llévame al juego de beisbol

My son acquired two tickets from a co-worker to the Phillies game this week. He asked if I wanted to join him and, of course, I said "Of course!"

I have been going to baseball games since I was a little kid. Though I was not always a baseball fan, I loved the whole experience. I grew into a baseball fan as I got older. But as a young child, my father, who was sort of an executive in the main office of a local chain of supermarkets, would get tickets from various product vendors for his family to sit in the special "field boxes" of the then brand new Veterans Stadium. The Pincuses would go — sometimes even on  a school night — and be ushered all the way down to a sequestered block of seats just a thin cyclone fence away from the field of play. It was exciting to hear the THUD! of the ball hitting the first baseman's glove just a few feet away. Once — in a game against the San Francisco Giants — Chris Spier, the Giants' three-time All-Star shortstop — relayed a routine catch to first baseman Willie McCovey... except he tossed the ball about three feet over the head of the 6-foot-four-inch McCovey.... right to little Josh. In an involuntary reflex, I ducked out of the path of the speeding ball, as my dad quipped, "He was throwing that right to you!"

As a teenager, I worked as a soda vendor at Veterans Stadium. It was a great job for a teenager. My main concern was hustling for a buck. I was less concerned with how — or even who — the Phillies were playing on any particular day. That summer, I made a lot of money (well, a lot for a sixteen-year-old) and still never considered myself a baseball fan. Yet, I went to a lot of baseball games, still surrounded by that unmistakable atmosphere.

It wasn't until the 1996 All Star Game — to be hosted in Philadelphia — that I was really "bitten" by the "baseball bug." The Pincus family purchased a Phillies season ticket plan in order to secure two tickets to the All Star Game. Our plan consisted of four seats for each Sunday home game — a total of thirteen games. Since there were only three of us Pincuses, we would have to do a lot of convincing and cajoling to get someone else to come along and fill that fourth seat. It was a tough task, as the Phillies were particularly lousy at that the time and watching them slog through a typical trouncing was especially tedious. But we went... and suffered. It was a fun experience and our young son got a real kick out of it.

In 2004, the Phillies moved into their new digs — beautiful Citizens Bank Park. By this time, the team had transformed into a real contender. In just four more years, they would go on to win the World Series. We watched from our seats in Section 137 and cheered the Fightin's on. We kept our season tickets for 18 seasons, sometimes going to additional games outside of our plan.

After letting my attention wane for a few years, I recently began following baseball again. Going to a Phillies game is still a fun experience, but the most recent game — the one I went to with my son on Tuesday night against the Houston Astros — was a different experience. It was unlike any of the previous gazillion games I attended over the past 50 or so years.

"What did you say?"

My son and I arrived at the ball park early. We grabbed a quick sandwich from one of the concession stands for dinner and found our seats at the top of Section 132. We settled in as the other seats began to fill in as game time approached. The four seats directly behind us were soon occupied by four young men — three in Phillies jerseys and one daring to sport a rival Astros jersey among a sea of the most notoriously rabid and viscous fans in baseball. I overheard the young men chit-chatting before the game and I noticed that were were speaking in Spanish. Exclusively. It was melodic and I could understand how it was rightly labeled among the world's "romance" languages. At 6:40 on the dot, Phillies pitcher Aaron Nola unleashed a cutter to Jose Altuve and the game was under way. Suddenly, the four guys behind us erupted in baseball "trash talk." I think. They began cheering — like most excited fans — except they were cheering in Spanish. Now, I have not had a Spanish language lesson since my freshman year of high school... and even then I was failing desperately in comprehension. Needless to say, I understand very, very little Spanish. However, just from the inflection in the voices of our seatmates, one easily could tell if they were cheering the Phillies or taunting the Astros. Within the fluid stream of non-stop chatter, I understood certain players' names. Nestled between several Spanish words, a clearly enunciated "Kyle Schwarber" or "Alec Bohm" or "Brother Marsh" (the familial nickname of quirky hirsute Phillies outfielder Brandon Marsh) would ring out — clear as a bell. The rest of it was... was.... well, for lack of a better word... foreign. But it was compelling. I found myself refraining from my usual, game-time shouting to concentrate on the rhythmic, almost poetic chants coming from behind. Within the barrage of words, I understood the venomous "chinga tu madre" hurled at Yordan Alvarez when he singled to center in the top of the eighth inning. After all, when you're learning a foreign language, you learn the bad words first. Throughout the game — inning after inning — the vocal inflections from these guys alternated between joyful and seething. I was there for it and it was spectacular!

At one point, the woman sitting next to me (one of my son's co-workers) smiled and gestured to the fellows behind us. "This is.... amazing!," she said. Now, I am not a fan of the word "amazing" being used willy-nilly to describe decidedly unamazing things, but — to be honest — she wasn't that far off. The entire game took on a whole new exciting vibe. Sure the Philles scoring five runs and keeping the Astros completely off the board was a contributing factor, but. the "second audio track" was a surprising and welcome addition I didn't know I was missing. 

I'm thinking of activating the SAP option on my TV when I watch Phillies games at home.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

the sound of silence

After I got my haircut, I ran over to Walmart to pick up a few things from their grocery department. I have a "love/hate" relationship with Walmart. I love their prices and I hate everything else. But, honestly, their price on most grocery items are so cheap, I feel stupid buying those items anywhere else. The problem is, you have to go Walmart to get those prices and, sometimes, going to Walmart is a chore.

On this particular day, I just needed a few "fill in" things. This wasn't going to be a full-blown, "we're out of everything" shopping trip. I saw that were were down to our last few bags of frozen vegetables and I was running low on cereal. That's all I had to pick up. Otherwise, our shelves and refrigerator were pretty well stocked. 

