sure know something

In early 1975, I purchased Dressed to Kill by KISS on 8-track. I had a portable Panasonic 8-track player called a Dynamite 8, so named for its cool resemblance to the explosive detonators used by villains in countless Westerns, as well as the perennially-exasperated Wile E. Coyote in his quest for the Road Runner. I played that 8-track over and over and over again. Due to the sequencing constraints of the 8-track format, the songs "Rock Bottom" and "She" were each split across two tracks, meaning the song stopped and a loud, audible "click" was heard to announce the second part of the song. For some time, I didn't realize that the dreamy introduction to "Rock Bottom" and the heavy drum-driven lyrical part were actually the same song. Nevertheless, I listened to Dressed to Kill relentlessly, until I purchased KISS Alive, the double disc live album, released just a mere six months later. This allegedly live set was a chronicle of the KISS concert experience, complete with Paul Stanley awkwardly addressing the crowd in his nasally Brooklyn accent and said crowd expressing their wild approval. (Of course, it was later revealed that the majority of this "live album" was heavily enhanced in the studio with recorded crowd noise added to create the illusion of a live recording.) Regardless, I listened to KISS Alive three times as much as I listened to Dressed to Kill... until I didn't.

Actually, I stopped listening to KISS altogether.

A few weeks ago, I obtained the fiftieth anniversary box set of Dressed to Kill. This sprawling, bombastic, overblown set expands the original 10-track collection to a whopping 107 tracks, including studio outtakes, remixes, unreleased takes, demos and two — count 'em — two full concerts. The original album clocked in at just a few seconds over the thirty minute mark. In commemoration of its half-century anniversary, no less that five discs are required for the full experience.

I listened to the first disc, which is a remastered version of the original album. It was the first time I listened to this album since I gave up on KISS when I was 14. I was surprised by how many of the songs I remembered. I was surprised by how many of the songs I didn't remember. But, I was most surprised by how terrible it was. I instantly figured out why I loved KISS when I was a teenager. They were loud. They were obnoxious. They sang about girls and partying and girls. But, the song lyrics were juvenile. The rhymes were amateurish "June-moon" stuff. The music was repetitive and unimaginative. It was just dumb. Yep. Dumb. That's the best way I can explain it. Dumb. There was no way I was gonna make it through four more discs of this.

I started to listen to the second disc and soon found myself skipping track after track. Jeez! How many times can you listen to the exact same intro of "Rock and Roll All Nite" and hear Paul warble out the un-"studio"-ized lyrics until he stumbles mid-take and is interrupted by a studio technician.. It was tedious. And, again, it was terrible. The two concerts (recorded on the same tour just a few months apart) included a number of the same songs and were just as bad. I stopped listening and listened to something else.

Earlier this week, I was listening to the radio. Philadelphia public broadcaster WXPN features a nightly show called "Highs in the 70s." This show is an hour-long showcase of music exclusively from "music's wildest decade," as promised by host Dan Reed. On this particular night, Dan was playing KISS's album Destroyer in its entirety to commemorate its release fifty years ago to the day. From the opening strains of "Detroit Rock City" through the faux menace of "God of Thunder" to the goofy repetitious party anthem "Shout It Out Loud" to the voice cracking sentimentality of power ballad "Beth," Destroyer was awful. Just plain awful. I briefly stopped helping Mrs. P prepare dinner and stared incredulously at the radio. I could not believe how extraordinarily bad this album was. Had I just forgotten? Did I just remember it differently? Had my musical tastes improved and matured over the past fifty years? I suppose it was a combination of the three.

KISS is music specifically for angst-ridden teenage boys, looking for a party, sneaking a fifth from dad's liquor cabinet and trying to get into some cheerleader's pants. It's dim-witted, insipid and sophomoric. KISS isn't a band. KISS is four accountants in clown make-up. They are a brand on the same shelf as Monster energy drink, Jack Links and Trojans. They should check IDs at KISS concerts or if you'd like to purchase a KISS album. If you are over 14, move along.

But, as bad as it is... it sure made those four guys a shitload of money.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

wrong 'em, boyo

I hate to beat a dead horse and tell another story about the tire troubles that seem to be plaguing the Pincus family vehicles, but.... I will anyway.

