get out the map

Among the many interests that I share with Mrs. Pincus (my wife of nearly forty-two years), is a love and appreciation for kitsch. We like pop culture, especially roadside attractions placed along our country's interstates and throughways for the sole purpose of quaint entertainment for families crisscrossing the land and looking for a little distraction — and perhaps a place to grab a bite to eat and a needed visit to a rest room (not necessarily in that order).

While traveling by car on our honeymoon (almost four decades ago), we stopped at arguably one of the most famous "roadside attractions" on the east coast — the notorious South of the Border. Taking up roughly 350 acres across the intersection of I-95 and US 301, South of the Border has been a welcome respite for harried vacationers and weary truckers since it opened its faux Mexican door over 70 years ago. I had never been to the Hamer, South Carolina refuge before this stop with my new bride in 1984. I had only been aware of the day-glow bumper stickers I'd seen plastered on cars that advertised the campy oasis. My father, who wouldn't dare drive further south than Cottman Avenue, would never ever afford his family the pleasure of an out-of-state excursion (Atlantic City, New Jersey being the sole exception). Mrs. P, on the other hand, was an experienced patron of South of the Border, having stopped countless times on car trips to Miami Beach in her youth.

In reality, South of the Border's popularity and staying power is a true headscratcher. Comprised of crappy gift shops, crappy convenience stores, crappy motels, crappy fast food counters and a store the size of a supermarket that only stocks the most dangerous of fireworks, South of the Border has questionable appeal. However, with clever billboards placed hundreds of miles before a single neon light is visible, South of the Border has made itself a "must stop" destination — by way of appealing to your kids' sense of curiosity and ability to whine. The first time I visited South of the Border (and every subsequent time), I've had the same feeling. "What on earth am I doing here?" And, if you look around at the other folks, wandering aimlessly across the parking lots and through the various retail outlets, they all appear to be asking themselves the same thing. Yet, people have been stopping for years, so they must know what they're doing. In recent years, South of the Border has faced financial difficulty and has been forced to sell off land and property, yet, every day, cars filled with travelers flood Instagram with duck-faced selfies posed before a backdrop of brightly-painted buildings and giant fiberglass "Pedros" (South of the Border's suspiciously-racist mascot).

On the same trip, a little further south, Mrs. P and I chanced upon our very first Cracker Barrel. This corporate recreation of the old time general store was also brought to our attention by a series of homey billboards placed enticingly along the roadside of the narrower portions of I-95. Cracker Barrel was kitschy in a different way than South of the Border, but kitschy just the same. Boasting the promise of authentic Southern cooking (including pork ribs, cornbread smeared in bacon drippings, a puzzling dish called "chicken fried steak" and other selections that were off-limits to a couple of kosher-observant Yankee newlyweds), Cracker Barrel featured a retail area chockful of tchotchkes that looked as though they were absconded from Drucker's General Store or Aunt Bee's living room. Although we didn't actually eat in a Cracker Barrel until years later when we were assured that their "world famous" pancakes did not come in contact with sausages during the cooking process, we did make several small purchases from their store and did partake of their surprisingly clean bathrooms.

Just this past weekend, Mrs. Pincus and I found ourselves driving south on Interstate 81, traversing the scenic Shenandoah Valley. Our eventual destination was a lovely bed and breakfast in Waynesboro, Virginia. This would be our accommodations while we attended the wedding of Mrs. P's cousin Veronica. If you like to see trees and mountains and trees and mountains — endlessly — for close to four hours, I highly recommend a leisurely drive on Interstate 81. Personally (and I believe I speak for my spouse as well), I prefer a more interesting journey, with stuff to see and places to stop... or at least the promise of places to stop. I-81 has trees. A lot of them. However, somewhere south of Zenda (you know where the Bethel Church of Brethren is?), we spotted a billboard in a clearing behind the proverbial "white picket fence." The ambiguously risqué sentiment announced the location of a Buc-ee's just ahead... well if you call 120 miles "just."  Buc-ee's, from what I have heard, is right up our kitsch-loving alley.

Buc-ee's is the new trend-setter in the competitive world of interstate travel stops. Leaving old stand-bys like Stuckey's, Flying J and Love's in the dust, Buc-ee's has emerged as the place to stop on your way from here to there... especially if your "here" and your "there" are in Texas. Currently, there are 55 Buc-ee's in the United States, with its Luling, Texas location deemed the "World's Largest Convenience Store," taking up a whopping 75,000 square feet. In 2018, Buc-ee's expanded outside of Texas, with its Rockingham, Virginia location (the one we were 120 miles from) welcoming excited travelers in the summer of 2025. We decided to stop at Buc-ee's on our way home... and we did.

After a weekend of nuptial-related activities, Mrs. P and I said our familial "goodbyes," loaded our luggage into our car and headed home — with a stop at Buc-ee's in our near future. Taking the Frieden's Church exit on I-81, Buc-ee's is located on 74,000 square feet on — of all places — Buc-ee's Boulevard (what are the chances?!?) We drove past the 120 gas pumps and selected an unoccupied space in the lot of 600 available spaces. The place was bustling with activity. Groups of leather-clad bikers hovered around their cycles as they enjoyed various edible offerings from Buc-ee's extensive menu. Families with kids in tow breached the entrance and scattered in all directions — Mom perusing the crafty housewares, Dad eyeing up the fresh carved brisket, bro and sis gazing hungrily at the hundreds of flavors of fudge made fresh in the store. Buc-ee's is a happy combination of South of the Border, Cracker Barrel, Walmart and Wawa — all the best of each establishment, but with a decidedly redneck appeal. (That's not an insult. That seems to be exactly the way Buc-ee's likes it.) Under Buc-ee's enormous roof, you can find practically everything you'd want to eat, wear or give to someone to prove you were there. They have shirts, playing cards, bottle openers, stickers, postcards, hair ties, frisbees, dog bowls, party decorations (who wouldn't want a Buc-ee's-themed birthday?), pajamas, socks, license plates, drink bottles, plush characters, key rings and so much more. Hungry? Buc-ees makes sandwiches, tacos, chicken, potato chips, candy, as well as pre-packaged snacks — all emblazoned with the friendly Buc-ee's beaver mascot right on the label. Plus, there's a whole section of national products arranged in easy-access aisles and cooler after glass-doored cooler filled with water, soft drinks and beer. And the place was hoppin'! Everywhere you looked, folks were filling shopping carts with dozens of Buc-ee's branded items. Families were selecting piles of foil-wrapped sandwiches from the massive self-serve stock, debating whether to get the pulled pork with or without sauce. There was an entire wall covered — floor to ceiling — with every possible configuration and flavor of beef jerky imaginable. The restrooms — the self-proclaimed "world famous" ones — were also bustling centers of movement (No pun intended. Well, maybe a little.) Attendants hustled their sparkling, cleanser-laden carts in and out of the discreet entrance as dozens — nay, hundreds — of travelers answered the call of nature with the chain-wide pledge of "the cleanest bathrooms in the world!" 

