precious

Your time is not precious. This is very easily confirmed. Just make an appointment with someone — a doctor, a contractor... anyone. Most often they will keep you waiting or be very late or cancel your appointment or not show up at all. Their time is special. Their time is valuable. Your time is worthless.

I turned 65 a month ago. Turning 65 qualifies me for a few benefits. I am now eligible to enroll in the nationwide Medicare program — which is the closest I'll ever get to the level of subsidized healthcare offered by nearly every other country on the planet. A little closer to home, I am now eligible to received a free SEPTA senior pass which allows me to enjoy (enjoy? riding SEPTA?) free rides on public transportation that is operated by SEPTA in the Philadelphia area. All I have to do is stop by SEPTA's main office, supply them with some basic information, show proof of age and they will give me an ID card right then and there. However, getting to SEPTA's office is terribly inconvenient. It requires a drive into center city and finding parking or taking public transportation which — ironically — I'd have to pay for. Also, SEPTA only has office hours at the same time as my working hours, which means I'd have to take time off from work to accomplish all this. As an alternative, I could go to my local State Representative's office. There, I can submit the same information, but I'd have to wait approximately four weeks for my card to arrive.

I had an upcoming follow-up doctor's appointment for which I had already taken a half-day of sick time from work. I figured that I could pop over to the State Representative's office before my doctor's appointment and get everything done in one day. I consulted the State Representative's office website and saw that their daily hours began at 10 AM. My wife had just applied for her SEPTA pass a few months ago at this office and they told her, if need be, they could come in at 9 AM, if that would be more accommodating. So, I called the State Representative's office one day prior to my doctor's appointment top confirm their promise of meeting me earlier. The friendly woman on the phone assured me — assured me — that the office regularly opens at 9 AM, regardless of the posted hours. She further assured me that I could happily come in at 9 AM and have everything taken care of in a matter of minutes. Before I ended my conversation, I very plainly made sure that I could come in at 9AM the next morning and the woman said — and I quote — "Absolutely!"

I was not convinced.

The State Representative's office is just a short drive from my house, no more than ten minutes. I arrived at the office at 8:55 AM. I parked, walked around to the front entrance and tugged on the door. It was locked... and through the front window I could see there was no signs of life inside. I paced the sidewalk out from for a little while, then I retreated back to my car. After fifteen minutes of still being the only car in the small parking lot, I walked back to the front door. It remained locked I checked the time on my phone, calculating in my head how long I could wait and still make my 10AM doctor's appointment. As I paced off my annoyance, a couple with a small child came up from the path leading from the parking lot.

"Are you waiting for them to open?," the woman asked. "Yes," I replied, then, despite not being asked, I continued, "They told be they would open at 9 this morning." I checked the time. It was now 9:30. The couple thanked me for the information and said they would return at 10. I, too had to leave in order to arrive on time for my doctor's appointment (because I am courteous in that way). In disgust, I walked back to may car.

I arrived at my doctor's office a few minutes before my scheduled 10 AM appointment. I checked in with the receptionist and took a seat in the waiting room... for my 10AM appointment. I waited. And waited. My name was finally called at 10:20AM — a full twenty minutes past the time I was expected to be there. When I arrived, I spotted my doctor wandering around the office and patrolling the hallways back where the exam rooms are. I was led to an exam room where I was instructed to take a seat and that the doctor would be with me shortly — which translates to more waiting.

Finally, the doctor came in and asked me how things were. I told her (she is an otolaryngologist) that I was having some difficulty hearing in my left ear. She took an otoscope and examined my left ear. Then, with some unseen tool, she extracted something from my ear canal that immediately allowed for all sound to be heard.  "Wow!," I said, "What a difference!" The doctor smiled, handed me a printout to give to the receptionist and promptly exited the room. The whole thing took less that ten minutes... that was half the amount of time I spent in the waiting room.

Seeing that I had some extra time, I headed back to the State Representative's office. There were two cars in the parking lot, possibly letting me know that they were, indeed, open. I walked around to the front entrance and it opened. I was greeted by a woman behind a desk who, if I didn't know better, was Amy Sedaris. I told her that I'd like to apply for a Senior SEPTA pass. She smiled and asked for the required information. When it came time to take my picture for inclusion on the card, the camera failed to operate. After several tries and  several comments of "Oh, this darn thing!," she led me back to another office and another woman (who resembled Aunt Bee from the Andy Griffith Show) who would continue to process my application and — hopefully — was equipped with a working camera. Her camera worked, but she was clueless as to how to access my already-started application. Amy returned and the two of them pondered the computer screen for a good long time. They also made chit-chat with me about the Phillies (prompted, I suppose, by my Phanatic sneakers) and the weather. Eventually, they figured things out and my application was submitted to SEPTA.

I debated with myself about telling them that I was assured they would open the office at 9AM and that, based on that assurance, I was at their front door at 9AM. I ultimately decided not to bring it up. It was pointless and would accomplish nothing after the fact. Well, it may have accomplished pissing them off.

After all, my time is not precious. Theirs is.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

dazed and confused

I ordered dinner from the Chinese restaurant that is around the corner from my house. Mrs. Pincus and I have been ordering food from this restaurant on a semi-regular basis for many many years. It's gotten to the point where I walk in and the nice young lady behind the counter says, "You're getting the all-vegetarian order, right?" when she sees me.