Mrs. Pincus and I were all set to meet some friends for dinner. We climbed into my wife's car and she started up the engine. Just before she slid the transmission into reverse, I saw the dreaded "tire pressure" indicator light glow angrily amid the illuminated gauges on the driver's side dashboard. I pointed the light out to Mrs. P and then I hopped out of the car to assess each tire individually. They looked okay to me. None of them seemed to yield to a frim pressing of my fingers. None of the tires looked the least bit flat. But, just to be safe, we took my car to the restaurant. On the way, I made an appointment for service at a place near my house that was conveniently open on a Sunday. The tire place's website was very intuitive and making an appoint was a snap. I even got two — two! — confirmations for my appointment. One emailed and one via text.

The next day, before I left for my appointment, I asked my wife about the last car inspection. I recalled having to purchase four tires just a few months ago. She confirmed the purchase. I didn't want some hard-sell corporate stooge eager to meet a company quota trying to sell me four new tires once they took a look at my wife's car. One tire.... maybe. But, I wasn't going to fall for any of their "upsell bullshit."

 

Guess where I went.

I drove over to the tire place a little before my noon appointment. When I entered the small waiting room/reception area, I was met with an unmanned counter. The room had that distinctive, yet unclear smell of rubber, grease and despair. A few customers were scattered about the room, fidgeting in their uncomfortable chairs and and fiddling with their phones to bide the time. After a minute or two, a young man burst through the door leading from the "off limits to customers" work area. He greeted me with a "hello." I started right in with the time of my appointment and the reason I was darkening his doorstep. He asked if I tried putting air in the tires. I told him I did not and  I did not know which tire was causing the indicator to light up. He asked me to pull my car up to the closest garage door and he would meet me out there. Dutifully, I followed his instructions.

It's magic!

The young man appeared with some sort of grime-covered electronic device. He asked me the make, model and year of my car, then he adjusted the buttons and dials on the device's face. He then dropped down on his knees and — I assumed — connected the device to the front tire of my wife's car. I couldn't exactly see what he was doing. He could have had an official Harry Potter magic wand for all I know about cars. Suddenly, he stood up and, with a frown on his face, told me that the tire pressure sensor on that tire was not working. He checked another tire and his magical tire-checking device reported the same result. He told me that the tire pressure was fine on all of the tires, but the sensors were not working. He went on to say that he could replace them, as he had them in stock. They cost $89 each. I asked if the tires were safe to drive on right now. He assured me they were. I told him I may be back. I drove out of the lot.

$89 each

I discussed the scenario with Mrs. Pincus on the phone as I drove. It was decided that I should go back and just get the sensors replaced. So I turned around and headed back to the tire place. I was greeted at the counter by another guy. I explained what had transpired earlier, as the first guy showed up. I told him that I returned to get the tire sensors replaced. He explained that, while he could do the work, it may take some time. He also admitted that they really didn't have the sensors in stock and he arranged for the second guy to run over to a nearby auto supply store to pick them up. In the meantime, I appropriated one of those uncomfortable chairs and settled in for a long, long wait.

Is this it?

After an hour in the waiting room, I turned to see my wife's car was still parked in the space where I had left it. During this time, the customers who were waiting when I came in had left and new ones had taken their places. After two hours, I spotted my wife's car through the big window that looked out on the work area. After two hours and thirty minutes, the first young man came out to the waiting room to ask me where the wheel lock key was. I shrugged my shoulders. He growled, "Oh, come on man!" I told him to check the back where the spare tire was or the glove compartment or the console between the two front seats. He shook his head and invited me into the "customers are forbidden" work area to find it for him. I maneuvered my way over to my car, avoiding an obstacle course of wrenches and metal tool boxes and hoses that litter the floor of the work area. I opened the driver's door as wide as it could, as it was partially blocked by the metal arm of the hydraulic lift on which the car was parked. I opened the lid of the console between the two seats and — among two lipsticks and a couple of quarters — was a big piece of metal that I vaguely remember being told was the wheel lock key. I raised the piece and displayed it for the first young man. "Is this it?," I asked, as I spun it on my index finger. The young man's mouth fell open. "I swear I looked there," he exclaimed and then he profusely apologized, multiple times, as though he had run over my dog. I returned to the waiting room. To wait.

Screwed.

After three and a half hours, the customers in the waiting room had turned over several times... except for me. A different young man appeared in the waiting room. He was holding a grime-covered plastic pouch that, at one time, may have been clear. It held a paper job order. "Mr. Pincus?," he announced and craned his neck to search for me. I identified myself. He pointed to the job order and asked, "Why do you think your car needs tire pressure sensors?" I cocked my head and looked at him. I noticed the first young man was behind the counter, wrapping up a transaction with another customer. I pointed to the first young man, about to reveal him as the source of the prescribed work. Instead, the first young man jumped to the side of this new mechanic, telling me that he diagnosed the problem. Well, the new mechanic proudly confirmed that all of the tire sensors are fully functional. They show a lower-than-normal pressure in the passenger side rear tire. He turned to the first young man and stated that he undoubtedly had the settings on the magical checking device wrong. He turned his attention back to me and said, "Ill check the tire and see what the problem is." as he head back out to the work area. The first young man slunk sheepishly behind him. Within a few minutes, the new mechanic popped his head into the waiting work through the work area access door and reported that he had discovered a metal screw in the tire. He said he would fix it as quickly as he could.