I parked in Walmart's massive parking lot. Every time I go there, no matter what time of day or day of the week, Walmart's parking lot is packed. I found a spot quite a distance from the store. I didn't mind the walk and I grabbed a shopping cart from one of the corrals on my way in.

Once inside, I headed to the cereal aisle and selected a box of store brand Honey Nut Cheerios (or "Honey Nut O's," in this case). I also grabbed a large box of Kellogg's Rice Krispies, because, even though I have no issue with buying store brands, Walmart hasn't quite nailed down the same quality and consistency in duplicating the Kellogg's product. My next stop was the frozen food section were I filled my cart with an assortment of frozen vegetables. In this case, Walmart's own brand would be just fine and at 98¢ a bag... well, how much better could the the most expensive, national brands be? I mean — come on — vegetables are vegetables. When my shopping cart was sufficiently filled, I made my way up to the self-checkout lanes.

I lucked out. I had my choice of open self-checkout lines. This Walmart location recently remodeled to add almost double; the amount of self-checkout cash registers than they offered previously. I parked my shopping cart alongside an open register and began to unload my items, scanning each one and placing in the designated "already scanned" area. When I finished, I filed the reusable tote bag I brought in with me with my purchased items. (As is the trend in a lot of municipalities, this Walmart is in a geographic area that has outlawed single use plastic bags. Customers must either bring their own bags or purchase paper bags at a dime a pop from Walmart. Or, of course, you can go bagless and juggle your purchases — unencumbered — to your car.) I placed my laden bag into the cart, swiped my credit card, grabbed my receipt and headed out of the store. 

Usually, there is a Walmart employee stationed by the exit. This persons job is to stop customers and scan their receipt before they leave the store. Walmart will trust customers to check out their own purchases, but then — moments later — that trust disappears and they need to make sure that everything is paid and accounted for. However, this morning, no one had been assigned to this duty. The exit was wide open and there was not a Walmart blue vest in sight. I breezed through the exit and strolled to my car. I transferred my bag from my cart to the back of my car. I returned my cart to the corral in the parking lot, got into my car and drove home.

What was the best part about this Walmart experience? I didn't speak to or have any interaction with another human being. While there were certainly other people in the store — several of whom I passed and navigated my shopping cart around — I did not encounter anyone blocking the Item I want to get. No one was standing  — smack-dab — in front of the freezer section doors. The cereal aisle was empty, except for me and a zillion boxes of breakfast staples. The checkout lines were free of folks who had never operated a self-serve cash register. All of my items scanned without a hitch, so I did not need the assistance of an employee to amend my running total. And, as I just noted, there was no one at the store's exit to make sure I didn't steal anything.... thank you very much.

If I could be guaranteed a repeat of this experience every time I come to Walmart, I would come to Walmart more often.

Who can I not talk to about this....?

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

fishin' blues

On Father's Day, my son took my wife and I out for sushi — the traditional Father's Day meal.

To be honest, I only started eating sushi a few years ago. The thought of raw fish was not exactly an appetizing concept to me. It was only on rare occasions that the thought of cooked fish was something I would happily and voluntarily consume. As a vegetarian (actually a pescatarian, for those of you keeping score), my "fish" preferences are limited, because in addition to being a vegetarian, I also loosely follow the guidelines of kashrut (keeping kosher). I do this not so much for religious reasons, but more out of respect for my wife who follows the stipulations in a much more stringent manner. According to the  rules of hashgacha (Google it, if you're that concerned), shellfish and certain other varieties of seafood are off-limits on a kosher diet. So when I decided to "take the plunge" and subject myself to the wonders of sushi, I was limited to the all-vegetable selections first. Once I found those to be palatable, I ventured on to the ones topped with a slice of salmon or tuna. Eel, shrimp and octopus — common ingredients in traditional sushi — were off the menu for me. I don't think I would have eaten them anyway. Didn't matter, as I was surprised by how much I liked the sushi I had eaten. So, along with broccoli, cauliflower and gefilte fish (as mentioned in previous posts), a new item entered the JPiC diet that would surprise my mother.

In the short amount of time since I began eating sushi, I didn't exactly seek it out. The scenario has been pretty much the same. I either discovered it as one of many offerings on an all-you-can-eat buffet (either at a casino or on a cruise ship) or I got it from a take-out station at a market or — oddly — a pizza place that I happened to be in. The place that my son took us to was neither of those. This place was an honest-to-goodness sushi only restaurant... and I don't think I had ever been to a sushi only restaurant.

Kura Sushi is a chain straight from Japan. If you are reading this and you live in California, you are lucky enough to have nearly twenty Kura locations from which to choose — a dozen of them in the Los Angeles area alone! If you are reading this on the East Coast, then the Kura location near you is the Kura location near me. The Philadelphia location just opened a few months ago and my son has been there quite a few times already. He figured Father's Day was a good enough time to introduce his "recently adventurous" parents to what is fast becoming his favorite restaurant.

And, honestly, it's hard not to love this place.

Kura is no ordinary sushi restaurant. Upon first glance, the place appears very sterile with small booths situated in the center of the main room. Between the lines of booths run two conveyor belts, upon which a wide variety of sushi selections are silently delivered. Once you are seated, just pick your favorites from the seamlessly never-ending parade of sushi as it quietly glides by your table. Each selection is "announced" by a sign explaining what dish will follow on two plastic-domed serving vessels. If this piece of sushi piques your interest, simply grab the exposed edge of the plate accessible through as small notch cut out of the plastic dome — at which point the dome pops open and the plate is yours! You may add soy sauce, wasabi or pickled ginger (my favorite!) if you like. When you're finished that plate (or even if you're not finished), you start the simple procedure all over again. When my son explained the process to me, I immediately thought "Wow! the plates must really pile up on the tables!" But, alas, the good folks at Kura have that problem licked. 