I stood and marveled at the operation unfolding before my eyes. It was positively fascinating. Everywhere you looked, someone was buying something, There were dozens and dozens of cashiers busily ringing up purchases. There were employees wearing Buc-ee's vests stocking Buc-ee's products on Buc-ee's shelves. It was like watching a ballet being staged by the local Chamber of Commerce.

Mrs. P and I sampled their store-made roasted peanuts. We posed for a photo with Buc-ee himself and tried to remember where we parked our car.

Interested in seeing a spectacle? Buc-ee's is a spectacle.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

I don't belong in this club

Remember why you hated to go into Radio Shack? You went in because you happened to walk past the store while you were at the mall and you remembered that you needed a special, obscure battery that you couldn't find in the rack in the supermarket. Or a particular light bulb that fit in that weird lamp you got when you cleaned out grandma's attic when she died. So, for a quick purchase — with no intention of ever setting foot in a Radio Shack again — the cashier pressed you for your name, address, phone number, yearly income, your previous address, the name of your employer, your pet's names, your dead pet's names... an entire profile of your current living situation. He typed all of your responses into the Central Customer Radio Shack database and you were officially indoctrinated into the cult of Radio Shack. No wonder Radio Shack went out of business. Who needed that shit?

There are several types of stores I try to avoid. Home improvement stores, paint stores and auto parts stores. I am not a "do-it-yourself" guy. I don't want to "do-it-myself." I want someone to do it for me. I don't want to put an addition on my house. I don't want to paint a room in my house. I don't want to do anything to my car except put in gas and scrape off snow (when necessary). Anything more involved than those simple activities, I want them done by someone who is not me. AND... when they are completed, I do not want a run-down on how those tasks where done. I don't care. If I cared, I would have taken the time to have learned how to do them myself. But, I did not do that, so....

I worked for Pep Boys Auto Parts for three years. I worked in their advertising department, where I placed pictures of various auto parts into ads alongside a giant red price. I could not identify any of the auto parts in the ads. I placed them by item number. I didn't know (nor care) what any of the parts did. My job was to make the ads look "pretty" and "appealing." I think I accomplished that. During my time with Pep Boys, I set foot into a Pep Boys store a grand total of one time... and that was to purchase a set of Pep Boys bobbleheads. Any "car-related" issue I had was taken care of by my trusted mechanic.

Home improvement stores, paint stores and auto parts stores all have one thing in common. They have customers that fall into two very distinct categories — do-it-yourselfers who make these types of stores a frequent destination and those who rarely venture into one of these stores and try to avoid them as best they can. I fall into the latter group. I hate these types of stores. The employees, it seems, do not posses the skills to differentiate between die-hard roll-up-your-sleeves doers and those of us who are not sure which is the "business end" of a hammer. Maybe that's just the kind of people who are hired to work in these places. Maybe they don't have the thinking capacity to "read the room" because that have just about grasped the concept of "measure twice, cut once" and that can be very taxing on a limited-thinking brain.  So, they just treat everyone as though they are Bob Vila. On the off chance that they can tell the difference, they seem to go out of their way to make non-DIYers feel inferior. They use specialized lingo that only someone who completed years of authorized MOPAR training would understand. They expound on the foot-per-pound ratio of a particular line of torque wrench as though it was common knowledge. They explain primer coverage and semi-gloss opacity as though they were discussing the weather. And they talk about the comparative ins-and-outs of windshield wipers as though anybody really gives a shit. 

Which brings me to this...

We experienced a rather brutal winter this year. We had several days of heavy snowfall, coupled with ice storms and weeks of below-freezing temperatures. The weather, and its lingering after-effects, really did a number on the windshield wipers on my car. During a recent rainstorm, I noticed a long strip of rubber bouncing wildly across my windshield, noticeably out-of-step with the rhythmic uniformity of the wiper arms. It looked like a single strand of black spaghetti wildly whipping around the rigid wiper blades who were otherwise maintaining their glass-cleaning duty. This errant string of rubber was causing an occluding streak of water right in my line of vision. I craned my neck to see around it, but it was a futile effort. It was obvious I needed to replace the wiper blades. Or, more accurately, I need to have someone replace the wiper blades for me. 

My car is due for inspection in May, and since it will probably rain a few more times before May arrives, I need new wiper blades immediately. I weighed my options. There's a quick oil change place a few blocks from my house. A quick Google search revealed that they sell and install wiper blades. However, my experience with those types of places is they love to upsell. I didn't need an oil change or fluid check or whatever else they offer. I didn't feel like being subjected to their company-sanctioned "you know you could also use a (fill in the blank) while you're here!" My second option was to visit the Advance Auto Parts that's just a short drive from my house. I have noticed a sign in their window that proudly announced that they install windshield wiper blades for free. I decided — with much trepidation and anxiety associated with going into an auto parts store — to go with Advance.

While trying to skirt a four-day-late St. Patrick's Day parade, I maneuvered my car on an alternate route to Advance Auto Parts. I parked my car and, with my stomach already in my throat, I entered the store. A fellow greeted me and asked if he could help. I told him I needed wiper blades for my car. Our exchange went like this:

Josh Pincus: It's a 2024 Subaru Crosstrek.

Auto Parts Guy: 2004?

JP: No, 2024.

APG: Oh! That makes a big difference. In 2017, a lot of car manufacturers like Subaru, Mazda, Volkswagen and some others changed the kind of wiper blades they use to the new, single push button type that are the slim design cfkjngpofr[  klkspokqf sps alctkwd gjhspsn dbdfojdp

Oh my God, I thought I had a fucking stroke. Suddenly, this guy launched into Marisa Tomei's climactic "Chevy Bel Air" speech from My Cousin Vinny. I tuned his words out and said nothing. He continued, however, going on and on and on about clip housings and old designs and about how Mr. Smith should be running this country and how many languages Enoch Powell can speak and then he throws up all over the Cuban Libres.

He turned his attention to a computer screen after typing in some information.

APG: I'll bet you — without even looking — that it's part number A327875-AE.

He said this to me, I suppose, but I think he said it more to impress himself with his vast knowledge of random auto part numbers. 

APG: Let's see.....

Suddenly, he turned to another employee seated waaay down at the other end of the counter. He, too, was working with a customer.

APG: Hey, AJ! Hear this song? (He pointed up in the air, indicating the music floating through the store, courtesy of the overhead speakers.) Rolling Stones. Gimme Shelter, man. My favorite Stones song, man.

He returned his attention to his customer (me) and the wiper blade inventory that had now populated the computer screen.