After four and a half hours, my wife's car was ready. I would be leaving with a freshly plugged tire and the same four tire pressure sensors I had come in with. The first young man finished the transaction. He did not look me in the eye and he did not apologize for his misdiagnosis, making me waste four and a half hours in the waiting room, almost making me spend $356 and lying about having the sensors I didn't need in stock. I don't remember if he even said "Thank you." I don't believe he did.

In hindsight, my first mistake was making that appointment.

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

stop right there, I gotta know right now

Ever since I unceremoniously lost my job in Philadelphia, I have worked in New Jersey. It is not unusual for people from Philadelphia (and its immediate surrounding area) to work in New Jersey. As a matter of fact, Philadelphians consider New Jersey to be a suburb of Philadelphia. 

My commute to work is about forty minutes and, understandably, I have to cross a toll bridge. Actually, I have my choice of two bridges that span the Delaware River. My preference is the Tacony-Palmyra Bridge, a nearly 100-year old drawbridge that, at any given moment, halts traffic to open up and allow passage of a ship. This operation can interrupt my morning and/or evening drive by up to a full hour. My alternative is the Betsy Ross Bridge, a more modern but less traveled truss structure built high enough that it doesn't need to open. Ships just scoot right under it and so far no ship has been too tall for passage. The Betsy Ross Bridge, however, is difficult to get to and out of my way. It also sports a toll of five dollars as opposed to the Tacony-Palmyra's EZ-Pass-discounted three bucks. Most mornings, I take the Tacony-Palmyra Bridge. I subscribe to a texting alert system that lets me know when the Tacony-Palmyra Bridge is scheduled to open. If I get that message before I leave for work, I change my route and head, reluctantly, towards the Betsy Ross Bridge. If I get that text en route, well.... then I'm fucked.

Once I cross one of those bridges, I navigate towards Route 130 and soon I find myself at work. Route 130 is an 83-mile stretch of busy Interstate thruway of which I only employ a small portion. One day, while driving along the route I drive every morning, I saw the flashing light of a local police vehicle in my rearview mirror. I obligingly slowed down and pulled to the curb to allow the officer to pass. But he didn't pass. He pulled right up behind me. Panicked, I steered my car into the parking lot of one of the many businesses on Route 130 and shut off the engine. The police car came in right behind me and parked. The officer stayed in his car for a few minutes before approaching my car. In those minutes, I tried to think of what I could have possibly done to warrant a traffic stop. I wasn't speeding. It's kind of hard to speed on Route 130 that early in the morning. As far as I knew my brake lights were in working order. The officer appeared beside my car and I lowered my window.

"Hello, officer.," I said

"Good morning," he replied and he asked for my driver's license and car registration. He walked around to the front of my car and leaned down a bit. Then he returned to my driver's side door. "You don't have a front license plate." he said.

"Yes," I explained, "They are not required in Pennsylvania, where I live." He nodded. I went on to say that I worked in nearby Pennsauken, New Jersey and I was on my way to my job.

The police officer squinted at me and said, in his best "Sergeant Joe Friday" voice, "I ran your license and there is a New Jersey plate with the same number that was reported stolen." I didn't know how to reply. Obviously my license plate — a blue, yellow and white plate with "PENNSYLVANIA" printed across the top — is not now, nor has it ever been a New Jersey license plate. It does not look like, nor could it be mistaken for a New Jersey license plate. I decided on the best response... and that response was "Oh."

The officer examined my driver's license and registration for a moment or two before handing them back to me. He said, "Okay. Have a good day, sir." He turned on his heels and walked back to his car. He got in, fired up the ignition and sped away, no doubt on his way to break up a murderous and desperate crime ring in the Greater Pennsauken area. I started my car once he was out of sight. As I continued on my drive to work, I played the whole incident over in my head. My explanation of the lack of a front license plate to an officer of the law in a neighboring state just stuck with me. That is until I re-thought about his nonsensical reason for stopping me in the first place. Look up there. There is a side-by-side comparison of the current Pennsylvania  and New Jersey license plates. Can you tell the difference? If you can, perhaps a career in New Jersey law enforcement is not right for you.