Every booth is equipped with two unusual components not found in most conventional restaurants. First, there is a large touchscreen mounted just above the conveyor belts. This serves as a menu, as well as a source of information for each available sushi offering that whizzes by your table. With a few taps on the screen, you can find the ingredients of each piece of sometimes unidentifiable sushi. For the impatient, each sushi dish can be ordered straight from the unseen kitchen, arriving with a whoosh! on a separate conveyor belt just above the communal one — the ordered plate stopping miraculously right at your table. Drinks can be ordered from the touchscreen, too. Soft drinks as well as alcoholic beverages arrive by — get this! — a robot! Yep! A robot, whose electronic eyes wink as it spins around, revealing your drink order on its rear shelves... ready for you to remove and  transfer to your table. That's right. I said a robot!

The other feature at your table is a slot into which you deposit your empty plate once you've eaten the delicious contents. My worry about the possibility of "plates piling up" on the small table was alleviated once my son pointed out the small slot at the end of a short, metal incline and its purpose. But the "self-bussing" of your table doesn't end there. No sir! As plates are fed into the little slot, the touchscreen displays a running tally of how many plates have been accepted. Once the total reaches 15, a vending machine, behind the screen just out of immediate view, dispenses a small, round, non-descript capsule containing either stickers or a keyring charm or a cable tie or another cute novelty. The novelties feature little anime characters, most of which change on a monthly basis. And the prizes keep coming with each fifteen plates finished. When the touchscreen isn't serving as a menu or a research tool or a plate counter or a prize distributor, it entertains guests with short cartoons centering on characters trying to steal Kura's coveted recipes.

For a long time, I have joked about waitstaff at restaurants condescendingly asking patrons: "Have you been here before?," as though the concept of going to a restaurant is something totally unfamiliar to humans in a city the size of Philadelphia. My answer has usually been (delivered with a certain amount of palpable sarcasm), "Not here. But I've been to restaurants before and I kinda know how they work." Upon entering Kura, my son politely asked me to put my smart-ass comments on hold. I would soon find out that this place didn't work like any other restaurant I had ever visited. In reality, the robot that brought our drinks would have probably ignored my snide remarks anyway.

This was a Father's Day to remember. Actually, the day after Father's Day was the more memorable... because all I could think about was sushi.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

the future's so bright, i gotta wear shades

There's a scene in the 1957 film 12 Angry Men, where studious Juror 4 (as played by E.G. Marshall), weary from a day-long jury room debate, removes his wireframe glasses and rubs the bridge of his nose. The little indentations on either side of the bridge of his nose are noticed. Someone remembered that the key witness had those same marks on her nose, even though she was not wearing glasses. Suddenly, the accuracy of the witness's eyesight was brought into question. The room erupts in another heated debate. Lee J. Cobb yells at Henry Fonda, Jack Warden throws a crumpled piece of paper at an imaginary basketball hoop and Martin Balsam rubs his own nose and mutters: "Yeah, she had those marks! Whaddaya call 'em?"

"Nose pads," Martin. You call them "nose pads."

I was sitting at my desk at work when I felt something drop and ricochet off the top of my hand as it was poised above my keyboard. I looked around and discovered a small, yellowed piece of flexible plastic that, as a long-time glasses wearer, I identified immediately as a nose pad. If you have ever worn glasses fitted with these little doo-dads, you know that normally, you never give them a second thought. But, if one becomes misaligned or — even worse — breaks.... well your glasses are uncomfortable until it is replaced. Glasses sit funny on the bridge of your nose, affecting your ability to focus. If your prescription is for bifocals, it can be very disorienting. I know from past experience that getting one of these things replaced can be a breeze or it can be a long, drawn out, dreadful hassle. It was in the hands of fate now.

First of all, the place where I got my glasses is out of business. I got my glasses at the small optical concession at a nearby CVS Pharmacy. On a recent visit to this particular CVS, I was surprised to find the little area where my eyes were poked and prodded and put through a regimen of tests and, later, a technician adjusted the temple pieces on my new pair of glasses, was now filled with colorful racks of greeting cards for all occasions. It was as though the optical department had never existed. I had to ponder my next move. I could innocently wander into another local optical store like America's Best or Lens Crafters (if there is still such a place) and try to convince them to fit my glasses — that I did not purchase there — with a new nose pad. Or I could see if the Walgreen's near my house carried this item alongside the small assortment of non-prescription reading glasses that occupy a endcap of the first aisle near the antacids. Coincidentally, Mrs. Pincus and I had appointments at Walgreen's to get our eighth or ninth COVID booster shot early on Saturday morning. On the off chance that they didn't carry them, I would reluctantly employ my original plan of hitting up a mall optician.

That evening, after dinner, I logged onto an online eyeglasses website. I joined the ranks of thousands of other folks and made my first ever purchase of glasses via the internet. Sure, I'm late to the party, but when you're used to buying things one way, trying a different method can be daunting. This was not. It was easy and cheap and.... did I mention "cheap?" I ended up getting two pairs — a pair of sunglasses to supplement my new pair of internet-bought glasses. I may never set foot in a brick-and-mortar optician store again. Or so I thought..