APG: Yep! A327875-AE! Just like I said. (If he was a sideshow contortionist, he would have patted himself on the back.) I hope we carry these, because sometimes these new model numbers are fdkg hddkd djfgjfiueh jdhoidp jdpdpokf   (Things were starting to grow dim again and my hearing was getting distorted.)

I followed him to the windshield wiper section of the store, where he pointed to a bunch of similarly packaged wiper blades. He pointed out the prices and I selected a pair of beautiful Bosch Focus blades... just breathtakingly beautiful.

APG: Would you like me to put them on your car?

JP: Yes. (This was the first word I had spoken since I corrected him about the year of manufacture of my car.)

He instructed me to swipe or tap my credit card on the terminal and I did so. Then he asked for my phone number. And my last name. And my first name... in that inimitable style made so irritating by Radio Shack.

APG: Pincus? Is that a Scandinavian name? Sounds like a Nordic name. I think its a Nordic name. Is that Nordic?

JP: (thinking) What the fuck does the origin of my last name have to do with me buying wiper blades? And what the fuck business is it of yours to analyze the etymology of my last name? (I merely shrugged my shoulders and remained silent.)

The APG fumbled with the packaging until he finally removed the blades. I followed him out to the parking lot and, although I had earlier gestured towards my car from inside the store, he still needed me to identify it. It was, however MR. CAR PARTS GUY, the only Subaru Crosstrek in the entire lot. Even a non-car guy like myself could see that. Within three seconds, he had popped off the old blades and set the new ones in their proper place. I thanked him and offered an accompanying wave of my hand. His parting words were, "I think you'll really enjoy these blades."

I have owned and driven several cars in my lifetime. I do not recall ever — ever! — thinking, while observing the wipers sweep the downpour of rain off my windshield, allowing for a clear view of the road ahead of me, "Well, goddamn!, I certainly am enjoying these windshield wipers! Yes sir! Pure enjoyment!"

Guess where I will never be going again.  Go ahead.... guess.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

a must to avoid

Have you ever walked or driven past a place that you have never been to and, just by the looks of things, thought to yourself, "I am never going there!"? I do this a lot. Sometimes it's a store. Sometimes it's a restaurant. This time, it's a restaurant.

I take the same route to work every morning. I wind my way through northeast Philadelphia towards the Tacony-Palmyra Bridge and eventually to the mostly industrial burg of Pennsauken, New Jersey. Every morning, at around 6:30, I pass a small strip center on Levick Street. Wedged between a Chinese restaurant whose curtains are always drawn and whose neon "OPEN" sign is always lit even when they are not open and a Little Caesar's which I will never set foot in again is an intriguing little restaurant. Well, intriguing to me, anyway. Every morning, when I pass by this place, I find myself craning my neck to get a closer assessment. The place is marked by a large backlit sign (that is never lit) that reads "Breakfast & Lunch" with a small subhead that guarantees "Homemade Style" along with the phone number. Beneath the sign, the grease-streaked windows display several pieces of paper taped to the inside. I can only assume that these papers delineate some important information for those who are close enough to read their contents. Perhaps the day's specials or a change in business hours or maybe a plea for qualified and experienced restaurant help. Whatever they may say, from my position behind the steering wheel of my car and doing approximately 40 miles per hour, I am not privy to that information. I can, however, see that there is never — never! — a single customer inside the place. Never. I can make out a few figures moving around at the back of the interior, behind what is most likely a service counter. I can make out an array of tables and chairs but they are all always empty. I can see a large cooler with a PEPSI logo glowing at the top, but there are no customers helping themselves to sodas nor employees taking some drinks out to fill an order... at least never during the four or five seconds that elapses as I drive past.

First of all, I am intrigued by the sign. I wonder what was the discussion that led to the decision to call the place "Breakfast & Lunch?" Did the owner make a list of possible names, scratching out the ones that were too obscure? Was "Petit-Déjeuner et Déjeuner" not used because the majority of the neighborhood residents did not speak French? Was "Elevenses" passed on because the Tolkien reference would have been lost on the working-class folks who make the immediate area their home? Perhaps "Breakfast & Lunch" was the just best option in the owner's short list. After all, that is what they serve... sort of like the General Putnam Motel Diner featured in the film My Cousin Vinny.

I am also intrigued by the general description of the cuisine, as described by the subheading on the sign. "Homemade Style" is not exactly enticing. "Homemade" is, but not homemade style. Does this imply that the food is not homemade, but, instead, mimics the type of food that one would expect to be homemade. Is your food homemade? Well, it's homemade style! When we rip open this 300 pound bag of hash brown potatoes that were frozen in some processing plant last month, they will be prepared in the style of homemade food. Same goes for when we rehydrate these powdered eggs. Or maybe it's more along the lines of when you see a "kosher style" designation at a delicatessen, yet you find bacon among the breakfast side orders or Swiss cheese melted on your corned beef in the ever-popular, but decidedly trayfe, Reuben sandwich. Well... maybe "homemade style" isn't as "cut and dried." "Homemade style" sounds... sounds... I don't know.... weird. It's a bit too noncommittal and very suspect.

Two doors away from Breakfast & Lunch is a DMV location where people regularly line up hours before the official opening time. You would think that Breakfast & Lunch would do some kind of business from the folks waiting for state-issued identification. But, no... the queue stays just outside the doors of the DMV office and no one gives a glance in the direction of Breakfast & Lunch

I decided to see if Breakfast & Lunch has an internet presence. Sure enough, they do!  It seems that food from Breakfast & Lunch is readily available via Door Dash, Uber Eats and various other independent delivery services. My search also revealed that the place also goes by the name "B L Kitchen." This alternate moniker is emblazoned on the laminated menus from which a customer could select a meal... if there were indeed any customers.

And then there is Yelp! — the internet's great equalizer. The Yelp! reviews of Breakfast & Lunch are required reading. Evidentially, they do have customers. Regular customers! I suppose they patronize the business at other times besides 6:30 AM and 6:30 and five seconds. The Yelp! reviews feature a lot of photographs of very generic looking platters of standard breakfast food. Eggs, just plain eggs. Toast accompanied by a little plastic container of commercially-packed jelly. The amateurly-written sentiment ranges from high praise and sworn loyalty to vivid descriptions of disgusting and traumatic experiences endured by unsuspecting customers just looking for a couple of scrambled eggs and some coffee. There are repeated complaints of wrong orders, undercooked or overcooked food, not to mention dirty silverware, dirty plates, dirty tables and dirty floors. Other reviews stated that while the food was okay, the staff was rude, obnoxious, slow, unresponsive, unknowledgeable and — in one case — stoned. Sprinkled among the viscous and disparaging reports are glowing accounts of ambrosial pancakes and heavenly sausages with just the right amount of seasoning and condiments. These are immediately followed by a tirade about ketchup packets being pulled from a customer's take-out order and a manager scolding the waitstaff for putting so many packets in a customer's order in the first place.