So, approximately thirty minutes after I placed my order, I hopped in my car and drove over to the restaurant to pick it up. When I walked though the entrance, the small area in front of the counter was filled with a group of people — which is actually a rarity. For years, I have always been the only person picking up an order, although there are usually five or six neatly packed bags, perfectly lined up on the counter, waiting for a hungry patron — one that I never see — to bring it on home. This particular day, the compact "lobby area" was alive with anxious energy.

The group was comprised of two older women (and by "older," I, of course mean "of  my own age") and two young ladies, perhaps in their late teens or early twenties. (Once you reach my age, people are either "older" or "kids.") The foursome were very busily and very intensely perusing a now-unfolded paper take-out menu. Based on their conversation (which because of my close proximity, I heard every single word), I quickly surmised that these folks had never set foot in a restaurant in their lives and they were completely baffled as to how the ordering process works. The young woman behind the counter was overly and commendably patient as she tried to gently coax a cohesive order out of these... these... um... people. The two women ordered first — hesitantly — stumbling over nearly every word in their brief directive. The two young ladies squinted their eyes and screwed up their faces as they, apparently read words they had never before encountered. Finally, one of the girls announced, "I want chicken and rice."

I have been to countless Chinese restaurants in my life, both pre-vegetarian diet and post. I know, as I'm sure you do too, most neighborhood Chinese restaurants offer — pretty much — the same things, save for maybe three or four "specialties of the house," which are often just a re-working of some other item on the menu. I know — for a fact — that "chicken and rice" is not a standard entrée on any Chinese restaurant menu. A Mexican restaurant's menu, perhaps, or the punchline to a sequence on an episode of I Love Lucy, where the irrepressible redhead is clueless on how to prepare "arroz con pollo" for her Cuban-born husband. But on a Chinese restaurant menu...? Oh, no sir-ee.

The young woman behind the counter tried to clarify the order, as the girl was offering no further explanation. 

"Do you want chicken fried rice?," she asked, as she pointed to the words on the menu. The girl made no attempt to look where she was pointing, instead, she directed her attention to one of the women and repeated "chicken and rice." This time, the tone of her voice grew angrier and more impatient. One of the women asked "Is the fried rice made with white rice?" You and I and every one in the Chinese food-eating world knows that fried rice comes out brown no matter what color it starts out as. We also know that if this girl has her heart set on "chicken and rice" that she ain't gonna be satisfied with anything that doesn't look like the picture of "chicken and rice" she has in her mind — even though she really has not described what exactly she envisions. The young woman behind the counter named all of the components of "chicken fried rice" and the girl frowned at the mention of each ingredient.

One of the women took the menu in her hands and gave it the ol' "once over." She pointed to a photo of chicken with broccoli listed under the heading of "CHICKEN." "Is this what you want? Chicken with broccoli over white rice?," she asked. The girl grit her teeth, now getting very annoyed by the additional questions. She finally spat out, "Yes! That's what I was saying!" Her words were filled with vitriol and she stomped her foot hard on the carpeted floor and folded her arms across her chest in a final gesture of "This conversation is over!" By the way, this was the very first time that the concept of "broccoli" was introduced into the ordering process.

I skirted the foursome and paid for my order. I was not planning to be there when the wrong configuration of "chicken and rice" emerged from the kitchen.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

some things are classic, some things are just old

The opinions expressed here are solely those of the author. Your results may vary.

I love old movies. Of course, I have my favorites — those that I have watched over and over again. I think its funny when watching an old movie — one that I have seen dozens of times — and I catch myself staring as though its the first time I have ever seen it. That is a true sign of how much I like a particular movie. 

Cable network TCM shows old movies and they have some in their vast library that they broadcast way more than others. Among them, there are some that — surprisingly — I have never seen. Each August, TCM highlights a different actor and shows a collection of their movies for an entire day. The selections are a mixed bag of popular and well-known titles from the performer's resume, along with some lesser films in which the actor was featured in a tiny role. This past Friday spotlighted the versatile Jack Lemmon. Along with fan (and TCM) favorites like The Fortune Cookie, The Apartment, Days of Wine and Roses and the all-time TCM staple Some Like It Hot (a movie that I will sheepishly admit I do not like), the 8 o'clock time slot was filled with the 1970 Neil Simon comedy The Out-of-Towners — which I have never seen. So, with nothing else to my liking on any of the other seven zillion channels offered by my cable provider, I watched.

Host Ben Mankiewicz introduced the film with a proper build-up, citing Neil Simon's comedic prowess, Jack Lemmon's adeptness at playing the "frustrated everyman" and a host of supporting actors in small roles long before they became notable figures in their own right. I was sold. A quick scan of the movie's IMDB page told me to be on the lookout for the likes of Billy Dee Williams, Anne Meara, Richard Libertini, Ron Carey, Robert Walden, Graham Jarvis, Anne Prentiss, Dolph Sweet, Phil Bruns, Johnny Brown and Paul Dooley. (These folks went on to lucrative careers as in-demand character actors and their names are very meaningful to those of us that fancy themselves aficionados in Hollywood trivia.) Jack Lemmon's co-star for this 101 minute ride was Oscar-winner Sandy Dennis, an actress who I never quite got. Nevertheless, under the capable direction of Arthur Hiller, a one-time television director who went on to helm The In-Laws, Plaza Suite and several collaborations with Gene Wilder and Richard Pryor, I figured I'd be in for some great laughs.

