to the email on which I was copied). Printed under the available ad sizes were the words: "All ads will be printed in black and white." I immediately and dutifully responded:

"Yes, according to the ad solicitation from the theater, all ad will be printed in black and white."

The baker replied with three words, and, what I interpreted as, an air of dismissive disgust:

"What a waste."

I wasn't sure how to take that. Perhaps the theater could not afford to print a program booklet in full color. It is a small community theater and full-color printing can lean towards expensive. I wasn't sure if his disdain was directed at me, as though I determined that this and all ads would run in monochrome. So, I just didn't reply. I just waited for the other baker who "requested" the ad to weigh in.

He did. Indirectly. He replied to a representative from the theater, informing her that a check would be sent by his assistant and an ad would be sent by "my colleague, Josh Pincus." (I'm a colleague. Whaddaya know?) I took that as an approval from Baker Number Two, so I sent the ad. All finished.

But not really.

Nearly two hours after I sent the ad to the theater, Baker Number One, once again, chimed in. He interjected:

"It appears we have no choice. I assume that none of you have a black and white TV."

It got no response from anyone on the original email chain. I honestly don't know what it means. What I do know is:

1. I sent the ad to the theater
2. I got receipt confirmation for the ad
3. I will never be able to figure out bakers.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

* If you have been paying attention, you know that I do not work at a bakery. 

that kind of luxe just ain't for us

As a belated holiday gift, my wife and I took her parents out to dinner. We went to a small, nondescript, storefront place at the far end of a strip mall in desolate Northeast Philadelphia. After dinner, my father-in-law said he wanted to pop over to a nearby supermarket for a dozen eggs. The supermarket to which he was referring was an ominous-looking Aldi next door.

I've seen Aldi markets here and there, mostly, from what I can tell, in lower income areas. There is one, actually not too far from my suburban home, but it's just over the county border and within the Philadelphia city limits. I have never actually been in an Aldi market, but, from the outside, it looks like a warehouse-style store, offering unknown "off" branded products at low prices. So, when the opportunity arose to actually enter an Aldi, to do a little first-hand, face-to-face investigation while my father-in-law was on his little egg quest, I jumped!

The entrance to the store is guarded by scores of shopping carts, all locked together by a short length of chain between each one. Customers must insert a quarter into the large locking mechanism to release a cart. Your quarter is returned when the cart is returned. This system eliminates the need for a kid to scramble around the parking lot, collecting and organizing abandoned shopping carts. And the savings are passed on to you!

Not what you think.

It turns out that the majority of products that Aldi stocks are their own versions of national brands. There are a few products that you've seen in other supermarkets, but those are few and far between. Also, the products are displayed in open cardboard cartons stacked high and tightly along side each other, thus creating aisles of cardboard shelving. We entered the store in the potato chip/candy/cereal aisle — an unusual grouping of foods and an even more unusual starting point for a grocery shopping trip. As I made my way down Aisle One, I looked carefully at all of the package designs. Most were obvious attempts at copying the well-known brands, using similar product "beauty shots," similar typefaces and positioning on the package. It was as though I discovered the source of all of those products you see in the kitchen cabinets on TV sitcoms or pulled from the Mystery Ingredient Basket on Chopped. (Ah, hard shell coated chocolate candy drops! I wonder what they're supposed to be?) Just past a display of Aldi's rectangular, frosted "Toaster Tarts" (a thinly-veiled version of PopTarts), was the breakfast cereal section. I saw box after box of slightly-skewed renditions of General Mills' "Cheerios" and Kellogg's "Raisin Bran." There was even a near-clone of "Raisin Bran Crunch" in a box that smacked of copyright infringement. All of the cereal was presented under the fabricated "Millville" brand. They weren't fooling anyone.

Fake rolls.

We may need a warrant.

Aisle after aisle, brand after faux brand was presented. I felt like we were shopping in a carnival fun house, each family of products exhibited by way of one of those distorted mirrors. I picked up and replaced dozens of items, but not before examining and chuckling at the blatant plagiarism of the packaging. Mrs. P, now carrying a small shopping basket, had chosen a couple of "Bake House" brand crescent rolls. Clad in a slender, navy blue cardboard tube and looking a little too close to its Pillsbury counterpart, these rolls, surprisingly, carried a pretty reputable kosher certification, something Poppin' Fresh's line sorely lacks. (I believe their ad slogan is "Lard Makes It Great!") Mrs. P also selected several individually-boxed cherry pies from the folks at the made-up "Bakers Treat."  These were defiant affronts to our beloved Philadelphia bakery treasure Tastykake, but they were 49¢ versus Tastykake's hefty buck and a half.

We met up with my father-in-law, who was now cradling four dozen eggs in his arms. We made our way to the checkout lanes, where one lonely, yet friendly, young lady was ready to add up our purchases. We quickly learned that, in order to offer additional savings to their customers, Aldi does not accept credit cards or coupons, nor do they supply bags. "Pay with cash and carry this stuff out on your own" is their apparent company motto. Luckily, because of Aldi's ridiculously low prices, these few items only set us back a couple of dollars. Hey, the eggs were an unheard of 99 cents a dozen!

When I got home, I did a little research on Aldi and its history. (Okay, I "googled" it.) Although it can trace its origins to the 1940s, Aldi was officially formed in the 1960s in Germany, when the Albrecht brothers split up the family grocery business over a disagreement about selling cigarettes. Though legally two separate companies, they both operate under the "Aldi" banner and grew to become a global chain with 10,000 stores in 18 countries. 10,000 stores! I was shocked! (Shocked, I tell you!) I totally and unjustly underestimated Aldi. The chain was voted "Best Supermarket in the United Kingdom" two years in a row. Pretty impressive.