And then there are the roaches. A number of reviews — too many for my comfort — describe troupes of roaches on tables, on walls, on counters, near food preparation areas, and, of course, in the bathrooms. That was all I needed to see.

I have no intentions of ever stopping at Breakfast & Lunch. I will never let my curiosity get the best of me. I will continue to pass Breakfast & Lunch a little before sunrise and again on my return commute hours after its 3:00 PM posted closing time. Even before reading Yelp! reviews, the place just looked.... uninviting from the outside. It is just one of those places. If you live in the Philadelphia area, patronizing Breakfast & Lunch is totally up to you. You won't see me there.... or anyone else, as far as I can tell. 

Although, this guy sure seems to like it... whoever he is.

originally posted on Yelp!

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

life in the fast lane

A few days ago, I went to my son's house after work. Although I live in Pennsylvania, I work in New Jersey. As a matter of fact, my last three jobs have been in the Garden State. Many people who live in Philadelphia and the immediate surrounding suburbs work in New Jersey. It's really not that far and there are several bridges that take an interstate traveler to essentially the same place. New Jersey is weird that way. (New Jersey is weird in other ways, but that's a subject for another blog post.)

This would have saved Sonny Corleone's life.

When I first started working in New Jersey, I immediately purchased an EZ Pass. This ingenious little invention mounts conveniently on my car's windshield and allows easy (or, in this case EZ) access to special lanes on toll bridges. There is some sort of electronic reader mounted high above the EZ Pass lane that scans a car's EZ Pass and deducts the toll amount from the users' account. Or (in my case) charges a credit card that's on file in the EZ Pass system. It's quick, convenient and avoids any contact with a human being — three selling points that make me very happy. The EZ Pass system has pretty much eliminated the job of "toll taker" on the Pennsylvania Turnpike. There are also no toll takers on the Tacony-Palmyra Bridge, the one I take to and from work almost every day. My alternate route — The Betsy Ross Bridge — still has a few booths manned by real, live human beings for those commuters without an EZ Pass and a car ashtray filled with loose change. Actually, spare change is useless on a bridge, as the toll is up to six bucks on most of the bridges between Pennsylvania and New Jersey. The Tacony-Palmyra Bridge and the Betsy Ross Bridge also feature technology that reads a car's license plate and will bill the driver by mail. So, you really don't need cash.

Unless you're crossing the Walt Whitman Bridge and you're not paying attention.

Like me.

Job security

Every so often, I go to my son's house in South Philadelphia after work. Sometimes it's to feed his cat if he is working late. Sometimes, it's to feed his cat if he's away on vacation. Sometimes, it's to pick him up for a concert that — most often — does not involve his cat. That was the reason for my most recent trip. A concert. The most convenient bridge from my job to my son's house is the Walt Whitman. The Walt Whitman Bridge boasts a whopping fifteen toll booths to accommodate the volume of traffic that regularly use the thruway. The far left end of the bank of toll booths are clearly marked "EZ PASS ONLY." The next few are labeled "CASH ONLY" and the far end offer more EZ Pass options. Scattered among the toll booths are several that are labeled "LANE CLOSED" with a bright red light and a large gate blocking any access to the lane. Despite my unfounded and totally irrational fear of bridges, I try to navigate my car across four lanes of converging traffic to position myself in one of the EZ Pass lanes. On this particular day, I was not paying attention. Or perhaps the late afternoon sun was obscuring the identifying signs. Or maybe my glasses were smudged. Whatever the true reason, I apparently drove into a "CASH ONLY" lane. Now on other bridges, the Cash Only lanes are also equipped with EZ Pass readers. Not on the Walt Whitman Bridge, though. No sir. The Walt Whitman Bridge is still staffed by a skeleton crew of day-glo vest wearing, car-exhaust smelling cranks who haven't smiled since the Kennedy administration. They are like postal workers or DMV employees, except with less skills.

Take your pick, but choose wisely.

So there I was, behind the wheel of my car, waiting for the non-existent EZ Pass reader to register six bucks from the transponder on my windshield, thereby raising the gate that stood between me and the shores of the Delaware River. I leaned forward to see if... well, I don't know what I was trying to see. Just then, Mr. "I Hate My Job" Toll Booth Worker barked out at me. "Six dollars please!" The "please" at the end of his request didn't sound the least bit friendly or pleasing. "I have an EZ Pass., " I explained as I pointed to the little white box of electronics clinging to the inside of my windshield. "This is the cash lane. Six dollars please.," the toll guy repeated, as he moved closer to my car. He stunk like the inside of an auto body shop — a stale combination of rubber, gasoline, carbon monoxide and sweat. "I don't have any cash.," I persisted. Toll Guy frowned. "Don't back up!," he warned, "I'll have to call your license plate in and fill out a form. He sounded as though he would have rather had a limb amputated than call in my license plate and fill out a form. In my rear-view mirror, I could see him scribbling on a pad of paper and then return to his little protective sanctuary to call whoever he had to call. In a minute of so, he pulled the top sheet off his little pad and stuck it in my face. "Write your EZ Pass account number on this and mail it in within ten days.," he announced. Then he reluctantly pressed a button to raise the gate. I was on my way.

When I got home, I copied the account number off of the front of the EZ Pass transponder on my windshield. I filled in the other required information and mailed the form off.

A few days later, I had to make a stop at my son's house again after work. This time — and for all future times — I paid close close attention.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

hold me

I have had this blog for fourteen years and, admittedly, I have written about some pretty mundane (read: dumb) stuff. Today's blog post is no exception and might possibly be the dumbest subject I have ever tackled. You have been warned...

Loyal followers of this blog (all three of you) know that I purchased a new car recently. It was a major upgrade over my previous car which was twenty years old. I remember when I bought that car in 2004, one of my biggest concerns was that it had a CD player. My new car doesn't not have a CD player... which is fine because I don't know the last time I actually played a CD. (Probably in my last car.) 

Like a lot of you, I carry an insulated water bottle to work with me everyday. The "bottle" is made of aluminum and keeps water cold for the entire workday and beyond. At the end of the day, when I get home from work, I empty it out and there are still fully-formed ice cubes that I put in it that morning. However, the bottle is too big to fit into any of the cupholders in the small console that sits between the two front seats of my car. So, for my morning commute, I reluctantly place my water bottle on the passenger's seat. It stays safely on the seat for most of my drive. Every so often, if I have to quickly hit the brakes to avoid one of my fellow drivers, my water bottle rolls forward, swoops slightly upward from the angle of the seat and — after experiencing a brief moment of "hang time" — slams into the floor mat and rolls under the passenger-side dashboard. Then it will roll to and fro as though it is on board a ship — coming in and out of my peripheral vision as I try to keep one eye on the road. At the next red light, I'll reach down to retrieve the water bottle and place it back on the seat, where I run the risk of  the entire episode playing over and over again. After too many close calls in traffic, I decided that something had to be done.