I wasn't.

Considering The Out-of-Towners was lauded as a comedy, I didn't laugh once. I have seen plenty of "the nightmare that doesn't end" movies... and there have been a lot. Films like Martin Scorsese's After Hours, Adventures in Babysitting, Being John Malkovich (I'm sure there are others), where the main character is trapped in a seemingly never-ending circumstances where things just keep getting increasingly worse. Nothing goes right. Everything  goes wrong and there is no relief in sight. Except in those movies, the situations were just ridiculously implausible and outrageous. In After Hours, Griffin Dunne's beleaguered "Paul Hackett" encountered a succession of surreal characters who live exclusively in a nocturnal New York City. They were cartoonish and weird for the sake of being weird. In Adventures in Babysitting, Elisabeth Shue and her brood suffer a flat tire that - though a series of preposterous events — escalates into a run-in with organized crime and eventually Thor, the god of thunder.

In The Out-of-Towners, Lemmon and Dennis just fall hapless victims to a long-running series of bad luck... sometimes as a result of Lemmon's own arrogance. Nothing really outrageous or comically bizarre. Just plain bad luck. The story starts with Ohio suburbanites The Kellermans (Lemmon and Dennis) leaving their little provincial cocoon to fly to big bad New York City so Mr. Kellerman can apply for a prestigious corporate position. The interview is to take place at 9 AM sharp the next morning, so the Kellermans wisely plan to arrive the night before, have a lovely, leisurely dinner at an expensive restaurant, retire to a pre-arranged suite at the illustrious Waldorf Astoria, awaken to breakfast in bed, after which Mr. Kellerman — properly refreshed — will make his interview on the dot of 9 and "wow" his prospective new employers. This is hardly the script for a comedy, but, in the hands of comedy master Neil Simon, it had the potential of being uproarious. 

It was not.

The Kellermans (especially Jack Lemmon's over-zealous "George") can't seem to get out of their own way. He has an angry chip on his shoulder and spends the entire movie scribbling the names of everyone who has wronged him on an ever-growing list that he threatens to present to his attorney for promised lawsuits. However, the hardships that the Kellermans experience are totally plausible. There's bad weather that forced their flight to be diverted. There's confusion as to which train to board (Kellerman's fault). The dining car on the train runs out of food. It begins to rain as they walk to the hotel. New York is in the middle of a cab strike, a sanitation strike and a subway strike. The hotel doesn't hold their reservation. They get robbed. (again, Kellerman's fault). The bad luck just goes on and on and on. It's not funny. It's frustrating, irritating and infuriating, but not funny. Jack Lemmon is annoying. He is irrational, relentless and — at the same time — wishy-washy. He is curt with those trying to help him and especially snippy with his loyal wife. After a while, I just wanted someone to push him into the East River. The more understandably irate he became, the more unfunny the movie became.

As the story grew to a sentimental close, it took an abrupt turn and fell back into frustration for an unsatisfying and perfectly lazy ending.

In its initial release, The Out-of-Towners was outperformed at the box office by Beneath the Planet of the Apes. It received fair reviews and was remade almost twenty years later with Steve Martin and Goldie Hawn in a story slightly adjusted for the times.

The highlight of the movie was the parade of supporting actors, all showing the germination of bigger and better roles to come. However, those are 101 minutes I could have spent elsewhere.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

I can no longer shop happily

I am never, ever, ever setting foot in the fucking Giant Supermarket in Huntingdon Valley for as long as I shall live! Dammit!

I live within a convenient driving distance to five supermarkets. I have no loyalty to any of them, because — on some level — there is something I don't like about each one of them. I do most of my supermarket shopping at a Walmart SuperCenter that is a further driving distance than the five nearby supermarkets. But, the prices at Walmart are so ridiculously cheap that I cannot justify going to one of the closer stores when I know I can get the same groceries at as much as half the price on some items. Yeah, I know. Walmart treats their employees like shit and they allegedly have questionable business practices, but who doesn't get treated like shit by their employers? Besides, if I can get a 20 ounce bottle of mustard for 98 cents, I honestly don't care if Walmart kicks their help in the balls when they arrive at work. As the great philosopher/cartoon character Super Chicken once said: "You knew the job was dangerous when you took it."

There's an Aldi near my house. At first I didn't like Aldi. I likened it to shopping in the Twilight Zone, based on their store-branded products so closely mimicking the package designs of national brands. But over time, I have come around to Aldi. They have great produce. Their prices are cheap and their own products — despite their TV prop package designs — are comparable in quality to national brands. The problem with Aldi is they don't carry everything. It is impossible to do a full, old-fashioned shopping trip at Aldi because of their limited variety on a number of products.

Also close by is a Shop Rite, an Acme (part of the Albertsons family of stores) and a Giant (a subsidiary of the multi-national retail conglomerate Ahold Delhaize, not to be confused with the Giant Eagle Mid-West supermarket chain). Shop Rite is a last resort for me, as I always find the place poorly lit, poorly stocked and dirty. They do have pretty good store-brand coleslaw, but that's not enough of an enticement for me. The Acme, which is the closest to my house, is expensive and filled with employees who would rather be anywhere else in the world except in that store. Also, they have this uncanny knack to stop carrying a product that I discover and like on a random visit. It never fails. It's as though they have a list and check off the box that says "Josh Pincus likes this. Do Not Order."