Ever wonder why New Jersey is the butt of so many jokes? Wonder no more.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

dumb boy

Do you think I'm dumb? I don't think I'm dumb. Sure there are plenty of things about which I am not knowledgeable. I will be the first to admit that. I'm terrible at math. I don't know the technical names for medical procedures. (My wife — with no medical training or background whatsoever — will happily inform me when such terms are mentioned in a movie or TV show.) I am not mechanically inclined. I don't know much about building things, as evidenced by the three screwdrivers and four hammers that make up our household set of tools. Same goes for the ins-and-outs of automotive repair. Aside from pumping my own gas, I am lost regarding anything that goes on under the hood of my car (It is called a "hood," right?) I can't cook and I can't sew.

I can, however, identify an episode Brady Bunch within the first 20 seconds. I can recognize an actor on a fifty year old episode of The Andy Griffith Show as the same guy who appeared (much older, of course) briefly in a Season 4 episode of Seinfeld. (I am referring, specifically, to prolific character actor Bill Erwin.) I can remember nearly every drawing I have done and posted to my illustration website. I can remember, with near pinpoint accuracy, the locations of almost every celebrity grave I have visited over the past several decades. Are these qualities I have included on my resume? No. Are these qualities of which I am proud? Yes. Embarrassed by... but proud. Some of this knowledge has resulted in a small collection of coveted trophies awarded at the end of a number of cruise ship trivia contests. It has also brought on jeers and dirty looks from those who can fix cars, do math and cook.

If you are my Facebook friend or perhaps follow my antics on Facebook, you know that each morning, I post a group of "death anniversaries" for that particular day. I go through several sources and select an assortment of famous names (and not-so-famous names). Then, I choose a photo from a quick Google search to accompany my post. Sometimes the post is illustrated by a drawing I did of that particular person. In other instances, I include a photo of the celebrity's grave, if it is one I have visited. I post between three and ten celebrity death anniversaries per day, depending on if it was a particularly moribund date in history.

Each of my posts gets its fair share of "likes,"👍 "loves," ❤️ "cares" 🥰 and sometimes even "ha-has," 😂 depending on the level of "belovedness" of the celebrity in question. Some of my connections will leave a comment, usually along the lines of "awww" or "I miss him/her" or, again depending on who it is, "good riddance!" (This is usually reserved for someone like Adolf Hitler or Charles Manson.) Every so often, someone will comment with a single, out-of-context line, stating the name of the person or the most famous character they played. As an example, on November 30, I acknowledged the passing of actor-singer Jim Nabors. I received comments from a few people that merely read "Gomer Pyle." Not "I loved him in Gomer Pyle" or "I hated him in Gomer Pyle"... just "Gomer Pyle." When I see comments like that, I stare at them for some time. Does the commenter think I don't know who he is? Does the commenter think he is doing me a favor by identifying a photo that I posted and found through a Google search? Does the commenter think.....? I have to stop myself from replying: "Yes! Yes! I know! I fucking know who Jim Nabors is! I posted this! I am not, nor have I ever, posted a picture and said "This guy died on this date in this year. I have no idea who this is. Please tell me." I pass on a lot of names that I don't recognize. I don't post their death anniversaries. I leave that to their families. If I really wanted to know who they were or what they did to make them famous, I'd Google it.

I have "friends" on Facebook that I do not know. I am connected to them via the common bond of death, cemeteries and old Hollywood. I am very, very well versed in those subjects. Very well versed. Sure there are people who know more than I do about those subjects. I have gotten information from them and I am thankful for the exposure to such information. I like information. I like to learn new things about the subjects in which I am interested. I don't like to be told things that are painfully obvious. If you have seen my Facebook posts for a period of time, you should be able to gauge what I know, what I don't know and when I am joking about what I know. If you can't tell, then just sit back and wait until you can tell. But, please — please! — don't talk to me like I am stupid.

Wanna be helpful? Instead of telling me that Bob Denver played "Gilligan" on Gilligan's Island, as though you are disclosing a long-protected government secret, tell me how to change the oil in my car.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

welcome to my world

Remember that guy I told you about last week? My co-worker who stinks? Well, I have another co-worker who also stinks... but in a different way.