I searched Amazon for "2024 Subaru Crosstrek Oversize Cup Holder Insert," making sure I covered every conceivable key word I could think of. I expected the search result to show me two or three or maybe even five options from which to choose. It yielded 103. One hundred and three! Granted, in typical Amazon fashion, some of the results were totally unrelated to car cup holders. One listing was for a retractable cover to conceal the cargo storage space behind the rear seats.. Another was for louvre inserts for the car's rear windows. Once I whittled out the unrelated items, I was left with about ninety car cup holder options.

I figured on paying around ten bucks for something that would keep my water bottle from rolling off my car's passenger seat and possibly contributing to a nasty collision. I thought that, in itself, was worth ten bucks. I was shocked — shocked, I tell you! — that the prices for, what was essentially the exact same device, ranged from $6.99 up to $45.00 for a very fancy, multi-compartment, full console divider. I just wanted a simple little plastic insert that fit securely into my existing cup holder with a wide opening to accommodate my water bottle.

Once I narrowed my choices down from the many available (and eerily similar) options, I chose the trusty TYKOR-53 Cup Holder Extender for Car with Adjustable Base. This baby was an economical $9.99 and boasted an Amazon customer approval rating of 4.4 out of 5 stars, with 70% of those reviews offering such glowing praise as "Perfect!," "Exactly what I needed!" and the one that almost brought a tear to my eye: "It's more satisfying than I expected!" I made sure I read the negative reviews as well. Those are always entertaining, especially after seeing that most buyers were very pleased with their purchase. I enjoy reading disgruntled buyers' petty complaints and the ones for the TYKOR-53 were indeed petty. One unhappy buyer stated that "it does not fit the 2003 Honda Odyssey." Well, this does not apply to me, as I do not own a 2003 Honda Odyssey. Besides, buying an ill-fitting cup holder insert is not going to solve the problems of a 21-year old car. Another disappointed buyer was miffed that it "does not fit foreign cars," only to specify later in the review that is did not fit in their Italian-made car. Well, my internationally-challenged friend, Italy is not the only country that exports cars. You should do better research before publicly denigrating the poor TYKOR-53 for something that is clearly your own shortcoming. (If I may interrupt my own train of thought for a moment, if you really want to be entertained, read the one-star reviews for The Diary of Anne Frank on Amazon.)

I checked the specs for the TYKOR-53 and found "2024 Subaru Crosstrek" among the cars that it professed to accommodate. I read about the ease of installation (no tools required!) and that was good enough for me. I placed my order and in a couple of days my brand-new, water bottle-securing, easy-installation, non-2003 Honda Odyssey-fitting TYKOR-53 arrived. In a matter of minutes — nay! Seconds! — it was in place in my car, ready to hold my water bottle comfortably, safely and securely.

Now I will call my insurance company to see about the possibility of  a cup holder discount.

(Hey... I told you at the very beginning this was gonna be dumb.)

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

you don't have to put on the red light

After many, many comfortable carefree years of taking the train, I returned to the white-knuckle endeavor that is my daily commute to work.

I do not like driving. I openly admit that I am not a good driver. I can operate a car and I can get from one place to another. But, I do not enjoy the actual activity of driving. I think the main reason for this is other drivers. Other drivers are angry, aggressive, impatient, self-centered and oblivious to their surroundings and other drivers. I am very wary of other drivers making last minute decisions to change lanes without signaling. I try to make myself aware of that particularly erratic driver who — I just know — is not going to make that turn he has been promising for over ten blocks via his blinking turn signal. I keep alert to be ready to hit my brakes when the vehicle in front of me decides to stop, activate its hazard flashers and remain in an active lane, despite the availability of numerous curbside parking spaces.

More recently, I have witnessed a driving phenomena that just baffles me. I see it nearly every morning in the span of my forty minute commute to and from work. My morning and evening drive takes me through several small, residential Philadelphia neighborhoods. Like most neighborhoods, there are houses packed tightly into to a checkerboard of streets. There are cars in driveways and on the street and children running across lawns and sidewalks and sometimes into the street to chase an an errant ball. With all of this activity, I am still shocked — shocked! — to see drivers failing to stop at red lights on a regular basis.

Almost every single day, I as I apply my brakes at an intersection where the traffic signal in my direction is displaying a red light, a car next to me continues without slowing down and with no regard for the automated signal. However, a new twist has been added by some particularly brazen drivers. This new trend, which seems to be gaining popularity every day, involves an actual stop of the vehicle. The driver has acknowledged the existence of the red light and has stopped his vehicle accordingly. But, then, the driver has determined that the length of time that the red light is displayed is too long. He's got places to go and things to do and cannot waste any more precious time waiting for this silly light to turn green and allow him passage. So, taking the law into his own hands — and after stopping for his assessment of a reasonable amount of time — the driver proceeds right through the red light. Since he stopped, he is very conscious of what he has done. It is much different from "Oh, I didn't see that the light was red!" Instead, it is, "Oh, I saw the red light. I just had enough." I see this a lot. An awful lot. I have even seen this occur with a police car stopped nearby.

What have we become? Why are the basic rules of society breaking down right before our eyes? It's not just blowing a red light. It's refusing to wait in line. It's taking photos at a concert or play, despite pre-performance announcements of "No photography, please." It's demanding substitutions in a restaurant when the menu clearly states "No substitutions." It's parking in places that are obviously not parking spaces. It's not owning up to our own mistakes. It's a lot of things.

A civilized society is supposed to evolve. At least I thought that was the plan.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

what's new

A couple of weeks ago, I bought a new car to replace a car that served me well for nearly twenty years. While doing a little online research before making my purchase, I discovered that the technology available in cars has advanced greatly in twenty years. When I bought my Toyota RAV4 in 2004, my biggest concern was that it had both a cassette deck and a CD player. I didn't know a thing about anti-lock fuel injection or anything else that went on under the hood — nor did I want to know. As long as I knew which side of the car allowed access to the gas tank for self-serve fill-ups (an activity of which I am not too crazy about performing), I choose to leave the down-and-dirty "car stuff" to the experts.

My Toyota RAV4's entertainment center came equipped with a cool little feature that I found fascinating. (Remember it was 2004!) When a CD was inserted into the player, a press of the "TEXT" button on the console changed the monochrome digital readout to display the name of the song, sometimes scrolling across the panel if the text contained a lot of characters. This was cool, in my easily impressed opinion. (As a frame of reference, I was mesmerized by the first fax machine I witnessed.)

Eclipse.

