stupid boy

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

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

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

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

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

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

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

state of confusion

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

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

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

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

This evoked another blank stare from my wife.

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

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

Oh, I'm with you, sister.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

thinking about things I don't understand

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

I'm going off the rails on a crazy train

I have a "love-hate" relationship with SEPTA, the entity that provides and operates public transportation in the Philadelphia and suburban area. It is one of only two transit authorities in the United States that operates all five major forms of land transportation (buses, trains [regional rail], subway and elevated trains, trolleys and trolleybuses). SEPTA, an acronym for Southeastern Pennsylvania Transit Authority, does none of them well.

I have been a regular commuter on the SEPTA regional rail for over ten years. Sure, it's a pleasure not to have to drive to work and fight traffic, especially in bad weather (which Philadelphia gets a lot of). But. in those ten plus years, SEPTA has exhibited some of the most consistently worst service I have ever seen from a consumer-oriented company. My morning train — the one I take to work at the same time every morning — has never ever been on time. Ever. A SEPTA representative, who was handing out some public relations material one morning at the train station near my house, told me that "railroad standard" allows trains to be within six minutes of the scheduled time and still be considered "on time." I scrunched up my face and replied, "First - the standard is determined by the industry itself? Then why bother to make a precise schedule if the listed times are, in reality by your own admission, approximate times. Second - if the medical profession worked that way, a doctor could remove your kidney, but, since it's within the area of the appendix, it's still considered a successful procedure." The SEPTA guy laughed, shrugged his shoulders and handed me a pamphlet.

The staff on the trains are pretty rude also. They rarely announce upcoming stations. They snap at commuters with questions. They are the furthest thing from courteous. And they never apologize for the train being late, or crowded, or hot (in summer, when the air conditioning fails), or cold (in winter when the heat fails). My feeling is: they are already at work. What do they care if you're late for work.

So, with poor service, late trains and rude employees, SEPTA feels totally justified in raising fares and not doing a thing to improve themselves.

Yesterday was the clincher. I boarded my train at the train station near my suburban Philadelphia home. It was late, as usual. I found a seat in the last car and sat down. Something on the seat across the aisle caught my peripheral vision. I turned my head and saw a rather large key resting in the center of a seat meant to accommodate three passengers (a "three-seater," as we regular commuters call them). I instantly recognized the key as one used by train conductors to open and close the train doors, as well as operate other functions aboard the train. From my observations, it is an integral piece of equipment in a train conductor's arsenal and one that should be kept close at all times. By this one was alone on a empty seat in a train car conspicuously devoid of all SEPTA personnel. I immediate pulled my phone from my pocket to snap a picture and display it on Instagram for all the world to see. (I regularly chronicle SEPTA's and SEPTA rider's infractions on Instagram, mostly blatant violations of the "Dude, It's Rude" campaign that attempts — and fails — to discourage people from putting their bags, backpacks or briefcases on the empty seat next to them, while offering a gentle reminder that seats are for paying customers.) I quickly focused and got the shot, frantically tapping out a smart-ass caption to accompany the image. I chose to go with: "Is that the key to the entire SEPTA Regional Rail System just, absentmindedly, left on a seat? Ahh, SEPTA, it's a good thing you don't guard our nuclear weapons." Because my social media accounts are linked, my message appeared on Twitter, as well.

Well, SEPTA's social media account (for reasons only known to them) follows my Twitter account (@joshpincus for those of you who dare). Almost immediately, I was contacted via Twitter by one "KW" who was monitoring the SEPTA Twitter this particular morning. This was our exchange:

This little conversation shows SEPTA's sheer laziness and complete lack of customer service. Sure they are confined to 140 characters per message, but they didn't come close to the limit. They barked questions are me, a customer, as though I were responsible for their error. "What train? What car number?" Not a "please" or an "excuse me" or a "would you mind." The train number and car number are two pieces of information that are not easily ascertained by the general public. These numbers are usually posted on the lighted informational boards at the train stations (My station does not have one of these boards.) or on the SEPTA smartphone app. Train numbers are never used by commuters and are the source of confusion when SEPTA uses them in updated schedule and train arrival announcements. My admittedly rude reply ("I don't work for SEPTA") was still met with a pressing and impolite demand for these obscure identifiers. I finally conceded and pulled up the app on my phone to find which train number I was currently riding on.

The train pulled into Suburban Station, my destination for work. I rose to exit the train. A spotted a guy sitting in the seat when I had seen the key. He gathered his belongings (which were disobediently occupying the space next to him) and, in one motion, scooped up the key with his stuff. He palmed the key like a seasoned magician and scooted out into the train aisle just ahead of me. He left the train. He did not appear to be seeking out a SEPTA employee.