I have been in and around the commercial printing business for approximately 40 years. I have worked for printing companies. I have designed for printing companies. I have dealt with printing companies as a customer. In my nearly four decades of experience, I can safely say, with certain small exceptions, that people in the commercial printing business are some of the dumbest people I have ever met. The frightening majority of folks in the commercial printing business are ignorant, narrow-minded lunkheads who, aside from operating a printing press roughly the size of a battleship, can't do much else. And the sales force in the commercial printing business don't posses the skills to operate the presses, so they are even dumber. Salespeople who sell commercial printing services are a special kind of dumb.

Here's my most recent encounter with one of their representatives.

In my current job, I design ads and other promotional materials for the supermarket industry. I work closely with a guy who sells the owners of these supermarkets on the idea that their store needs these items in order to drum up business. After lengthy in-person or phone conversations with the customer, the salesman hands me scribbled pages of notes and rudimentary drawings and it's my job to translate these hieroglyphics into something "pretty." After submitting a design idea, the salesman runs it by the customer and it goes though several more rounds of changes, edits and additions until an approval is given and it goes to print. The changes are usually transmitted via email . But along the way. some of those changes are delivered verbally, in the form of the salesman sitting behind me as I guide my mouse cursor around my computer monitor, telling me "Move that there." and "Change this to that." 

The salesman in question is a slick little motherfucker with a Mephistophelian beard, French-cuffed shirts and a vocabulary like a longshoreman. An uneducated longshoreman. He complains about the stupidity of every single one of his customers. He second-guesses his customer's changes and often directs me to make changes contrary to their changes... only to have those changes changed back to what they originally requested.

Just this week, I was working on a door hanger for a supermarket grand opening in the South Jersey area. (You know what a door hanger is. It's a long cardboard advertisement with a slotted hole cut in it that... you know... hangs on your doorknob.) This particular piece had gone though an inordinate number of changes over a period of a couple of days. (I generated nearly eight unique proofs, only differentiated by a few insignificant changes — none of which would ever be noticed by a potential recipient as he tosses it from his front door into the pile of the week's recycling.)

Late on Friday afternoon, the salesman stomped into my office, grumbling something about "more changes." He plopped himself into a nearby office chair and asked me to pull up the pending door hanger-in-progress on my computer. As I searched my folders for the proper version of the InDesign file, the salesman said: "The first thing the customer wants, is to add 'Black Lives Matter" to the front, under the logo."

I froze.

I slowly turned around, something I rarely do, as I prefer to accept dictated changes while I face my computer screen. "Really?," I asked. Customer changes of any kind never surprise me. Store owners have been known to make any number of unusual requests ("unusual" in my opinion) for what they want added to their advertising in the name of the dangerous combination of "promotion" and "community awareness."

He laughed heartily. "No," he clarified, "I'm just kidding."

This made me angry. Very angry. First of all, as the "new guy," I was in no position to say anything about anything. I couldn't reprimand him. I couldn't explain how I found his callous comment offensive. I couldn't tell him how his belittling of the BLM movement was dismissive of an entire race that has been dismissed for years and years. I certainly understood his derisive remark. The supermarket is located in a predominantly black neighborhood. In his narrow little mind, he saw me — a white guy with gray hair — as a comrade. A compatriot. A confederate. An ally. A reflection of his own way of thinking. He even repeated his little racist comment to the real stinky guy behind me — who chuckled with his acknowledgement.

The salesman continued dictating the actual changes he wanted and I made them to the document. I generated a PDF proof and emailed it to the salesman, hitting the big "SEND" button as he exited my office. I stewed for sometime until I gathered up my jacket and left the office myself, as it was the end of another work week.

Over the weekend, I thought (on and off) about my few options. I decided — reluctantly — to do nothing. Not to say anything to my supervisor at work. Not to say anything to the nice lady in Human Resources who I have not seen since my first day of work seven months ago. I decided to let it pass. Racists will always be racists. I can't change that. Stupid people will always be stupid. I can't change that either.

The best I can do is blog about it.

So I did.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

state of confusion

Mrs. Pincus went to the local Walmart to pick up a few things in their grocery department. Elsewhere on this blog, I have discussed my "love-hate" relationship with Walmart. I love their incredibly — sometimes impossibly — low prices, but I hate the caveat of having to go to Walmart to get those prices. I believe that's what called a paradox. The customers and staff at Walmart are equally.... well, what's the nicest way I can phrase this?... moronic. I marvel at the level of stupidity I witness each and every time I visit Walmart. The customers all look like they just rolled out of bed, threw on the closest (and filthiest) Halloween costume they could find and headed out to shop. The employees all seem to be on their first day of work... wandering the aisles in a stupor, as though they were just dropped there from an airplane.