After several purchases from Toyota, I decided to give Subaru a try. I had been very pleased with Toyota's products. Over the years, my wife and I bought four of them and the local dealership from which we made all of those purchases was great. Nice, no-pressure salesmen. Helpful and respectful service department. They were responsive and accommodating. However, recently, their customer service began to show signs of slipping. My wife had to return a day after some routine maintenance because a technician forgot to tighten something that caused the door to the glove compartment of her 2018 RAV4 to fall off mid-drive. A week later, she noticed her driver's side headlight was out and the dealership was less than accommodating in her efforts to replace it. What turned out to be a five-minute process by a neighborhood mechanic required an all-day appointment with our Toyota dealership.

I had heard good things about Subaru, so I thought I'd give them a shot. I am not a fan of the "haggling over price" part of buying a car and that process is nonexistent at Subaru. There is a price on a sticker affixed to the windshield of every car and that is the price. Of course, they will discount the car further with a trade-in vehicle, but there's no "what if I pay cash" incentive or "what's your best price?" nonsense. The price on the sticker is the price... and if you don't like it, you get a shrug, a smile and a point to the door. My wife and I discussed what we wanted to spend and my internet research led me to the Subaru Crosstrek, a model that was comparable in size to the RAV4 with which I had been so comfortable. A salesman directed me to a 2024 model on their lot. After a brief walk-around introduction, I eased myself behind the wheel, pressed the "START" button (No more ignition keys! When did that happen?) and took a few spins around the dealership's large parking lot. That was all the convincing I needed.  A few minutes later, we were signing paperwork and making arrangements for me to pick up my brand new car on the upcoming Saturday.

When my Saturday appointment came, my wife and I drove my RAV4 on its last journey under Pincus ownership. I relinquished the title to the business officer at the Subaru dealership. After exchanging handshakes and receiving a several "congratulations," I was led to my new car, ready and waiting in the safety and security of the showroom's sparkling-clean garage. (I never understood the "congratulations" from the sales staff when completing the purchase of a new car. It's not like I won the car. I was paying for it. I don't recall getting a "congratulations" from a supermarket cashier on my purchase of Cheerios.)

Before the garage door was lifted and my life as a Subaru owner began, I was introduced to Eric, the "tech guy" in Subaru's service department. Eric, a friendly young man, took a place in the passenger's seat and highlighted the finer points of the newly-redesigned 2024 Subaru Crosstrek's dashboard.

This is a stock photo.
My car will most likely never see mountains.

He ran through the various buttons and levers and mini-joysticks that surrounded the driver's seat. If I didn't know better, I would have thought I was getting my first lesson in piloting a helicopter. Eric helped me link my new car to my cellphone via a Bluetooth connection, technology that did not exist last time I bought a car. (My wife's 2018 vehicle accommodates Bluetooth, but just for phone calls. In six short years, the advancement is mind-boggling for someone of my age group.) He explained all sorts of neat little features that could be accessed by a few touches on the large screen that occupies the center spot of the dashboard. Radio, media player, phone, even air temperature can be controlled from the virtual buttons on the extremely-intuitive and futuristic-looking touchscreen. Eric ran through his little lesson with breakneck speed, pointing and expanding at a rate that I really couldn't keep up with. When he finished, he added that if I had any questions, I could come back and he'd be happy to answer them. As an incentive for a return visit, he offered a $25 gift card to be used at Wawa, the legendary Philadelphia-based convenience store chain that runs circles around your Sheetz and Seven-Elevens. Upon hearing that offer, I happily made an appointment for two weeks from my Saturday pick-up day.

I drove my car for two weeks... mostly — if not exclusively — to work and several supermarkets. Actually, on Day Two, I drove my son and his girlfriend to their respective center city Philadelphia homes, all the while showing off the cool stuff my new car could do. 

I returned for my second "orientation" appointment yesterday. I was greeted by Eric who asked me how I was liking my new car. I told him it was good, much better — and much, much different — than my RAV4. Not being a "car guy," a lot of what Eric explained to me sort of went in one ear and out the other. I do remember being told that the headlights are so advanced that they actually turn toward the direction of a right or left turn to light the way. At least that's what I think I heard. Once inside the car, Eric scrolled through a slew of options available under the category of "Driver Assistance." He explained how to activate each one and described how each one worked. He pointed out three little buttons at the bottom of the rearview mirror that can be programmed to operate a garage door opener. I told him I do not have a garage door opener because I have no use for a garage door opener because I do not have a garage. I also told him that I almost needed his assistance in getting music stored on my phone to play through the speakers in my car. Thanks to YouTube, I was able to watch a video that walked me through the fairly simple procedure.

Gotta hava

Over the course of twenty minutes, Eric gave me lessons in a number of things that I could activate at the touch of a few buttons. I nodded as he explained what each feature did, but honestly, I nodded when my eighth grade math teacher explained integers to me. Finally, he sounded as though he was wrapping his little spiel up. He said if I had any additional questions that I should not hesitate to contact him at the dealership. Then he presented a clipboard and pen before me and requested my signature. After I signed, he handed me a Wawa gift card, as promised — the real reason I made this appointment. As he surrendered the shiny piece of plastic, he told me it could be used for snacks, sandwiches, coffee, anything that Wawa sells. (Dude! I know how a gift card works! I may not understand rack and pinion assisted brakes, but I've been to more Wawas than years you've been on this planet!) "Thank you." I said.

As I pulled away in my brand new car, I turned off two of the options that Eric turned on.

And I headed for Wawa.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

my city was gone

I believe that the greatest invention in the past ten or so years is the GPS. Sure, GPS technology has been around for a lot longer than ten years, but recently I have become aware of just how helpful and indispensable it really is. Years ago, a trip to AAA was the necessary first step in planning a family vacation to some distant destination. I would order a "Triptik" from the auto club well in advance of our departure date. My wife, who loves to drive, would sit behind the wheel of our packed car and I would man the passenger's seat — or in this case the navigator's seat — as I announced upcoming exits, turns and rest stops as highlighted on our custom, multipage roadmap, as prepared by the good folks at Triple A. The GPS has eliminated this service. It has also eliminated stopping a stranger on the street to ask (or clarify) directions. The ungodly procedure of asking a gas station attendant in an unfamiliar locale for directions has also been eliminated. (Actually, are there even gas station attendants to ask?) Yes sir! with the GPS that is available on nearly every cellphone or downloadable app, directions to anywhere are as easy as plugging in an address. Using your phone's location, directions are calculated in seconds and a nice lady with a pleasant (if sometimes insistent) voice will guide you to your destination. I have even used my GPS to locate a particular gravesite on my various cemetery adventures.

I was born and raised in Philadelphia and I have lived no where else. (Technically, I live in the Philadelphia suburbs, but that's splitting hairs.) I am a Philadelphian and I identify as such. Every morning, for the past two years, I take the same route to work, I drive a short distance through the suburbs to the Philadelphia city limit, crossing into the "Great Northeast" where I navigate my car towards the Tacony-Palmyra Bridge and cross into New Jersey (which is also, technically, a suburb of Philadelphia). It is approximately a forty minute drive that I have compartmentalized in my mind, taking note of where I am on my route, so I know if I am making good time and estimating my arrival time at work. Depending on the traffic, I will sometimes adjust my route — a block here and a block there — to avoid jams, construction, school crossings and other inconveniences that might hinder my commute. Every so often, I turn to my trusty GPS if I find myself on an unfamiliar street, just to get myself resituated.