Will this guy be opening and closing the doors on tomorrow's commute? I don't know. Will he be making any unscheduled stops based on a whim? I don't know. Will that key be dangling from a chain, RUN-DMC style, the next time I see him on the train? Perhaps.

Do I really care? I do not.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

under my wheels

My next-door neighbor rear-ended my car while it was parked (parked!) in front of my house. He rang my doorbell and sheepishly admitted to the accident (details of which were revealed by his mother later*) in an awkward exchange on my front porch. I contacted a friend who owns an auto body shop and my car was soon off for repair, with the entire cost rightly footed by my neighbor.

After a week or so, my car was returned to me as good as new (or as close to new as a ten-year old car can get). I was not really inconvenienced by its absence, as I take the train to work daily and I rarely drive on weekends. Why do I have a car then? Well, I'm not going to walk to the dry cleaners and I regularly go to concerts that are not at venues located on convenient train routes. 

When my car was returned, it was pointed out that both rear tires were in pretty poor shape. "How on earth did they even pass inspection?," was the actual assessment. I promptly made an appointment with my mechanic and I dropped my car at his shop the night before, leaving my keys and instructions in a sealed envelope that I shoved under one of the locked garage doors. The next morning, he called to say that the front tires were just as bad and he recommended replacing them as well. So, eight hundred bucks later, I was back in business. I got my car back just in time. That evening, I had plans to go to one of those "off the train route" concerts, this one remotely located in South Philadelphia.

Warning! Warning! Danger! Danger!

I hopped into my newly-tired vehicle and set out for the show. Just as I took the on-ramp to Philadelphia's notorious Schuylkill Expressway, I noticed the ominous glow of the tire sensor light on my dashboard. "Yikes!," I thought, "What didn't the mechanic do?" Here I was, doing 60 miles-per-hour on what could possibly be poorly-attached tires. Or maybe I had a flat. I lowered the radio and listened carefully, trying to slow down as cars whizzed by me on either side. The angry tire light remained at a steady amber gleam. Mocking me. Warning me of impending trouble. I pictured a tire loosening from its mount and bouncing across the four lanes as I skidded to my death on a bare, spark-spewing wheel hub. With panic being to set in, I frantically anticipated the next exit. I was approaching Girard Avenue and I passed. I was in enough trouble already without having to worry about the sketchy neighborhood surrounding the Philadelphia Zoo. ("Wow! A faulty tire AND he got shot seven times and robbed. Poor guy.") I opted for the 30th Street exit instead, where I would feel safer in the vicinity of a heavily-trafficked train station and several well-lit high rises. I pulled over into a taxicab stop and jumped out of my car. I authoritatively inspected each tire with a few kicks from my boot. I encircled my car a few more times, like most mechanically-deficient guys, half-expecting and secretly hoping a flashing neon light and a cartoon arrow to pop up and scream "Here's your problem, idiot!" But, no such luck. I called Mrs. Pincus and told her I was blowing off the concert and heading back home. She suggested I take a different route, avoiding the high-speed requirements of the Expressway. I obliged. I got back in my car and carefully maneuvered my way into traffic and through the city to Broad Street, a main thoroughfare, though punctuated by traffic lights at nearly every corner. I slowly drove the thirteen miles to my house.

When I finally arrived home after the grueling, white-knuckle journey, envisioning my demise at every trolley track and pothole, I dropped my car off at the now-closed mechanic. I scribbled a note describing my ordeal and, leaving my key, shoved another envelope under the locked garage door.

I called the mechanic bright and early the next morning. He said he was working on mu car as we spoke. It was not a problem. He explained that the tire sensors work differently in older cars and he only needed to make a small adjustment or two. He assured me that at no time was I ever in danger.

I missed the concert, but better safe than splattered across the asphalt... or however that saying goes.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

Nice work there, Alex

* She told my wife that her son, Alex, was very upset by my reaction to the accident. I was puzzled by this, because I did not yell or even raise my voice. I slowly walked to the curb where my car was parked and evaluated the damage aided only by the illumination of a nearby streetlight. When I saw the giant crack in the spare tire cover, I muttered, "Well get it taken care of." and I walked back into my house to finish my interrupted dinner. I later found out that, near tears, Alex asked his mother, "Why doesn't Mr. Pincus like me anymore? He liked me when I was a kid?" Oh, I don't know, Alex, maybe it has something to do with you just hit my fucking car!

everyday stupefaction

Are we really this dumb? Have we really become a society of unthinking, illogical idiots? 