As long as Mrs. P was in Walmart, she decided to trek on over to the cosmetic department. Among the lipsticks and lotions and powders and such, she found a hook with a particular item that she wished to purchase. (Honestly, I don't know exactly what she bought. The reference to "lipsticks and lotions and powders" was just a guess on my part.) The hook that the item — Maybelline Eye Brow Something-or-Other — was on had a lock at the front of it. Who knew that this was such a hot property that it needed to be kept under secure lock and key.... like baby formula and Sudafed. But, sure enough, there it was and it was locked. My wife noticed that there was a small security camera mounted above the item that she desired. She waved at the camera and pointed to the locked hook, hoping that whoever was monitoring the camera would send someone over immediately. Then she remembered that she was in Walmart — land of sloth-like assistance. No staff member was monitoring anything. She looked around the department until she finally spotted an employee in a bright yellow, Walmart logo-emblazoned vest. She explained to the employee which item she wanted and that the lock on the hook needed to be opened. The employee instructed my wife to ask at the pharmacy counter for help. Someone there will have a key, the employee told her. Mrs. P dutifully went to the pharmacy and repeated her dilemma. The pharmacy employee told my wife that they do not have a key to any locks in the cosmetic department, adding that anyone with a yellow Walmart vest carries a key. Mrs. P offered a blank look, turned and set off to find the first Walmart employee... the one with the yellow vest.

Mrs. Pincus tracked the first employee down. The employee said she did not, in fact, have a key. She walked over to the hook with the eye brow makeup, confirming that this was what my wife wanted. Then, she tore the cardboard hole on the product's packaging. "Here you go.," she said with a smile, as she handed over the damaged package. "Well, I could have done that!," responded Mrs. P, "but I guess security would have come right over to me." The employee replied, "No. Probably not." Then she continued, "If you come in again and want to buy this, just tear it off the hook." Mrs. Pincus tossed the makeup in her cart and went to check out.

She selected a check-out aisle and put her soon-to-be purchases on the conveyor belt. The cashier picked up each item, passed them over the scanner and deposited them in a plastic bag. Mrs. P held the eye makeup in her hand, making sure it was the last item. She wanted to point out the torn package and to let the cashier know that the tear was not her doing. Mrs. P displayed the torn box and described the entire scenario to the uninterested cashier. Actually, the cashier reacted, saying, "Well, anyone in a yellow vest has a key to any lock in the store." The cashier wore a yellow vest. Mrs. P frowned. and countered, "The woman who tore the package was wearing a yellow vest." The cashier shook her head and answered, "That was a different yellow vest."

This evoked another blank stare from my wife.

As a footnote to this tale, we just returned from another trip to Walmart this afternoon. That one, however was not our local Walmart, but one that is thirty miles from our house. We picked up some fill-in items in their grocery section, including a package of Polly-O string cheese that retails at Walmart for $6.47. We had been issued a corporate coupon from Kraft Heinz Foods (Polly-O's parent company) for a maximum $8.00 off one package of Polly-O cheese. We took our selections to the self-check out. After I scanned the last item, I scanned the bar code on the coupon. The terminal beeped, prompting a yellow-vested employee to join us. She whipped the coupon from my hand and examined it. "Ugh!," she groaned with disappointment, "This is one of those 'eight dollar off' coupons!" She typed some numbers on the touch-screen and sighed. "I have to ring this at my register." She canceled our transaction, removed the receipt that was spit out and beckoned us to follow her to another cash register. She re-rang our entire order, hit some additional buttons and instructed me to insert my credit card into the card reader. It beeped when the chip had been fully scanned and the employee handed my wife the receipt. We exited the store and my wife read the receipt and laughed. "She took the full $8.00 off for the cheese instead of the actual price.," I was informed.

I love Walmart..... almost as much as I hate it.

Oh, I'm with you, sister.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

I wanna be a boss

Between my current job and the one that I thought would be the last job of my career, I worked at one of the shittiest jobs I ever had. It was a job that I took because, at the time, no one was exactly breaking down my door to hire me. I was 57 years old and, after being out of the job market loop for over a decade, I ran into a phenomenon that I never considered even existed — ageism. I was very discouraged and began to worry that I was, for lack of better word, "un-hire-able." 

Then, I got a call in response one of the hundreds of jobs to which I applied. I scheduled an interview and accepted a supervisory position at a small printing company that produced take-out menus. My official title was "design coordinator." I oversaw the design department, working closely with three graphic designers. One was a very talented, yet decidedly quirky, guy who sat in a darkened office just across the hall from me. The other two lived and worked in Ukraine and all of my communication with them was via Skype. The owner of the company was a slimy, deceitful man with no background in the printing business whatsoever. Within just a few days, it became apparent that his main business goal was to deceive and lie to his customers as much and as often as he could. Right before my eyes, I watched as he committed fraud on a daily basis. But, his business practice didn't really affect me. I got paid and I continued to do my job, adhering to the same work ethic that I maintained for thirty-plus years.