The Giant is the worst and, as I began this blog, I have made my last trip to Giant ever. Mrs. Pincus and I decided to have hot dogs for dinner tonight. A typical summer meal, mine would be of the vegetarian variety and hers would be from the good, God-fearing folks at Hebrew National. We had picked up a bag of chips from Walmart on a previous supermarket run, but had failed to grab a couple of cans of baked beans. And, as you know, Mrs. P cannot be expected to eat hot dogs without the accompaniment of baked beans. That would be like eating peanut butter without jelly or pizza without pineapple. (Oh lighten up! It was a joke!) We like Heinz Vegetarian Baked Beans. We just do. We both grew up eating them and we are very used to their taste. Sure, over the years, we have buckled to store brands on some grocery staples, but we will not yield in some cases — and Heinz Vegetarian Baked Beans is one of those cases. Besides, Heinz is a popular brand and readily available. I happily volunteered to go out in the morning to grab a few cans of baked beans before the start of the afternoon Phillies game. I decided that Giant would be my choice of store this time.

I actually dread going to Giant. I cannot remember a time that I went to Giant and completely filled my shopping order. They are always out of something or they don't carry something or I can't find something after looking in the most logical places. I find their staff to be plentiful, although less than helpful. They usually answer questions like "Where would I find Rice Krispies?" with "Did you check the cereal aisle?" I have often left Giant with bags full of groceries only to head directly to another supermarket to pick up those few items that Giant did not have. And there are always — always —items that Giant does not have.

I drove over to Giant, parked and went into the store. I quickly scanned the signs that hang above each aisle that list the items that could be found within. The one that read "canned vegetables" was the one I wanted. I passed peas and corn and string beans and a range of exotic offerings until I arrived at a small section stocked with baked beans. The shelves were filled with every conceivable flavor of Bush's Baked Beans. There was Original, which contains bacon and, if Mrs. Pincus is partial to Hebrew National hot dogs... well, you do the dietary math. There were other flavors of Bush's Baked Beans — Garlic, Homestyle, Slow-Cooked, Fast-Cooked, Medium-Cooked, Sweet Heat, Brown Sugar, Maple, Country Style, Boston Style and about a hundred other flavors occupying every single shelf. Near the bottom of the section, Campbell's Pork & Beans and Hanover managed to muscle in and grab a sliver of shelf space along side a few rows of Giant's own brand.

But no Heinz. No where. There wasn't even a shelf tag alerting me that I was too late to get a can. There was no room at the inn for Heinz. It was as though the Heinz brand didn't exist on the Giant Supermarket astral plane. I stared at those shelves for a good, long time. I even walked up and down the aisle, thinking maybe — just maybe — Giant relegated Heinz Vegetarian Baked Beans to their own special section. But that was a pipe dream. Giant seemed to be mocking me. As far as Giant was concerned, I could get the fuck out of their store and pound Heinz Vegetarian Baked Beans up my ass in the process. By this time I was fuming. I reluctantly snapped a can (a small can) of Bush's Vegetarian Baked Beans off the shelf and made my way to the checkout area.

My father-in-law's favorite pastime — beside studying the Torah — is leisurely strolling the aisles of Giant the way most people visit an art museum. He peruses the shelves slowly and meticulously, as though he is viewing and appreciating works by Picasso and Renoir. I can't understand his obsession with Giant, but he seems to be there nearly every day. I suppose Heinz Vegetarian Baked Beans is never on his shopping list.

So, Giant is off my list. I'm done! Finished! Through! One down. Four to go.

UPDATE: Shop Rite does not carry Heinz Vegetarian Baked Beans either. Uh-oh.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

don't waste my time

I bought a new car this week. 

After serving me well for nearly 20 years, my trusty 2004 Toyota RAV4 flashed its "CHECK ENGINE" light at me for the last time. With squealing brakes and the need for who-knows-what-else, the time had come. I actually wanted to replace my RAV4 a few years ago, but supply chains were interrupted by the worldwide COVID-19 pandemic, leaving car dealerships with empty lots and salesmen with nothing to do. With the pandemic beginning to wane and cars slowly becoming more available, I convinced my wife to take a ride up to a nearby Subaru dealer to take a look around. This particular dealership was located just a few blocks from our house for over 30 years. When I finally expressed an interest in purchasing a Subaru, they moved to a larger facility about ten miles away.

Prior to visiting the Subaru dealership, I did a little online snooping and settled on the new Crosstrek, which is comparable in size to the RAV4. I didn't want anything too big. I was very used to the size and handling of my RAV4 and the Crosstrek seemed to fit the bill. At the dealership, I was shown the only available Crosstrek on the lot. I was offered a test drive and, after a couple of loops around the large parking lot, I was ready to fill out paperwork. The whole process went very smoothly. I made arrangements to pick my new car up on Saturday.

The next day (Friday), I called my insurance company to arrange for transfer of coverage from my old vehicle to my new one. 