Is it impressive enough to get me to go back into an Aldi again? I don't think so.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

strumming my pain with her fingers

I was on the train for my commute home from work. The train was fairly crowded, but I managed to find a seat. I reached into my bag and located the book which I am currently struggling to finish. (In case you were wondering, it's Dancing Aztecs, a 1976 sprawling and disjointed comic-crime novel by the prolific author Donald Westlake. I have read — and enjoyed — several of Westlake's efforts in the past. This one, however, is trite and contrived and feels like a homework assignment.) The train made its first stop at Jefferson Station and more passengers filed on and filled in all of the remaining seats. The surplus were relegated to standing in the aisles. A woman, who just boarded, stood just inches from me chatting on her cellphone. Maybe it was the close proximity or maybe it was the fact that she was not using her "inside voice," but I could hear every word she was saying. And, boy!, what she was saying!

Obviously, she was in the same line of work as I — graphic design. She was viciously complaining about a particularly irritating series of events that she had experienced at her job. Events that eerily echoed incidents that I have experienced over the past thirty-plus years as a graphic designer.

"...and then she asked me to make the document a PDF, and it was already a PDF!"

"It was the worst designed logo I ever did. Took me five minutes and that's the one they picked!"

"Nope! She didn't know what I meant when I said 'URL'!"

"They keep interrupting me with little jobs that they can do themselves and it keeps me from doing my actual work!"

"They know I'm the designer! What do they know about design?"

I tried not to eavesdrop, but I had no choice. If someone is standing next to you and carrying on a conversation in a loud voice, is it technically eavesdropping? I also tried not to force myself into her conversation. I had to restrain myself from nodding in agreement and interjecting, "Oh, I feel your pain, sister. I feel your pain." Then, punctuate my sentiment with a fist-pump of solidarity. But, that's not me. I don't do stuff like that. I don't talk to people I don't know. So, I went back to my book and she continued her rant.

As the train approached my stop, I returned my book to my bag and fumbled in my jacket pocket for my house keys. The train began to slow as it came into the station. I stood. She turned towards the exit as well. She was getting off at my stop, Should I say something? Should I let her know that she is not alone? Should I offer a bit of artist camaraderie? I inched my way up the aisle just behind her. She descended the train steps to the platform just ahead of me. And...

I didn't say a word.

When I got home, I told my wife the whole tale of what transpired on the train. My wife has heard me complain for thirty-two years over the course of a dozen jobs. She also knows me and my personality quirks and traits better than anyone else. "You didn't say anything to her, did you?," Mrs P. asked. Then: "Of course you didn't.," she answered her own question.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

you can't always get what you want

When I'm not drawing my silly little pictures of obscure celebrities who met some horrifically tragic demise, I am a graphic designer. I've been doing that job for nearly 30 years for over a dozen employers. (The drawings are just a way to relax, have fun and answer only to myself.) As a graphic designer, I have created brochures, advertisements and invitations. I have designed newsletters, textbooks and even store signage. And logos. I have created many logos. Many, many logos. And it ain't as easy as you may think.

A week or so ago, my wife's brother (No, not that one — the other one) called. He told me news of layoffs at the hospital where he is employed as a neuropsychologist. He was spared, but the ax fell on two veteran doctors with 50 years of practice experience between them. They were flatly informed by hospital administration that their particular areas of practice were not generating enough income. With that, they were unceremoniously shown the door. The two until-recently employed doctors decided to open their own private psychology practice. My brother-in-law who — for the time being — still has a job, decided he was interested in expanding his horizons. He unofficially committed to joining his former colleagues in their new venture. The principals of the newly formed business determined that they needed a logo and brochure to launch their project. This is where I come in.

With over a quarter of a century of design, print and marketing experience, I was the natural choice for my brother-in-law. And being part of the family was a bonus. He proposed my services to his new partners. He explained my credentials and related a few of my past clients. They questioned my access to the proper tools (i.e. the latest computer software and a few random technology-sounding terms they may have overheard). My bro-in-law sarcastically countered that my submissions would be presented in crayon on the back of a used napkin. They were not amused, but after a little convincing, they conceded to giving me a shot.

Without revealing the secretive process of logo creation, lest I have my artist's license permanently revoked, let's just say I sent seven logo designs for the new partnership to peruse. Seven. SEVEN! I must have been out of my fucking mind.

Last night, my phone rang and it was my brother-in-law. He sounded very subdued and a little defeated.

"Hey, Josh," he began, "you didn't start working on that brochure, did you?" The tone of his question made me believe that he hoped I didn't start working on that brochure. Indeed, I had not and I told him so. He emitted a sigh of relief.

"Well, don't.," he said and he went on to explain about the endless conversation through countless emails regarding the whole brochure/logo request. They discussed, without including my brother-in-law (their potential partner), how they didn't like any of my logo designs. They relentlessly picked the designs apart like two vultures ripping into a rotting coyote carcass. Then, they presented my brother-in-law with a Southwestern blanket design that they hoped to incorporate into the logo, pointing out that they "really like it." They also inquired about seeing and reviewing my portfolio. Y'know, like an audition.

I laughed. I had heard it all before. Many, many times. Everyone's a fucking artist and everyone knows how to design. Garbage men, sandwich makers, window washers, cashiers at WalMart and now, apparently, doctors.

My brother-in-law apologized for roping me into this fiasco-waiting-to-happen and explained that they will be using another designer. One closer to their home. One who, he thinks, specializes in take-out menus.

And he also rethought his decision to join "these two nut jobs," as he put it.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com