On Saturday morning, the weather was nice, so Mrs. P and I walked to Walgreen's. While we waited for the slow-as-molasses pharmacy staff at the nearly empty Walgreen's to call our names for our shot, I perused the glasses rack. Nothing. Aside from a single repair kit hanging on a lonely hook, the display was filled with a selection of magnifying reading glasses in variety of frames. But, no replacement nose pads. I was disappointed but not exactly surprised. We got our shots and left the store. I was still wearing my glasses, even though they rested cock-eyed on the bridge of my nose. I remembered that in the small, never-busy shopping center across from Walgreen's there was an independent optical store — one I had passed by, but ever entered. We walked over and Mrs. P waited outside, allowing me to try this on my own. Usually, she is much better and way more persuasive than I am. I thought: "I'll just ask. The worst they could say was 'no' and tell me to get out of the store."

The store barely looked open. It was kind of dark and I didn't see anyone inside. I entered anyway, half expecting the door to be locked. It wasn't. There was a long glass display case that formed a sales counter. The walls were lined with Lucite displays of sample frames and huge photos of sophisticated-looking models looking at me from over the tops of their shiny designer frames. At the far end of the sales counter, an older man (I'm 61 and he was definitely older than I am) was seated at a computer. When I tapped on the counter, he eased himself out of his chair and  asked in a monotone: "Can I help you?" There were no other customers in the store. It looked as though there hadn't been a customer in this store for days or maybe months. I removed my glasses and explained my dilemma, pointing to the empty spot on my glasses where the missing nose pad once resided. The man took my glasses from my hand and shuffled to a work area beyond his computer. He began rifling through some boxes and drawers, but his back was to me... and I was without my glasses, so I couldn't tell exactly what was going on. So, I just stood and waited patiently. Suddenly, I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned and squinted. Although blurry, I recognized my wife. She asked in a low voice what was going on. I pointed in the direction of the "back room work area" and shrugged.

Within a few minutes, the man returned with my glasses. He said nothing as he handed them back to me. They sported a brand new clear silicone nose pad, proudly fitted into the tiny metal socket opposite the original yellowed and dirty nose pad that had been there since Day One. I slid them on and they felt like they did before this whole episode began. I asked the man how much I owed him for his services. He waved me off and grumbled "no charge" under his breath. I thanked him and I thanked him again. My wife spoke up, offering to pick up a cup of coffee for his trouble and generosity. Again, he waved his open hand and said "no... no thank you" in the same low voice. I said a few more "thank you"s as we made our way towards the front door.

While I was genuinely appreciate of this guy's kindness, I have never been in his store before and, in realty, I have no plans of ever going into his store again. Honestly, I wouldn't be surprised if he has closed up shop the next time I pass by, due to competition from bigger stores at the mall or unbeatable deals available on the internet. I wish he would have accepted a buck or two as payment to alleviate my guilt.

My new glasses arrive on Friday.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

mystery train

I took the train to work for ten years. Remember all those blog posts I made about my adventures — good and bad (mostly bad) — on the train? Well, they kind of stopped in 2017, when I no longer had a job that required me to take the train on a daily basis.

I am back among the "drive yourself to work" set and I rarely have the opportunity to take the train. And then there was the worldwide pandemic that brought nearly everything to a halt. Now, as things begin to reopen, readjust and get back to some sort of "normality" (whatever that means), my wife and I ventured into center city Philadelphia to see the iconic Christmas Light Show held annually at the former John Wanamaker department store, now operating under the "Macy's" name. Instead of driving, fighting traffic, paying an exorbitant amount for a few short hours of parking, Mrs. P and I decided to take the train.

It's comforting to see that SEPTA (the acronymed organization that operates the public transportation system in southeastern Pennsylvania) has remained its same, old, dysfunctional self.

Early on Saturday morning, Mrs. Pincus and I took the familiar stroll to the Elkins Park train station, located just down the street from our house. (It's so close, we actually use it as a landmark locator when directing people to our house.) Upon our arrival on the platform, I checked the SEPTA app on my phone and was not one bit surprised when I saw that our 8:29 train was already listed as 15 minutes late. Mrs. Pincus realized she should have dressed more warmly for the unpredictable weather that Philadelphia had been experiencing. She made a quick run home to grab a hoodie. I watched, in her absence, as the SEPTA app added more time to our already-late train. SEPTA was already meeting and exceeding my expectations for getting back to "how things used to be." Mrs. P returned, bundled in her newly-retrieved hoodie, to find me in the exact same spot — with no train in sight.

Eventually, our train arrived to take us on the short, twenty-minute journey to center city Philadelphia. Now, the Elkins Park ticket office is only open for limited hours during the week and never on weekends. Passengers without a pre-purchased monthly pass (the traveling category in which we now fall) can purchase tickets on the train from one of the hopefully friendly conductors. As the train pulled away from the platform, one of the aforementioned conductors (this one uncharacteristically friendly) made his way down the center aisle. He stopped at the folks seated right in front of us. They were also headed to see the holiday light show, so our fare would be the same as theirs. After paying, the conductor presented them with two cardboard "swipe cards" that, he explained, should be used to open the electronic gates to exit the station. As he took a step in our direction, the train slowed to a stop at the Melrose Park station. He raised a finger to us and informed us that he'd be back.

He never returned.

Instead, he stood and gabbed with a group at the front of our train car — laughing and gesturing — as the train stopped at the three subsequent stations before our Jefferson Station destination. I gripped a ten dollar bill, ready to pay since we boarded. Mrs. P and I shuffled down the aisle towards the exit doors. I sidled up to our conductor and whispered: "We haven't paid our fare yet." He smiled and tipped his head in the direction of the doors. Extending his open palm, he said: "Happy holidays!" implying that our trip was gratis. Except we were now without that special swipe card that would free us from the confines of the station, once we climbed the exit stairs from the subterranean platform.