When my wife and I got married, we got apartment renter's insurance from an agent in the Philadelphia suburbs. I had never gotten insurance for anything before, so I went to the insurance office where Ronald, the agent, spelled everything out for me. This was the only time I ever met my insurance agent. As the years went on, we added homeowners insurance when we bought a house, car insurance when be bought a second vehicle, life insurance as our family expanded. Unfortunately, we have had several claims over the years. Car accidents, weather-related damage to our home — all handled by our agent's assistant. She was pleasant, helpful and most of all, professional. Recently, our agent (who, again, I met one time) announced his retirement. He would be passing his clients along to another agent. Our new agent's assistant called to introduce the new office — and it was instant dislike. I don't know exactly what I didn't like about her, but I didn't like her. She was brash and overly friendly on the first phone call. She was also pushy, bringing up things like discussing rates and additional coverage. In almost 40 years, I never heard a peep form my insurance agent until I wanted something... and that was just the way I liked it.

So, on Friday afternoon, I called our new insurance agent.

"Hi," I began, "This is Josh Pincus. We have several insurance policies with your office. I will be picking up a new car tomorrow. It will be replacing the 2004 Toyota RAV 4 that is currently on my policy. What information do you need from me in order to get coverage for the new car?" Pretty straightforward, huh? After all, I had to get back to work. 

"Pincus?," she questioned, "Oh right." She paused. "Is this an additional car or are you replacing one of your cars?"

Was she even listening to me? I repeated, "This will be replacing the 2004 RAV 4. Now, my wife has a 2018 RAV4. We are keeping that one."

"So not the 2018... right?" she said. Oh dear lord! Is she preoccupied with something else?

"Yes, that is correct. What information do you need from me?"

"I'll need the VIN number, the make, model and year. Oh and the sticker price."

"Well," I explained, "I won't have some of that information until Saturday when I pick the car up."

Suddenly, she sounded panicked. "Hmmm... if you could call the dealership now, they would have that information."

"I will get the car tomorrow. I can call you then."

She raised her voice a bit, sounded a tad annoyed. "We are not in the office on Saturday. It can just wait until Monday! Besides, you have two weeks to change the insurance over. You're insured in the meantime." She changed her desperate tone to one of calm in a matter of seconds. I  said I'd call back on Monday.

I picked up my new car on Saturday and gathered all of the proper information, readying it for my Monday morning phone call with my new insurance agent's assistant.

On Monday, between two projects I was working on, I called the insurance office for an exchange of information that I couldn't imagine taking more that a few minutes. The phone was answered by the same woman I previously spoke to and I identified myself again, reminding her who I was and what we discussed on Friday.

"I don't remember what you told me.," she said. "Let me start my computer." She fell silent. Then, she began to give me a real-time play-by-play of her computer's start-up procedure, describing how slow it was and questioning rhetorically "What's it doing now?" Then she began to ask about my weekend, quickly switching to making commentary about the Philadelphia sports teams disappointing performances over the past two days. I have work to do, lady! I don't have time to make nonsensical small talk with you.

Trying to move things along, I spoke up. "I have the VIN number and the other information you requested."

"Oh okay.," she said, "This is replacing which car again?"

I was losing my patience. I told her — again — the new car was replacing the 2004 RAV 4. "Can I give you the VIN number, please?'

"Yes," she said, "and when you come to a letter, use a word that starts with that letter so I don't make any mistakes."

I began. "J as in Joe. N as in Nancy. 6. 4. 3..."

She interrupted me. "What did you say after 'Nancy?'" OH MY GOD!!!!! 

I repeated the number again. Slowly. Enunciating each letter and number until I finished. She asked the purchase price and haughtily clicked her tongue in an inappropriate act of editorializing when I told her. She clicked again when I told her that we did not contract a loan or take advantage of any sort of financing. Finally, she was satisfied with all of the information I had supplied. She said she'd call if she needed anything else and we ended our conversation.

An hour or so later, I received an email with my new temporary insurance card. An hour after that, I received a phone call from my agent's assistant, asking if I received the email. I told her I did and that I even replied to her email. She said she had not seen a reply. I hung up the phone as she was telling me to enjoy my new ca—. (I clicked "end call" before she finished.)

When I got home from work, my wife told me that she had received a series of phone calls from another representative from our new insurance agent's office. This person was asking similar questions about my new car until my wife explained to him that I was taking care of everything with a different assistant in the same office.

I hope Ronald is enjoying his retirement.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

peg o' my heart

I have written some pretty dumb blog posts over the past ten years, but I must say, this may be one of the dumbest. Yes, I have voiced my opinions about things that bug me, annoy me, irk me, rub me the wrong way... but this is a gripe I have with someone who has been dead for nearly a quarter of a century. Things don't get much dumber than that.

Please stand up.