The graphic above is part of the latest online outrage (of undetermined origin). This one instructs a nation of blind followers to emblazon their Facebook pages with the promise not to shop on Thanksgiving, obviously newly-designated as the holiest and most sacred of all holidays. People who silently stand up for an ill-conceived "cause" such as this one are selfish and inconsiderate.

Shit like this infuriates me. (In all fairness, a lot of things infuriate me. I am not the barometer upon which anger for the actions of my fellow man should be measured.) If you don't want to shop on Thanksgiving, then don't. Just plain "don't!" But, if you do wish to shop on Thanksgiving, by all means, shop! And don't let anyone guilt you into feeling that you are doing something wrong. The country (this one, the one that you love and will defend to the ends of the earth) is slowly recovering from a crippling recession, in case you have been under a rock for the past six years. Getting the population to spend money increases production of goods and strengthens the economy on many levels.

It costs a lot of money to operate a store. Heat, electricity, refrigeration, cleaning staff - it all costs. If stores didn't think customers would show up, they wouldn't bother to open. Also, retail businesses do not force anyone to work when they don't want to. No one threatens anyone. As a matter of fact, a lot of retail stores offer extra pay incentives to employees who wish to work on Thanksgiving. Some stores even treat their employees to a full Thanksgiving dinner as a bonus.

There are a lot of people who need their jobs to support a family and survive. They choose to work whenever they can. Perhaps they are the only one in their household who has a job. Perhaps they are trying to better themselves and need the money to pay for education or student loans. Holiday hours offer double or even triple time and that money is very important to some people.

There are some people who do not have families. The closest thing they have is their co-workers. A job is the only social life that some folks have. There are even some people — believe it or not — that don't celebrate Thanksgiving. That's right, you narrow-minded, self-righteous, insensitive bastard, Thanksgiving is just another Thursday to go to work for some people. Maybe not you, but it's not all about you... is it?

So, let those who want to shop shop and let those who want to spend time with their families make their own decisions. And you can get back to your yearly complaining about retailers displaying Christmas decorations three weeks before Halloween. That's always a good fight.

* * * * * UPDATE * * * * *

This is bullshit and K-Mart should be ashamed of themselves. Between the ridiculously cheap prices at Walmart and the clever marketing of Target, there is no room for K-Mart in the retail business. I hope this is their last holiday season.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

talk talk

Sweet Jesus, can Simone talk! Talk, talk, talk, talk, talk, talk, talk! She doesn't slow down for a second. Not to take a breath nor to gather her thoughts. She jumps from one topic to another, offering her vast knowledge. And she is an authority a wide variety of subjects* - everything from where to get your car repaired to which foods contain dangerous amounts of carbohydrates. She elaborates exponentially on each topic, driving home her point by repeating everything she just said four or five more times. 

I usually tune her out, although she speaks at such an ear-shattering level that it can sometimes be a difficult task. But, for the most part, I have managed only hear a muffled noise when she speaks... sort of like the teacher's voice on the old Charlie Brown animated specials. Every once in a while, some inane statement will catch my attention, like the time she insisted that her cat shed actual tears because she was depressed.

Last night, Simone went on and on about a product she discovered called Polar Seltzer. She loudly and relentlessly sang the praises of Polar Seltzer, as though it was the true elixir of life, repeating her points several times. I believe she actually began and told her tale three different times, from beginning to end. It went something like this:

"Have you ever heard of Polar Seltzer? It's called Polar Seltzer and it's a seltzer and it comes in a hundred well maybe not a hundred but a lot of different flavors All kinds of flavors and not regular flavors but flavors that nobody else makes It's kosher and it's kosher for Passover but nobody carries it because it's so good that every place is out of it And it's kosher but it didn't come out for Passover this year but it's kosher KOP It's kosher and it's bottled locally because I know someone who said that the bottling plant is right down the street from them But you can't find it anywhere because nobody has it And it's kosher and they make holiday flavors and it's not out yet And in the winter they have holiday flavors but you can't find it anywhere and it's really good and they have different flavors and it's bottled locally right near someone I know. And it's kosher."

While she spewed out her repetitive nonsense, I silently did a Google search for "Polar Seltzer" on my smartphone. Now, we live in Philadelphia. I discovered that Polar Beverages are bottled at the company's headquarters in Worcester, Massachusetts. They have been for 125 years. Hardly local. I wasn't interested in any other statements that might have followed.