Once in the bustling station, I observed a newly-installed (well, "new" since my last trip on the train over two years ago) bank of electronic turnstiles occupying the once-unobstructed exit passage. I, along with my wife and a small group of similarly bewildered commuters, examined the steel and glass barriers that separated us from the outside world. And he we were without a way to make them open and grant our freedom. Mrs. Pincus spotted a disheveled-looking fellow, his SEPTA-emblazoned shirt untucked from his wrinkled, ill-fitting pants, puttering around an Information Booth. 

"Excuse me," she began. The fellow looked up with a confused expression, as though no one had spoken to him in weeks. Mrs. P continued, "How do we get out? We were not given swipe cards by the conductor on our train." The man scratched his head and offered two options. "Well," he said, you can buy an exit card from that machine over there." He gestured to a large, refrigerator-looking vending machine with a very complicated-looking glowing blue screen. Our little group collectively cringed. We all turned back to the fellow, hoping that Option Two would be more appealing. "Or you can just push open the glass door at the ADA exit." (The ADA, of course is the Americans with Disabilities Act of 1990 that required all public area to be equipped with easy access for those folks in wheelchairs or other disabilities requiring special provisions.) Although we felt bad, we all silently acknowledged that we liked Option Two much better and would take full advantage of it. Like a mini parade, a dozen people walked single file through the easily-opened ADA exit... and no one said a word.

Our return trip home was equally as "typical SEPTA" as our morning adventure. Upon exiting the station earlier in the morning, I purchased tickets for our trip home and safely tucked them in my wallet. After a full, fun day of holiday lights, lunch with our son and his girlfriend, a stroll through the temporary Christmas shopping village set up around Philadelphia's City Hall, Mrs. Pincus and I walked back to the station to board a homebound train.

Our train arrived and we selected a seat. We talked in quiet voices as we rode. In my peripheral vision, I noticed a young man in a seat across the aisle slightly turning his head to listen to our conversation. We weren't discussing any sensitive or controversial topics. We were probably talking about our plans for dinner or what we were doing on Sunday. Nevertheless, this guy was hanging on to our every word. He even turned around further and chuckled to himself, as though he was an active an welcome member of our conversation. I recalled experiencing this on a daily basis when I took the train more often. My conversation, it seemed, was infinitely more interesting, informative and entertaining than those of my fellow passengers — and they weren't shy or discreet about hearing the full dissertation.

Ah, SEPTA. You appear to be adjusting to the post-pandemic world just fine. God bless you. Keep up the good work.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

down by the riverside

After a year and a half of confinement, Mrs. Pincus and I sprang from our quarantine central for a weekend jaunt to Jamestown, New York. Sure, Jamestown is not first on anyone's list as a "must-see vacation destination." It did, however, meet certain criteria. First, Jamestown is a six-hour drive from our home. My wife loves to drive and hates to fly, so this trip seemed a good fit. Second, it is the home of the National Comedy Center, a museum that houses a comprehensive collection of all things geared towards evoking laughter, from the slapstick to the cerebral and every silly thing in between. Jamestown is also the home of the Lucille Ball-Desi Arnaz Museum. It is no coincidence that Jamestown is the birthplace of Lucy and also the location of a museum that chronicles her life, both personal and professional. Personally, I am not a fan of the famous redhead, but Mrs. P and I are drawn to Hollywood kitsch, so this was right up our alley. We imagined taking the tour with the same attitude as when we toured Graceland. We found ourselves in the overwhelming minority among a reverent flock of Elvis disciples on a pilgrimage to their own version of Mecca. The Lucy-Desi experience wasn't nearly as intense, but seeing Lucy's shoes from Season 4, Episode 11 didn't give me the same thrill as it did other guests.

The museums aren't the only "Lucy-centric" attractions in the Jamestown area. Just outside of Jamestown, in the tiny hamlet of Celoron, is Lucille Ball Memorial Park. This lovely little expanse of land sits on the banks of Chautauqua Lake. Dotted with benches, a playground with modern jungle gyms, swings and a few picnic pavilions, the park sports not one but two statues of its hometown hero and namesake. The star attraction is a beautiful sculpture depicting the so-called "Queen of Comedy" wistfully posing in a polka-dot dress, a wide smile across her instantly recognizable face. It rests atop a marble base, still accessible to the adoring public but lifting the figure just high enough to reinforce its sense of importance. The truth is, this sculpture is the second one to be displayed in Lucille Ball Memorial Park. The first one, installed in 2009, is frightening. The stoop-shouldered figure with its ghastly expression, clutches a realistic-looking bottle of Vitameatavegamin from a memorable 1952 episode of I Love Lucy, but bares absolutely no likeness to the late comedian. After much complaint and controversy, a new statue was commissioned and installed in 2016. The "Scary Lucy," as it became known locally, was moved about 75 feet away. During its seven years in a spot of prominence, it garnered its own legion of fans. Sadly, the artist who produced the original has since announced that he has abandoned his sculpting efforts.

A short drive from the park is the childhood home of Lucille Ball. A simple looking dwelling, distinctive from its neighbors by the blue-and-white polka-dotted garage in the backyard, sits in the middle of, what is obviously newly-named, Lucy Lane (No relation to Lois. That's in Metropolis.). Lucy only lived in this house for a short time in her early life. A lawsuit and subsequent settlement over an accidental shooting in the the family's backyard, forced Lucy's beloved grandfather into debt. He lost this home, sending Lucy, her mother, brother, stepfather and cousin to find living accommodations elsewhere. However, Lucy maintained a connection to Jamestown, and often visited her childhood home once she became a popular movie and TV star.