If you follow me on Instagram or if you are lucky enough to be my friend on Facebook (oh stop it! that was a joke!), you know about my on-going feud with Peggy Cass, the perennial panelist on every single incarnation of the TV game show To Tell the Truth. You'd think that I wouldn't watch the show — which is broadcast every weekday morning on retro network BUZZR — if she annoys me so much. Well, if you think that, then it's obvious that you don't know me very well. I like the show. I remember watching it when I was kid on the offhand day that I was home from school with either a legitimate or exaggerated illness. Admittedly, the show was a small intellectual step above other game shows like The Price is Right or Let's Make a Deal (two other sick day must-sees!). Sometimes the subject matter involving a particular group of contestants was way above my elementary school education, but I watched (I think) because I liked the see which celebrity (and I use that term very loosely) guessed correctly. I also liked when the contestants hesitated, then stood and quickly sat in an effort to freak out the panel. Even if I didn't understand the topic of the contestant's new book about visiting Communist China or his invention of a ground-breaking device, I found the show fun.

Except for Peggy Cass. Yep... even back then. (I just had a conversation with my older brother about this very subject. He said he recalls — as a nine year-old — thinking that Peggy Cass was annoying.)

The unnecessarily 
glamorous Miss Kitty

The format of To Tell the Truth was fairly simple. After a brief, if somewhat coy, introduction from jovial host Garry Moore, the panelists are introduced. For the bulk of the entire run of To Tell the Truth, the panelists were familiar game show host Bill Cullen, the ostentatiously glamourous actress/socialite/personality Kitty Carlisle, the aforementioned Miss Cass and a fourth guest — usually Orson Bean or Bert Convy or Joe Garagiola (who, invariably injected some sort of baseball analogy into his line of questioning). Kitty Carlisle's status as a "celebrity" intrigued me. I had never heard of her, aside from this game show, and I wondered why she dressed in feather boas, sparkly gowns and giant examples of diamond-encrusted jewelry just to determine which of three pretty young ladies was a champion hog caller. It was only later in my life that I spotted her name in the credits of the 1935 Marx Brothers classic A Night at the Opera and I realized she was riding her career on the laurels earned from a single supporting role nearly four decades earlier. She was like To Tell the Truth's answer to Arlene Francis, the authoritatively smug panelist on What's My Line? who saw every Mystery Guest at "last night's cocktail party," except if the Mystery Guest was a member of a minority group. In an effort to try and nail down Arlene Francis's exact talent, I have seen her in two movies and she was very forgettable in both.

However, Miss Carlisle and Miss Francis weren't nearly as irritating as Peggy Cass.

As Agnes

Peggy Cass has a very interesting Wikipedia page and I have read it many times in hopes that it would shed some bit of light on her career and why the "celebrity" label has been applied to her. It states that, although she was a member of her high school drama club, she never had a speaking part in any school production. That honor would have to wait until an early 1940s production of Garson Kanin's Born Yesterday. From there she made her Broadway debut in 1949 in the musical Touch and Go. A few years later, she took home a Tony Award for her portrayal of the hapless "Agnes Gooch" in Auntie Mame, a role she reprised in the film and earned her an Academy Award nomination. (That's right! Peggy Cass was nominated for an Oscar! Not so prestigious anymore... huh?) From there, Peggy made a few TV appearances and another film (a not-so-great sequel to the popular Gidget). She landed her own series, The Hathaways, costarring Jack Warden about a typical suburban family — except their family was a family of chimpanzees. It was around the same time she began exercising her alleged intellect on the first version of To Tell the Truth. According to a questionable sentence in her Wikipedia biography, Peggy "often displayed near-encyclopedic knowledge of various topics, and would occasionally question the logic of some of the 'facts' presented on the program." I don't know who contributed to Peggy Cass's Wikipedia page, but I take fierce umbrage with this statement. After watching Peggy Cass, almost every morning, I have witnessed her regular modus operandi. She is not an intellectual. She does not possess a near-encyclopedic knowledge of various topics. She doesn't even have a firm grasp on the English language. She doesn't shut up long enough to gather her thoughts to form a coherent sentence and then she gets mad if her question is misunderstood.

Peggy and her subjects

I have seen Peggy Cass argue facts in a contestant's "signed affidavit." She askes irrelevant questions, then argues about the answers. In a recent episode, she questioned several young men claiming to be the country's youngest certified plumber. She asked "What's a 'Plumber's Companion'?" before correcting herself and changing her query to "Plumber's Helper." The young recipient of her question misunderstood and replied that a "plumber's helper" was an apprentice. Peggy frowned angrily, and later, when she was revealing her vote, she castigated the poor boy for his answer, explaining that she wanted him to say "plunger." She voted incorrectly in that round. In another segment with a woman claiming to be an expert on bald eagles, Peggy questioned why a live example brought on stage didn't have a lot of tail feathers, as though she was an expert in ornithology as well. She didn't appear too pleased with the contestant's explanation, either. Just today, she was quite dismissive of a contestant's reply when asked about a specific breed of an elephant — as though Peggy had information that the owner of the elephant didn't. Then, she argued with the first female guard at San Quentin prison over whether she thought there should even be female prison guards. She once berated a man who photographed an alleged Bigfoot on the morality of his investigations. Peggy routinely injects her personal opinion into questions, often citing her deep Catholic beliefs or her Boston upbringing — mostly regarding subjects that rarely apply to either of those categories or to the day's contestants. She gives the overall impression that she is too good for the show, the contestants, her fellow panelists, Garry Moore, the studio audience and — well — society in general. 

Peggy Cass didn't make it to the current, network revival of To Tell the Truth hosted by actor Anthony Anderson. She passed away in 1999. However, I will continue to watch To Tell the Truth and I will continue to get frustrated by Peggy Cass... because, I love — six decades later — when she votes incorrectly.