There was a staff of salespeople at this job. A bunch of commission-based morons who spoke to potential customers as though they had never used a telephone in their lives. This motley crew was guided by a sales director named Slick. Slick was a young man in his early 30s. He had a large ego and very little intelligence. He was what the kids call "a douchebag." He was obsessed with designer clothing, designer watches and designer cologne. He knew the best places to eat, the best places to shop and the best places to go on vacation. He spoke like an expert on all topics, although it was very obvious that he only had a feeble grasp of his subject and was just a spewing fountain of misinformation. Kind of like Wikipedia.

Do you know us?

Slick was convinced that he knew everything there was to know about everything. When he discovered new information (like something he just read on the internet), he proudly announced it, as though he was the first one to find out. One day, I heard him, in his office, listening to a number of Beatles songs in succession. After A few minutes, he popped into my office and asked me if I ever heard of the Beatles. I stopped what I was doing and looked up at him. I couldn't tell if he was joking or if he actually thought I had never heard of the Beatles. "Yes." I replied, "They're the band that Paul McCartney was in before Wings." My sarcasm flew right over his head. I realized that he had no idea who Paul McCartney was or what "Wings" was. He cocked his head and said, "Well, they got some pretty good songs." Then, he returned to his office.

Slick would often tell me that he regularly turns down job offers because he feels bad for the owner of the company for whom we worked. Slick was afraid if he left, the company would fold without him and he didn't want his coworkers to lose their jobs. He told me that he was planning to start a rival menu-printing company and would hire me to run his design department. I would do my work and let him talk, rarely interacting and just nodding my head every so often until he left my office.

The company was eventually bought out by a large printing company. Suddenly, my shitty job became a pretty good job. Our offices moved to a larger location at the new company. My boss was rarely in the office and Slick and his staff were moved to another part of the building where I was out of earshot of his inane observations. Alas, after a mere four months, the new company wasn't making the profit that they had hoped for and they had to make some staff cuts. My boss was tasked with laying me off. On a Tuesday.

This time around, the job search was much more encouraging. In just a few weeks, I secured a position at a very large company with a great group of coworkers. Just before I started my new job, I received a text message from Slick. He said that he believed it was a mistake to have let me go. He went on to say that he is fighting to get me back as soon as possible. Slick was in absolutely no position to "get me back." He had absolutely no connection to the hiring of any employee. I read over the text a few more times and replied that I had taken a job elsewhere.

And then I blocked Slick's number.

That chapter of my life is now behind me.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

thinking about things I don't understand

I have been at my new job (since I unceremoniously lost my last job) for almost a year now. Without going into too much detail about what my new job entails, let's just say that it requires me to remain extremely focused, as I must keep track of many things that occur simultaneously. I don't have any issue with being focused. However, there are certain extraneous factors that serve as regular distractions in an attempt to break my necessary concentration.

My workplace is arranged as an open work space. That means no individual offices. My desk is pushed against a wall. Other employees desks are pushed against other walls. Since the entire place is so small, we are all in very, very close proximity to one another. This is not helpful in maintaining the attention to detail required for me to do my job. I do my best to tune out the superfluous conversation from my co-workers (and I use the term "co-workers" very, very loosely), until is it just a bunch of indiscernible white noise. but sometimes I cannot help but hear the inane exchanges.

A mere six or so feet away from me is a bank of half cubicles. Seated at these mini-desks are four salesmen whose sole job is to make cold calls and sell product. I have been a productive part of the working world for 35 years and, in that time, I have never met four dumber human beings. I mean seriously dumb. Stupid. Moronic. Sure, we have all called someone "dumb" at one point in our lives and meant it as a quick insult, not really as its true definition. But, my saying that these guys are dumb couldn't be a more suitable description. No exaggeration. I swear. I honestly can't understand how these guys function. I find it difficult to believe that they don't ask for directions to work every day and then ask for directions back to their homes at the end of the day... if they even have homes. For guys whose job is to talk on the phone, they speak as though they have never addressed another person in their lives and as though they didn't just deliver the exact same sales pitch two minutes earlier.

But it's the between-sales-calls conversation that I find most maddening and most puzzling.