I sighed and, once again, tuned Simone out.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

* I am being so sarcastic.

television light

I love television, especially the programs from my youth. So, imagine my delight when, one day while scanning the plethora of channels offered by my cable provider, I stumbled across MeTV. This retro godsend shone like a beacon in the murky sea of reality shows, sappy romances and obscure sports analyses. The good folks at MeTV have procured the broadcast rights to such simple, wholesome gems like F-Troop, Leave it to Beaver, The Rifleman and countless others from the Golden Age of Television. It's like a dream come true, if you dream in black & white... like me. My evenings are filled with Gilligan's Island and Twilight Zone and my mornings kick off with The Beverly Hillbillies and The Donna Reed Show.

Until this week.

Having given up on Matt Lauer and the degenerating shitstorm that The Today Show has become, I begin my pre-workday hours with a shower, a shave and a little Petticoat Junction, followed by the aforementioned Clampett clan and a visit with Donna Stone, her doctor husband and their kids. Settling down with a cup of coffee, I flicked on the television like I do every Monday morning. However, instead of Elle May fishin' some critters out of the cement pond, I found Alyssa Milano earnestly hawking some hair care product. I checked the channel guide and, sure enough, it described (in typical encapsulated form) an episodes worth of antics from Jed and all his kin. I quickly switched to a few other channels. They all aligned  — Good Morning America on our local ABC affiliate, local news right there on channel 10 (as it should be), the CNN morning anchor reporting intently on the missing Malaysian airplane on channel 5. I scrambled back to the MeTV consort where Miss Milano was presenting a diagram of what hair follicles can amount to if left untreated by her product.

Click to enlarge

I was outraged. I angrily flipped over to The Today Show and watched a jolly Al Roker try to get surly Matt Lauer to crack a smile. Soon, I left for work.

I woke up early on Tuesday morning. After my daily grooming ritual, I grabbed a cup of coffee and flicked on the TV, hoping that Monday's broadcast was a glitch. It wasn't. Damn if the former premonition-blessed witch from Charmed wasn't, once again, singing the praises of her miracle hair treatment. 

That tears it! I grabbed my smartphone and immediately sought out Comcast customer service. Some nimble navigation brought me to a live chat with Comcast Customer Support. That sounded promising. I was determined to get to the bottom of this! I typed my "issue": Why were there infomercials on MeTV instead of The Beverly Hillbillies and Donna Reed? — and after a short time, an "analyst" entered the chat. He identified himself as "Aristheo."

Aristheo thanked me for contacting him and asked for a minute or two to review my information. His watch must have stopped, because his "minute or two" turned into five. In the interim, he managed to tell me it was good to know I was having a great day.

I wasn't so far.

He then explained that issue resolution and my satisfaction was his top priority for the day. (Top priority! Wow!) That together we could work this out and that he would personally take care of things. Then, he offered a comforting "no worries." He continued by saying that once my problem found a solution, he would review my account to ensure I was receiving the best possible value for the services I have.

So far, after nearly ten minutes, I found myself in the exact same situation I was in before I entered this chat. I stared at my phone's screen, looking for any sign of activity. There was none. I typed: "This is taking way too long." There was no response for a few minutes until Aristheo replied that he would check the channel listing.

Error! Error!

Check the channel listing? What the hell was he doing all this time? I typed back, inquiring about his progress. He, again, informed me he was checking the channel listing. Then he sent me a long URL, instructing me to check the listing myself. I clicked the link and my browser opened a new tab. The progress bar crept along slowly until it finally stalled a third of the way across my screen. Suddenly, the link revealed a Google Chrome error page!. A bad link! In the middle of my Customer Support chat! From a guy who claimed that my satisfaction was his top priority on this very day. I told Aristheo that the link gave me an error. Aristheo told me to try the link later. (That's hardly the response I would expect from someone who promised to take care of this issue personally!) Aristheo was starting to piss me off.

I had enough! I punched a venomous retort to my Comcast Customer Analyst: "Thank you very much. You have not been helpful in any way and you wasted my time!"

In the most automated, scripted action, Aristheo sent what was obviously a many-times cut-and-pasted reply. It contained words like "ensure," and "guaranteed," and "stand behind our services." It also made the solemn invitation to contact the Customer Support Live Chat 24 hours a day/7 days a week. Then he unceremoniously ended our chat.

If you have a couple of hours to kill with no expectations of solving your problem, I highly recommend giving Comcast a ring.

Ask for Aristheo.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

won't you please, please, help me

Let me take you for a ride up the corporate ladder.

Wednesday morning brought another Comm meeting (that's corporate lingo for "Communications Department"), a small sub-group of the larger Marketing Department of which I am a paid proud member. 