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!

they paved paradise and put up a parking lot

Mrs. P and I attended the annual XPoNential Music Festival*, a three-day gathering of members (and non-members, I guess) hosted by WXPN, an indispensable radio station in the Philadelphia area. This year marked the 25th year of the festival and boasted such diverse performers as David Byrne, Lukas Nelson, J.D. McPherson and a bunch more. It's more than just a concert, though. It's like a big family reunion, if you liked everyone in your family.

The festival takes place in Wiggins Park on the Camden, New Jersey waterfront. Wiggins Park, named for Dr. Ulysses Wiggins (who, I believe, was the first doctor to treat victims during the annual "Burn Camden to the Ground on Mischief Night"), is a picturesque natural amphitheater, with sloping lawns and shady trees. It is one of the truly nice things in Camden. Actually, Camden is going through sort of a Renaissance. Sort of. Within the first two blocks off the waterfront, there's a lot of construction, a lot of overpriced, rehabbed buildings festooned with signage to entice tenants.... and an abandoned minor league ballpark, the one-time home of the one-time Camden River Sharks. Past that two-block cutoff, you take your life in your hands. Camden is a scary, scary place — rife with shady looking characters, boarded-up buildings and a ton of broken glass. I suppose that's why Wiggins Park faces Philadelphia.

In the days after the XPoNential Music Festival*, most everyone is talking about their favorite memories of the weekend — which performers they enjoyed, that new musical discovery they were exposed to, how many free ice cream bars they consumed. Sure, we had a good time, heard a lot of great music and downed more than our fair share of ice cream, but, honestly who wants to read a Josh Pincus story about something pleasant? I'll try not to disappoint.

DAY 1

The gates were set to open at 3:30 on Friday afternoon, with the first band — Philadelphia funksters Swift Technique — scheduled to take the stage at 4. Mrs. P and I packed our cooler and gathered our new custom-made blanket (constructed from a collection of bandannas) and backed out of our suburban Philadelphia driveway around 1. After inching through congested traffic on the infamous Schuylkill Expressway, we made it to Camden around 2. Our go-to parking garage is not always accessible, mostly due to non-existent rules and some overzealous attendants who get to exercise a bit of authority one weekend a year. But, instead of following the giant electronic arrow flashing on a temporary sign at the corner of Market Street and Jersey Joe Wolcott Boulevard (I shit you not!), we made a left on the off chance that the parking lot attendant was feeling particularly generous this Friday. 

He was not.

A weathered man with wild gray hair and approximately three teeth in his head (two of which were in his mouth) sporting a bright red "Live Nation" polo shirt signaled for us to stop as we approached the garage entrance. "You folks here for the concert?," he croaked through a sneer. We replied in the affirmative. He sneered more. "You gotta park in lot 1, 3, 4, 9 or 11.," he spat, as though everyone is intimately familiar with his random list of designated parking lots. My wife asked for general directions to the aforementioned lots. The man waved his arms left and right and muttered something about making lefts and rights. Mrs P spun the car around and drove up to the festival entrance where a queue line had already begun to form. I unloaded our gear — chairs, cooler, blanket — and left Mrs. Pincus to grab a spot in line while I went off in search of parking.

I continued past the Camden Aquarium and spotted an A-frame sign in the middle of an otherwise-barricaded street. The sign read: CONCERT PARKING $10. "Well, that's for me!," I thought. As I approached the entrance to a relatively safe-looking, fenced-in parking lot, a bedraggled attendant leaning back in a metal folding chair pointed to his wrist (he wasn't wearing a watch) and yelled, "Three o'clock! Lot opens at three!" Then he curled his lips into the standard parking lot attendant authoritative smirk. I check the clock on my dashboard. It was 2:30. I would have to find a place to sit in my car for a half hour, because the delicate balance of nature would be thrown irreparably out of kilter if I were permitted to stash my car on that hallowed asphalt thirty minutes early. 

Across the street from the inaccessible-til-3 lot was an entrance to a construction site that was as wide as a street with cars parked along both curbs. I saw a couple of hard-hatted men climb in to some of the vehicles and pull away, leaving an open parking spot. I pulled into one of the spaces to wait. A car pulled in behind me and the passenger — a confused looking guy — got out and looked around as though he had been dropped from an airplane. I suppose he was checking for a sign of some sort delineating the regulations for parking in this small access road. Of course, no such sign existed, so he did the next best thing. He asked the nearest person sitting in their car with the windows rolled down. That was me. "Excuse me," he said, "You think it's okay to park here?" I looked right at him and replied, "I wouldn't. I'm waiting for the lot across the street to open at 3 so I can park there." He scrunched up his face in an expression of befuddlement. "What do you mean 'you wouldn't?' Is it because you're worried something would happen to your car because this is Camden?," he questioned. "Yes. Yes, I am." I stated. The man shuffled back to his car. By this time, it was nearly 3 o'clock. I turned the ignition key and swung my car into a U-turn, heading over to the now-open lot. I paid my ten bucks and found myself an open space on the end of an aisle. The guy who questioned my parking plans pulled in next to me.