One day last week, there was an awful lot of construction on a major thruway right at the beginning of my drive. I could see cars slowing down and up ahead, I could make out flashing lights and large, stationary construction vehicles. I quickly turned into the smaller streets of the adjacent neighborhood, hoping to take a parallel street and find my way back to my regular route. Apparently, every street in this neighborhood was blocked with maintenance vehicles from the Philadelphia Water Company. The further I drove, the further I got from the idea of backtracking to my regular route. When I finally came out to a street I recognized, there was a large fenced-in government building smack-dab in the middle of the neighborhood grid. Unhappily, I headed further and further south. I would have to forgo the Tacony-Palmyra Bridge and take the less-traveled Betsy Ross Bridge instead. The Betsy Ross Bridge was constructed between 1969 and 1974, though it did not open to traffic until 1976, due to protests from the neighborhood regarding proposed access routes. It was a beautiful bridge with no way to get on it. The Betsy Ross Bridge — almost fifty years later — is still surrounded by temporary roadways and changing access ramps. I don't take the Betsy Ross Bridge too often (if I can help it), so I needed a little help from my ol' GPS to get me to it. I typed in the name of my place of employment and the GPS sprung to life, instructing me to make various lefts and rights onto streets that, despite being born in this city and living here for 60 years, I was unfamiliar. I was even more unfamiliar with the neighborhood. It was a run-down, obviously working-class area with plenty of boarded-up businesses and grungy-looking auto repair places every five or so feet. I drove fairly slowly as I took my car over heavily potholed streets and past a number of abandoned vehicles. At one point, the GPS voice directed me to "turn left" down a narrow street lined with garages. A woman in her twenties was staggering across the street, reeling like a boxer trying to avoid getting socked in the head. She was unsteady on her feet, but had an enormous grin on her face. She also paid no attention to my car or the fact that it was moving towards her. I touched my brake pedal and waited for her to make it to the crumbling sidewalk, after which I left her in my rearview mirror. My next turn brought me to a large intersection where the street became six lanes. Huge shopping complexes filled with national brand stores rose up on all four corners... just a few feet from an area that looked like a battlefield. Just ahead, I was told to make another left. I did and I followed the street a short way to a giant municipal sign pointing to the entrance to the Betsy Ross Bridge — an entrance I had never seen before. As a matter of fact, I hadn't seen any of these surroundings before. I was a little embarrassed that, as a proud Philadelphian, there I was... driving around whole sections of my fair city that were as foreign to me as if they were in another country.

The next day, things were back to normal. Construction had ended and I was, once again, crossing the good old Tacony-Palmyra Bridge

If this happens again, luckily, I have my GPS to guide me... like an electronic Jiminy Cricket.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

another auld lang syne

This story originally appeared on my illustration blog ten years ago. I think it's a good story and I like to revisit good stories because — face it! — some of the crap I write here isn't always worth the pixels they're written on. I am still confounded by anyone who isn't me reading my blog. And if you are one of the tens of loyal readers who have stuck with me, I sincerely thank you and I hope I haven't taken up too much of your time. 

A few notes... The "Randi" that we traveled to Florida with was written about HERE and her life took a decidedly weird turn. And the baby?  Well, the baby is 35 years old now.

Anyway, here's the story about a memorable New Year's Eve. I hope you like it as much as I endured to bring it to you.

New Year's Eve 1986 was the most memorable New Year's Eve for me — and nothing spectacular even happened. It was better than the New Year's Eve when I got stupid drunk and discovered true meaning in Side Two of Pink Floyd's Wish You Were Here. It was better than the New Year's Eve that I dumped Linda Cohen just forty minutes after the ball dropped in Times Square. It was better than New Year's Eve 1999, when I still maintained that it was not the turn of the century no matter what eleventy gazillion people said. No, I will never forget New Year's Eve 1986 and even though I actually slept right through the clock striking midnight, I still remember it fondly it all these years later.

I have loved Walt Disney World since I set foot on those magical grounds in central Florida for the first time in 1981. I took two great summer trips there with friends, followed by a honeymoon with my new bride a few years later. Although, my wife and I love the Disney theme parks and the surrounding attractions (read: outlet malls), the heat and humidity in the Orlando area in July can be uncomfortable. So, we decided to give a December trip a try. The notion of seeing the Magic Kingdom decorated for Christmas heightened our excitement.

The decision to drive the 990 miles to Mickey's Mecca was made without a discussion. Despite the fact that Mrs. P was just informed that she was six weeks pregnant, driving our car was still our preferred choice for transportation. We knew that with a family expansion, our next trip to anywhere would be way off in the unforeseeable future. So, my wife wanted one last long-distance hurrah behind the wheel before the responsibility of parenthood forces us to think rationally. Besides, she loves driving and I love passengering, so it's a match made in heaven — by way of  AAA.

We were joined on this trip by Randi, Mrs. P's longtime closest friend, who was Maid of Honor at our wedding and our choice for godmother to our pending offspring. While I made the arrangements for admission tickets and plotting a route for our journey (in the days before the internet and the GPS), Randi offered to take on the task of booking hotel accommodations near Disney World. A few days before our departure, Randi cheerfully reported that she had secured a hotel.

We loaded up the hatchback of our tiny Nissan with enough essential gear for three adults and we left the day after Christmas, which — as the calendar would have it — was the first night of Chanukah. My ever-prepared spouse packed a small menorah and enough candles to take us through Day Eight of the observance. Judah Maccabee would have been proud. Mrs. P navigated the car south on I-95 and we talked and sang and marveled at the quirky sights along the way (A Cracker Barrel every fifteen feet qualifies as — quirky — in my book). After a long day of driving (and an obligatory stop at South of the Border for God knows what reason!), we pulled into a roadside motel just north of Savannah, Georgia. We just wanted to stretch our legs, eat and sleep so we could arrive fresh and relaxed in Orlando the next afternoon. Plus, we needed to light candles for Chanukah's opening night. We grabbed a quick dinner at the restaurant next to our motel, returned to our room, kindled the holiday flames and hit the sack. We woke early the next morning and headed out to the same restaurant for breakfast. After our morning meal, we came back to find our room had been made up by the attentive housekeeping staff — beds made, fresh towels stacked by the small sink, carpets vacuumed, waste cans emptied. However, the remnants of the previous evening's Chanukah candles were conspicuously untouched. The matchbook lay in the exact same position in which it was left. The melted candle wax, now hardened, stood undisturbed — its frozen drips never reaching the nearly circular, solid puddle of paraffin below. Several unused candles were untouched, still balanced precariously upon one another, just as they had slid from the box eight hours earlier. We figured the chambermaids were horrified and mistook this display for some primitive ritual of black magic, wanting no parts of it. Perhaps they left the room extra clean as a peace offering.