The amount of "down-time" these guys seem to have is astounding, considering they work purely on commission. And that "down-time" is filled with some of the most nonsensical drivel I have ever heard. During football season, the conversation was a riveting, in-depth discussion and analyzation of every single play of every single game that transpired over the past day. However, to hear the conversation, you would suspect that none of these guys had ever watched a football game before. I am not a football fan — hell, I have only watched one football game in my life — but I knew more about what they were confused by. Every week, from August thru the first week of February, I heard the same thing. I heard more speculation and repeated cliches about Nick Foles and Carson Wentz (two Philadelphia Eagles quarterbacks) than I heard on the evening news. Once football season ended, I assumed the football talk would end, too. It didn't. Old conversations were rehashed with the same uninformed tone as previous.

Sometimes, non-football talk takes over the conversation. Just this week, there was a heated debate about The Three Stooges, including a sub-discussion about which Stooge was which. They actually went on for ten minutes trying to recall the member of the slapstick trio with "the curly red hair and the bald spot on top."

They have discussed music, movies and television, stores that are no longer in business, stores that may go out of business, current events and things they "sort of" remember from their childhoods — all with the intellectual grasp of a small, overripe turnip. They get names wrong. They get titles wrong. They get simple details wrong. Anything that can be gotten wrong, they get wrong. They are collectively uninformed and collectively misinformed.

At first it was entertaining. But now it is infuriating. It impedes on my work and that is not acceptable. Granted, I have a shitty job and I work for a shitty company, but I still take pride in my work output. I always have and I always will until I am scraped off the floor at my final place of employment.

I just hope the floor of this snake pit isn't the one from which I am scraped.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

don't speak

I work on the 36th floor of the 15th tallest building in Philadelphia. At 41 floors high, it takes three separate elevator banks of six cars each to service the building efficiently. The elevators are clearly designated as to which floors they travel. Giant signs sporting two-foot numerals clearly mark each elevator alcove. The far left group will take passengers to the mezzanine, all the way up to the 18th floor. The center group will skip the lower floors and make its first stop at 19. The last set of elevators — the ones I take to my office each weekday morning — rocket up to the 30th floor where it begins its ascent to 41.

My building houses many different tenants — real estate developers, investment firms and some competing law firms. There are the occasional non-profits, but typical corporate entities occupy most of the floors. They receive very business-like visitors on a daily basis.

Earlier this week, I swiped my pass card at the front-desk security and headed towards the elevators. There were already a few people waiting. Soon we were joined by several more people, including one young lady with a briefcase who was sticking a self-adhesive "VISITOR" pass on her expensive-looking blazer. She was a "dressed for success" type in an impeccably coordinated ensemble and every hair in place. She waited patiently with the gathering crowd for an elevator to arrive.

Finally, a metallic DING announced the arrival of an elevator ready for the next load of passengers. Six or so of us filed in and dutifully pressed buttons for our various desired floors. The doors silently slid closed and we were off — whooshing past the lower floors. In my peripheral vision, I saw the young lady with the briefcase stare at the button panel. She squinted, raising and lowering her head, obviously in search of something that she was not finding. 

The car stopped at 30 and a man got out. Since its button was not pushed, the 31st floor was skipped, but two people exited when the car stopped at 32. The young lady with the briefcase turned and addressed the remaining passengers in the moving car.

"Um...," she began hesitantly, "don't all the elevators stop at all the floors?"

No one answered. Except, surprisingly, me.

"No, they don't. These," I pointed down, indicating the car we were in, "only stop at 30 through 41. Where are you going?"

She frowned and sort of stomped her high-heeled foot. "I'm going to 9." She kept on frowning.

"Well," I began my instruction, as the car paused briefly so several folks could disembark at 34, "you'll have to stay on until I get off at 36. Take the elevator all the way down to the lobby, get off and walk to the far grouping of elevators. They go to the lower floors." I smiled.

She grit her teeth and banged her briefcase against her thigh. "Ugh! You would think that someone at the front desk would have told me."

At this point, we were the only two people left in the elevator. She was fuming. I tried to show some sympathy to her frustration. "Yeah, they probably should have said something."

She was not through venting. As the doors opened at 36, the young lady with the briefcase, the tailored jacket and coiffed hair — a woman who I had seen for the first time just minutes before; a woman who didn't know me, didn't know my family, didn't know my background — just blurted out to a veritable stranger: "Those people at the desk are retarded." Then, she looked at me, lowered her voice and twisted her lips into a feeble smile. "Oh, excuse me," she said, "Have a nice day."

I stepped out of the elevator and the doors closed. I hope whoever she was visiting in the building was very clear with their instructions.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com