After a full day of touristy activities, Mrs. Pincus and I made our way to a restaurant just a stone's throw from Lucille Ball Memorial Park. The park is actually adjacent to a large and active marina. The restaurant is hidden, obscured from the view of any travelers on Boulevard Avenue by several enormous dry dock buildings offering shelter to various boats in various stages of repair. The nondescript building of The Main Landing is haphazardly decorated in a vaguely nautical theme, with weathered pylons, stained rope fishing nets and a few sea-related sculptures that looked like they came straight from the garden department at Home Depot. In the planning of our little trip, Mrs. Pincus secured an online discount for this particular restaurant. Based on the menu we reviewed on their Facebook page, we figured "Eh... how bad could it be?" Not exactly a glowing expectation, but we were only in town for one night and it would not be our last meal before being strapped into the electric chair, so — as they say — what the heck!

We pulled up and parked our car on a plot of wet grass in front of The Main Landing's elevated porch. There were two other cars already parked when we arrived. On the front door was a poorly worded, computer printed sign warning those who enter to be prepared for a possible lengthy wait for service, as they are short staffed. The sign's sentiment was very blunt and not the least bit apologetic in tone. Guests enter The Main Landing to a small bar area. Here, we were "greeted" (if you can call it a "greeting") by a harried woman behind the bar, a scowl on her face. Another woman in an apron, smiling and much friendlier, asked if it would be just the two of us for dinner. The woman at the bar, with a hoarse voice tinged from too many years of tobacco abuse, suddenly barked, "Do you have a reservation?"

My wife spoke up. "I didn't know we needed one." I glanced around the small, but very empty dining room. There was a couple with a baby at a table in one corner. Another table afforded seating for a family that appeared to be celebrating something, as betrayed by a cake at the center of their dinner spread. The rest of the tables remained empty, set and silent, waiting for those many, many reservations to be fulfilled. The time was approximately 6 PM. The restaurant closed at 7:30 — another curiosity for a dining establishment in a summer tourist area near a marina. And one with a bar.

The aproned woman quickly ran interference. "We'll be fine. We can seat you without a reservation." The woman at the bar interrupted, delivering an angry ultimatum, "Okay, we can seat just you two, but after that — no more!" We were dumbfounded. Apparently, we looked as though we were running a separate service for customers wishing immediate seating and skirting the reservations requirement. The woman in the apron grabbed a couple of laminated menus and led us to one of the many empty tables. As we took our seats, she whispered an apology. "I am so sorry. She had no right to speak to you that way. You don't need a reservation. She's the owner, but she should know better." Then she added, "I'm the owner now. I'll take care of you." It was very reminiscent of the chilling line from Captain Phillips and had somewhat of the same effect.

My wife and I perused the menu, looking for some sort of seafood that would fit into our limited seafood diet. (Although I am a vegetarian, I do eat some fish. I suppose that makes me a pescatarian. My wife and I also observe kashrut [keeping kosher], so any shell-wearing, bottom-feeding, shit-eating denizen from the deep is not up for inclusion on our dinner plate.) I selected baked haddock, prepared in an Italian style with peppers and tomatoes. My spouse chose grilled salmon prepared in a... grilled style. We decided to split a baked brie appetizer. Actually, we were trying to build up the total, as our discount was half off a final bill of $50 or more. The aproned woman took our order and disappeared. Nearly fifteen minutes later, a different young lady filled our water glasses and asked if we'd like something from the bar. Mrs. P ordered a glass of sangria. Not a regular imbiber of alcoholic beverages, she likes sangria. Plus, at nine bucks a glass, it was guaranteed to further drive up our final bill.

We waited for our dinner to arrive. We watched as the dining room remained empty and the clock ticked closer to closing time. The couple with the baby left. The celebrating family lingered. Only two additional tables welcomed occupants, none of whom I heard being questioned as to their efforts to secure a reservation. After a long wait — well, we were warned by the sign on the door — our dinner was served. In all honesty, it was pretty good. I admit, that came as a surprise. I really expected it to bland and forgettable. But, I enjoyed it. The fish and accompanying broccoli were both delicious. The tomato and pepper garnish was delicious as well. My Pincus was just as satisfied by her salmon. There was something missing, however. While I cannot speak for the dining practices and customs in Western New York, where I come from, appetizers are usually served before the main course. If they are served once the main course is completed, they go by a different name. They call it "dessert." Our appetizer was on the path to meet a similar fate.

It took some time, but we finally got the attention of the woman in the apron. She came to our table to ask how everything was going and to apologize again for the owner's behavior. Waiting for a break in her conversation, Mrs. Pincus pointed out that we never got our baked brie. By this time, we were both nearly finished our meal. (Oh, and those multitudes of reservation holders were all no-shows.) The aproned woman launched into a new set of apologies and offered to bring out our appetizer immediately. In half the time it took for our dinners to show, the brie was placed on our table with a tray of assorted crackers. A small wheel of brie was drenched in candied pecans and maple syrup. Despite being listed on the "Appetizer" section of the menu, it was sweet enough to be called "dessert." But, since we were on vacation, we ordered another dessert anyway. Our choice was something touted as "Chocolate Lasagna." While its name was indeed cute, this frozen concoction was not remotely like lasagna. It was an ice cream sandwich covered in caramel and crushed chocolate toffee. It was pretty good, too.