After a full morning on the road, we took the Kissimmee exit on I-4 and began the search for our hotel. Since it was holiday time, the hotels along that stretch of US Route 192 were adorned in Christmas finery. Hundreds of lights twinkled from in and around artificial greenery and from under piles of fake snow, giving the otherwise temperate clime a faux-wintry façade. The changeable signage below each lodging establishment's illuminated logo declared some sort of sentiment of the season. We passed numerous "Happy Holidays," "Seasons Greetings," and the occasional holiday-specific "Merry Christmas," all glowing softly with a welcoming radiance, regardless of the succession of angry "NO VACANCY" signs ablaze just a few inches below. Luckily, we had reservations. The procession of corporate resorts dwindled and we finally located our hotel. It was the last one on the strip before the multi-lane highway yielded to overgrown brush and heat-buckled macadam. The backlit sign proclaimed "Happy Birthday Jesus" in eight-inch high, right-to-the-point Helvetica Bold Caps. This was to be our home for the next five days.

I obtained the key and directions to our room from the office. I pointed to my wife and she pulled the car ahead in the direction of my outstretched finger. I turned the key in the lock (remember — this was 1986 in a technologically-deficient hotel) and the door swung open to reveal a plain room with two plain beds, a plain lamp and plain dresser and, as we soon discovered, a sink without running water. A quick call to the office (on the age-yellowed desk phone) told me that some work was being performed on the pipes and the water should be on in "a little bit." I was not familiar with the Southern chronological time-frame of "a little bit," so we had no choice but to stick it out and wait. After settling in and a casual dinner, we decided to turn in and get an early start tomorrow at the Magic Kingdom. I noticed that instead of a deadbolt and chain, our hotel room door sported a length of rubber hose nailed to the door jamb adjacent to the knob. (I shit you not!) Proper security was achieved by looping the hose around the door knob, followed by praying to the Lord Birthday Boy. I followed the procedure with the hose, but instead of prayer, I opted to slide a chair in front of the door. I put my faith in a heavy object rather than a magical Lamb of God.

The next morning we were jarred awake by a sound. Not a phone ring or an alarm clock or even the sound of wrenches tightening pipes. This was a human sound; a human voice — or two. Through the paper-thin walls, we could hear the unmistakable tones of an argument, and a heated one, at that! It was coming from the adjoining room. While there was no denying that a bitter disagreement was unfolding on the other side of a few inches of plaster and wood, we couldn't make out a single recognizable word. Actually, we could make out four words. Four distinct words.  Four words that were used repeatedly and they came through clear as crystal as though the speaker were at a lecture hall podium. "SHUT THE FUCK UP!" burst forth in staccato rhythm.  Then, some muffled dialogue. Then, some more muffled dialogue, until the fervent crescendo of "shut the fuck up! Shut The Fuck Up! SHUT THE FUCK UP!" pierced the suppressed fracas again, cutting like a machete through softened butter. We were glued to the unseen action, momentarily stopping our preparations for rushing out to a theme park. Suddenly, the explicit (but subdued) sound of a slamming door signified the ruckus had ended. We laughed as we resumed getting ready to start our day. Making our way across the parking lot to our car, we wondered about the "SHUT THE FUCK UP!" family, surmising that if they were here, then they are on vacation and if they are on vacation, then — Dear Lord! — how did they behave at home?

It was odd being in Walt Disney World wrapped in a heavy jacket for warmth, especially after so many previous visits in shorts and T-shirts. Disney World draws tourists from so many areas and so many various climates, the mish-mash of clothing we saw was intriguing. While in a queue line for It's a Small World, we were flanked by a family in parkas (from Florida) and a family in Hawaiian shirts and clam diggers (from Minnesota). The weather was indeed brisk. While waiting for the next performance of The Country Bear Jamboree (re-programmed for the season as The Country Bears' Christmas Vacation), the three of us chatted and planned out our day. In front of us was a harried mother with a baby in the crook of her arm. A small boy, about 6 years-old, ran around her like a blur, screaming, flailing his arms, swinging on the ropes that delineated the queue area. The poor woman was exasperated, trying unsuccessfully to keep the child in check. In front of them were an older couple dressed in Christmas-y sweaters and knit gloves and a single woman roughly the same age. They were quietly talking, perhaps about finally being able to do all the things they hoped to, now that they had reached retirement age. As she talked, the single woman kept craning her neck over the crowds, obviously gauging the arrival of the missing member of their foursome. Soon, a smiling white-haired man, all sweatered and gloved and looking like a missing piece to this retired crew puzzle, approached. He held before him a cardboard tray with four neatly-arranged foam cups, wispy curls of steam escaping from their vented plastic lids. Balancing the tray, he slipped under the ropes, joined his party and began distributing the beverages. Suddenly, the gyrating 6 year-old flung himself forward, his outstretched arms knocking the man off-balance for a second. He regained his footing without spilling a drop, but was noticeably shaken by the unexpected shove. The boy's mother, now mortified, grabbed the youngster's arm with enough force to yank it from its socket and, with baby parked on her hip, pulled him out of line for a overdue lesson in "How to Behave in Public," complete with some hands-on reinforcement.  The two couples looked bewildered, as though they had entered a play in the middle of the second act. With pleading eyes, they silently sought an explanation from us, since we were close enough to bear witness. "Well," I offered, "maybe he was mad that you didn't bring hot cocoa for him."

To celebrate New Year's Eve, Walt Disney World had a veritable smorgasbord of festive events lined up. There would be fireworks and parades and marching bands and a giant mess to clean up the next day and, of course, thousands of people. We crammed as many rides as we could into that afternoon. Our plan was to leave the park, get a fast dinner, grab a nap and come back refreshed and ready for a long night of partying. I followed the "leaving the park" and the "fast dinner" part as per our arrangement, but when it came time for the "nap" portion, I got a little tripped up. Actually, I never woke up. Come to think of it, I don't think I ate dinner. Mrs. P and Randi did, or so they told  me when they came back to our hotel room after midnight to find me fully-clothed and zonked out cross-ways on the bed. The television was blaring with the harrowing story of a deadly casino fire in Puerto Rico and I still slept through the shouting reporters and the wail of sirens. Even the exploding fireworks (that I was missing) from the nearby Disney Resort weren't enough to stir my slumber.

I missed welcoming the New Year for the first time in ages. So, why was New Year's Eve 1986 so memorable? It was the gateway to 1987; the year life changed for Mr. and Mrs. Pincus. In eight months, we welcomed something much better than a new year.

We welcomed our son.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com