DAY 2

We arrived bright and early  as the second day of the XPoNential Music Festival* kicked off at noon, with the gates set to open at 11:30. Gluttons for punishment that we are, we took another shot at our favorite parking garage. As we approached, we saw several cars being waved in. That was a good sign and things looked promising. We got closer and an attendant — a different guy from the day before — waved for us to stop before entering. "You folks here for the concert?" he asked. We confirmed that we were. He informed us that today the garage was reserved for radio station employees and handicapped parking. My wife quickly explained that our son is an employee of the radio station. (He is indeed.) The attendant glanced into our car and gave the interior a once-over. Seeing no one but Mrs. Pincus and me, he was prompted to ask, "Is he with you?" Mrs. P tried to save this by saying we will be driving him later. The attendant wasn't buying it. Instead, he directed us to several other lots, the identifying numbers of which he rattled off like he was calling a Bingo game. Slightly annoyed, I dropped Mrs. P off at the entrance line again and parked at the same lot I parked in on Friday.

DAY 3

The final day of the festival found my wife and I dragging. Sure, we were having a great time, but the whole weekend is a tiring undertaking. Plus, with each festival, we find that we are another year older. Although we enjoy the convenience of the riverfront parking garage, we just weren't up for an argument over getting ourselves in. This morning, I just went straight to the entrance line and dropped Mrs. P off with our belongings while I headed to the parking lot that accommodated us the previous two days. As I pulled away from the curb and headed towards the lot situated four long blocks from Wiggins Park, my phone rang. It was my wife. She explained that she was talking to some guys in line who said they parked in the garage with no problem. I hung a quick left and drove right up to the garage entrance where I was greeted by the Sunday attendant — a different guy from Friday and Saturday's guardian. However, he must have been studying the Parking Lot Attendant Official Handbook, because he started off with the ever-popular ice-breaker: "You here for the concert?" I said, "Yes." Then, he threw me a curveball. "Are you a volunteer?" I panicked. I wasn't one of the many volunteers who offer their services for the weekend out of the pure love they have for WXPN. I love the station, but I like to just sit on a blanket and listen to music for three days. Sure, I could have very easily said I was a volunteer, but that would involve lying, which is something I do not do. It would also, most likely, require me to produce some proof of my volunteer status, so I answered, "No." I was immediately denied entrance to the garage. Again. Instead I was directed to follow the street to the traffic light where a left turn would take me to Lot 1. I angrily exhaled. I hit the gas and followed the road until I found a large, fenced-in, unmarked parking lot. A smiling young lady with a fistful of parking tickets waved me in. "Is this Lot number one?," I asked." Her smile broadened. "Yes it is., " she cheerfully replied. As she relieved me of ten dollars, I told her about the contradictory information I was given by many of her co-workers. He gave a little pout and sort of apologized on behalf of the entire Camden Parking Authority. Then she pointed to a wide area of available parking spaces and offered a heartfelt "thank you" as I drove off. That little bit of "nice" almost made up for three days of parking frustration.

At the culmination of the three-day event, the General Manager of WXPN took to the stage, thanked everyone in attendance and invited everyone back for next year's festival.... although he made no mention of where to park.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

* presented by Subaru

you look so small, you've gone so quiet

My wife and I spent a good amount of this past summer at the beach. While I am not a fan of the beach, my wife loves it, so I go. I will admit that it was not totally unpleasant. I got to spend time with Mrs. P. I got to sit and do practically nothing for several hours. I was actually able to take a quick, undisturbed nap every so often, too. So, there was a little sand in my shoes and my hair was flattened to my head from the protective baseball cap I wore. It wasn't horrible.

I remember sitting on the beach, looking around at the surroundings — the ocean, the umbrellas, kids running through the sand. I remember hearing the sounds — seagulls, the low roar of the waves, parents screaming at the aforementioned children. Yes, several times during the summer, I was jolted awake by some of the foulest language I've ever heard, being projected at full volume. The words were fraught with vicious anger and the object of this tirade was usually a youngster of five or six.

I was dumbfounded. Here was a child  — happy, carefree, busying himself with the task of constructing the world's greatest castle of sand. This young architect  — dragging an overfilled bucket of ocean water from the shore's edge in order to formulate the proper consistency of the sand to create a sturdy foundation for his structure... only to have a belligerent adult (a father? an uncle? Mom's new boyfriend?) harangue this young charge for doing, at the beach, what kids do at the beach.

"Get that fucking shit away from me!," I witnessed one bathing suit-clad gentleman yell at a young fellow who couldn't have been more than five. He gripped the handle of a brightly-colored plastic pail in his tiny fists and silently took his abuse with wide, sorrowful eyes.

This morning, a friend was telling me that she witnessed a woman pushing a small child in a stroller through the downtown Philadelphia train station, the same one I commute to every morning. She watched as this woman pushed until she stopped the stroller at a set of steps that led up to street level. The woman tilted the stroller forward, bared her clenched teeth and growled at the child, "Get out!" The child scrambled dutifully to his feet and carefully, though awkwardly, ascended the stairs.

I have one thing to say to these people: If you don't like your kids, and you never should have had kids... for goodness sake... don't take your anger and frustration and poor decision making out on your kids. Just resign yourself to the fact that these children are your responsibility. You were "adult enough" to create a child. Now, be "adult enough" to be an adult.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com