During the course of our meal, the woman from the bar strolled the dining to and stopped to chit-chat with the folks at the tables near us. From the tone of their conversation, they were obviously regular customers. She laughed and joked and their exchange had a lively air. She walked silently past us on her way to an outdoor deck at the rear of the building where she continued her jolly banter with a couple of shirtless young men donning life jackets and heading down a narrow, wood-planked dock towards a waiting boat. She leaned against a wooden post and gazed dreamily as they boarded and tooled out of the marina area. She waved.

When it came time to pay, the online discount encountered some trouble. We have experienced similar difficulty with this same website at several different restaurants. The gist of the situation was that, according to the website, our discount had already been used. After a bit of discussion and possible solutions to our dilemma, the woman at the bar changed her previous attitude. She became concerned and accommodating and offered to give us the discount no matter if the website told otherwise. Her complete "one-eighty" personality metamorphosis was unexpected. Welcome, yes — but decidedly unexpected.

A little closer to home, I would absolutely be inclined to never return to this restaurant again. Considering that we saw all we intended or needed to see in Jamestown, New York — our experience with The Main Landing yielded the same result. The food was good. The attitude was strange. And it's six hours away.

We can eat good food and get treated like crap right here at home.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

get back to where you once belonged

Although we pay nearly three hundred dollars a month for cable service from the good folks at Xfinity, giving us access to a wide variety of entertainment options in the privacy of our home, Mrs. Pincus and I sometimes do venture out to a good old-fashioned movie theater. While I certainly love movies, I don't care for people. And that's exactly what we encountered last Saturday.

My wife and I made plans to meet my brother Max and my sister-in-law (no, not that one... the other one) for a rare "double date" night, My sister-in-law purchased discount tickets at a local Costco and was surprised by the "pick your seat" option that was available. From my recollection, movie theaters never offered reserved seating, but it certainly makes sense. Reserved seats are available at almost every other venue where public seating is offered — Broadway theaters, concerts, sporting events, you can even throw airline flights into that mix. Actually, now that I think of it, we previously purchased reserved seating for movies on our several, ill-fated visits to our nearby Movie Tavern. So maybe other movie theaters are just catching up. And it makes perfect sense, too! With reserved seats, you don't have to rush to the theater and scramble for choice seats — especially if you need to find more than two seats together. (That is, if you don't want to split up your party.) With reserved seating, your seat will be waiting for you when arrive, no matter what time you arrive.

My sister-in-law scored four seats at the end of a row, selecting a location midway up in a theater that offered stadium-style seating. Perfect! We could meet early for a leisurely dinner and then make our way to the theater at our own pace and not worry about the hassle of scanning a crowded theater for four seats together. Our chosen movie was "Yesterday," the latest Danny Boyle-directed fantasy tale of a young, struggling musician who, after waking from an accident, realizes he's the only one in the world who remembers the Beatles. The movie, after receiving a modest amount of pre-release hype, had opened the night before our little "family night at the movies" and the suburban multiplex would likely be crowded. But, we had no worries. At least not yet.

We met at a Ruby Tuesday's* that occupies a pad site in the parking lot of the theater. After dinner, as we exited the restaurant, my sister-in-law distributed the tickets and I tucked our pair safely in my wallet. We got in our respective cars and drove over to the larger lot nearer to the theater. We met at the front of the theater and entered. We determined which of the twenty-two auditoriums was our destination and headed down one of the long hallways that branched off from the main lobby. My wife and sister-in-law excused themselves for a quick visit to the ladies room, leaving my brother and me to meet them at our pre-determined seats.

Reserved!

Max and I entered the semi-darkened theater. The enormous screen was alight with commercials for the concession stand and other commerce-enticing information. We took note of the large, prominent aisle designations affixed to the base of the end seat of each row. We mentally ticked off each one until we arrived at Row H. The end seat — Seat 12 — was empty, its padded cushion in the upright position waiting to afford comfort to its rightful ticket holder for the 7:30 showing. The next three adjoining seats, however, were occupied by three women. As showtime was fast approaching, there were only a few single seats scattered throughout the near-capacity theater. My brother and I exchanged puzzled glances. He had an expression on his face with which I was very familiar. It was a combined expression of exasperation and annoyance. I had seen it regularly in our youth — and I was usually the cause.

I spoke first. I said to the woman closest to me, "I believe you are in our seats." I tried to have no inflection of anger or accusation in my voice. Perhaps it was an honest mistake. Perhaps they were not aware of the reserved seating policy. After all, we were not greeted by an usher of any kind. We were not asked for our tickets and then guided to our appointed accommodations for the evening. The woman furrowed her brow and, with a raised, sweeping hand, gestured to the rest of the theater. "Oh, you can just sit anywhere," she bluntly stated in reply to my indictment. I think I could hear my brother's blood actually boiling in his veins. I could feel the anxious adrenaline coursing through my system in anticipation of a confrontation I did not wish to happen. I hate confrontation. I'm not good at it and I would rather remain silent. My brother, on the other hand, has never been one to stand idle while shit is forced in his direction. Perennially athletic and physical, he has always stood his ground in a calm, authoritative, and somewhat menacing, manner.

I told my brother that I was going to speak to a member of the theater's management. I started down the steep steps with my destination being the lobby. I tracked down a man in a mismatched suit gripping a comically-large walkie-talkie that looked as though he filched it from the set of "M*A*S*H." He sported a name tag engraved with "MANAGER" pinned to his too-wide lapel. I explained the situation transpiring right now in Auditorium 3. He assured me that a security representative would be there to assist momentarily. I felt no sense of urgency in his promise and no authority in his authority. Unsatisfied, I reluctantly returned to check my brother's progress.

Not actually my brother.

Again, I entered the theater and ascended the steps towards Row H. There was my brother, my sister-in-law and Mrs. Pincus sitting in Seats 9 through 11... with Seat 12 on stand-by for my derriere. I took my seat and leaned over to ask Max to fill me in on the chapter of this story that I missed. In a totally unaffected tone, he said, after I left, he went back to the woman and calmly stated that she and her friends were in seats that they did not belong in. "I asked you once nicely," he said, most likely in a slow and deliberate timbre and through clenched teeth, "You need to get up and go to the seats that are printed on your ticket. These are not your seats." After a few seconds, the three women rose and pushed their way past my brother, not offering any sort of apology or even glancing in his direction. 

Mr. Movie Theater Manager's security never showed up. We didn't really need them. 

We brought our own.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

*I still have not published my rant about my awful Ruby Tuesday's experience that I wrote four years ago. Maybe someday...

This is the 500th post to this blog. Thanks for reading!

at the late-night, double feature picture show

The experience of going to the movies has greatly improved at the same rate that the movies themselves have declined. When I was a kid, in the 1960s, going to the movies meant paying a buck for admission to a theater jammed with other screaming kids on a Saturday afternoon. It meant buying a giant bucket of popcorn — some to be eaten, some to be thrown. It meant a shitty sound system with barely-understood dialog pumped through ancient, crackly speakers. And the movie? Well, in my neighborhood, we had to wait several weeks until the big Hollywood productions made their way out of the ritzy, downtown theaters and into the twin-screen cinemas in the so-called "Greater Northeast," a section of the city that, while geographically was "northeast" of Philadelphia, was, by no means "great." So, our entertainment was provided by a movie that the rest of the world saw a month earlier or a years old, third-rate K. Gordon Murray twisted child fantasy. Nevertheless, it was a memorable experience. 

By the time I reached high school, the first-run policy had been relaxed and movies would premiere just a short drive from my house, in theaters that had been expanded to accommodate up to four separate screens. Most times, this was accomplished by splitting existing auditoriums in half. Economically, this made perfect sense for the theater chains, but the viewing experience was akin to watching a movie in a bowling alley. The ticket prices increased, of course, to subsidize the renovations, but the seats seemed more comfortable and the concession stands seemed to offer a wider and better selection of food.

Although I love movies, I stopped going when the ticket prices skyrocketed and the quality of the actual films diminished. There was that glut of big-screen versions of television shows — mostly miscast and filled with contrived premises. Then there were the plotless action films with more attention paid to explosions than to an actual script. So, I stayed away. Also, thanks to the advent of home video,  people just flat out forgot how to behave in the company of other people. They'd talk loudly, text incessantly and parade up and down the aisles regularly. Some even brought screaming children to inappropriate films. My son and I watched a couple wander into a theater pushing, not one, but two strollers for a 9:15 PM showing of Hellboy. Really, Mom and Dad? Hellboy?

Then theaters began installing stadium seating and sophisticated, state-of-the-art sound systems. Concession stands were stocked with menus featuring deli-style sandwiches and side orders like french fries alongside the M&Ms and popcorn. The auditoriums were even cleaner. Shoes no longer stuck to the floor while walking to a seat. It was slowly becoming a welcoming experience again, albeit very slowly. My wife and I, however, could still categorize our movie-going frequency as "infrequent." 

Last night, Mrs. P and I took in the pinnacle of the movie-going experience. A local branch of the innovative theater chain Movie Tavern opened in late 2015 a mere twenty minute drive from our house. I had heard about how great it was, with a full-service bar, restaurant and movie theater combined into one big, convenient conglomeration. Not content with a package of Twizzlers and a bathtub-size cup of Sprite? Well, how about sweet potato fries, Margherita Flatbread pizza or a 1/3 pound bacon cheeseburger while you watch your choice of films on your choice of eight screens? Remember John Travolta's revelation in Pulp Fiction as he explained about getting a glass of beer in a movie theater? Well, Movie Tavern makes that reality. Yes sir, someone was doing some thinking and they hit upon a concept so simple, I'm surprised it took so long.

Yeesh!

Mrs. P and I were led to our reserved seats by Kyle, an overly-friendly and overly-attentive server. Kyle answered all of our procedural questions without once mocking us for behaving as though we had never been out of the house. He showed us the control to make the deep-cushioned seat recline to almost a flat position. He showed us the magical "call button" that would summon him at a second's notice. (Mrs. P immediately tried it out while he was still going through his explanation.) We ordered dinner and I anxiously pondered how disruptive the food delivery would be. Soon the theater darkened and, as coming attractions splashed across the enormous screen, a warm bowl of spinach-artichoke dip silently arrived at our seats. This was gonna be great! The main feature began. (Despite horrible reviews, we were seeing Batman vs. Superman: Dawn of Justice. I hate superhero movies. My wife loves superhero movies, I love my wife, ergo...) Our main course arrived just as stealthily as our appetizer — a hefty and delicious roasted vegetable wrap for me and a grilled portobello mushroom "burger" for the Mrs. In the dark, we exchanged approving nods for the food, the seats, the service and the theater. We agreed that we may never go to another movie theater again. If we can get them to serve Chinese food on Christmas, this place could be as close to Heaven as one could get.

The movie, however, was another story. Jam-packed with convoluted sub-plots, faux-profound dialog, relentlessly lengthy fight scenes and a plethora of unnecessarily menacing characters (not to mention Ben Affleck's ligneous acting), it's no wonder this 151-minute mish-mash tanked in its second week of release. Even Mrs. P — who still enjoys 1983's misguided Superman III — shook her head in disgust at this mess.

Current movies still suck, but, damn!, if Movie Tavern don't got it goin' on.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com