Comm is comprised of Elgie, the Director of Communications, who, in addition to other responsibilities, spends a good portion of her day maintaining a diplomatic calm over the more hot-headed members of her team (read: me). In my thirty years as a professional artist, Elgie is one of the best bosses I have worked for — and I'm not just saying that because she reads my blog. (And I'm not putting her solely at the top of the list  because my former boss Diane reads my blog, as well.)  Perhaps you remember Elgie as a supporting player in this ordeal. Comm boasts two writers, including my friend Kym, whose well-meaning antics have made for many an amusing blog post. Then, there's the Data Steward, a key member of the team, but whose actual job function remains a mystery to most of the Market Department. Comm is rounded out by the Web Master, whose job title sounds as though he should be wearing a cape and a tunic emblazoned with a big red "W."

On Wednesday morning, we were joined by the CMO (Chief Marketing Officer, for those non-corporate types playing along at home), as he wished a status report on an upcoming, highly-anticipated, internal website overhaul. So, at 10 AM, with coffee mugs and note pads in hand, we all filed into a conference room. Web Master had arrived early and was busily fiddling with connections from his laptop to the big, wall-mounted, flat-screen monitor looming over the the far end of long conference table. He was rigging a video feed so the whole group could see his computer's desktop on the big screen. We sat patiently, sipping coffee and nibbling the donut hole treats that Elgie graciously brought, as Web Master checked his plugs and jacks until he was satisfied with the connections. Then, he grabbed the multifunction remote control, pointed it at the sleek black video receiver on the wall and pressed the power button.

Nothing.

He pressed the button again.

Again nothing.

He examined the remote. He popped the back open and rotated the batteries, hoping to remedy a faulty contact. He replaced the battery compartment lid and pressed the power button again. Nothing.

"Maybe there's a power button on the unit itself." he said, as he jumped up and approached the wall displaying the massive monitor. Slowly and carefully, he slid his hands around the outside of the unit, each side, top and bottom. He inspected the back of the unit and crouched down to visually survey the underside, hoping to spot something he may have missed with his hands. Nothing. He shook the remote and mashed the power button again. Exasperated, he called the company Help Desk. Past experiences have revealed that name to be a misnomer.

"Help Desk," said the voice from the four way speakerphone at the center of the conference table.

"Did you
try pushing
the power
button?"

Web Master explained his dilemma.

The Help Desk voice paused, obviously assessing the technicalities of the situation, then offered this astute, previously-untried solution: "Did you press the power button?"

We all exchanged stunned glances. "She didn't really say that did she?" We all thought it, but no one spoke it. Well, maybe I did.

"Yes. Yes I did.," Web Master replied, doing his very best not to end his sentence with "you fucking moron!" (He was successful.)

Help Desk voice was not defeated, as she provided another suggestion. "Did you check for a power button on the unit?"

"Yes, I tried that.," Web Master replied, nearly biting his lip.

"I'll send someone down to check it out.," Help Desk voice reported.

A short time later, two gentlemen entered the room. If we had not already known their purpose, we would have believed the pair to be entertainers for a children's birthday party, judging purely by their wobbly gaits, ill-fitting tool belts and droopy clothing. One of the men immediately snatched the remote from the table and repeatedly pressed the power button several hundred times. Then, he popped the battery compartment lid and.... do I even need to finish this sentence? Meanwhile, his cohort slid his hands along the outside of the wall-mounted unit and inspected its posterior for a power button. This was followed by several minutes of head-cocking, chin-stroking and thoughtful skull-scratching, supplemented by a generous amount of "hmmm"s. 

One of the men whipped out a cellphone and called — we can only assume — someone in a supervisory position. Within a minute, the conference room doors flew open and  a woman with a no-nonsense stride burst in. She headed straight for the wood-grain cabinet beneath the wall-mounted monitor. Leaning over, she studied a large, black unit on a shelf, previous hidden by the cabinet doors. She pressed a button on the front and the monitor came to life with bright a LED glow. She turned on her heel, smiled, and headed back from whence she came.

"What was the problem?," the CMO asked, as she crossed by him on her way out.

"Someone had turned off the main power switch.," she answered, shaking her head.

The two men followed her out of the room — ambling unsteadily, mouths agape — looking like lost puppies about to be given a new home and a big bowl of sloppy meat by-products.

Problems behind us, we started our meeting.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

you can't always get what you want

 

I love Target. I hate idiots. Tonight, the two crossed paths.

Take me home.

Mrs. P and I went over to Target to look for a pair of gloves (mine got covered with broken glass when this happened) and to check out the marked-down Valentine's Day candy. As we strolled through the aisles of the grocery department, we came across a display of plush Coca-Cola polar bears. These little characters were playfully stuffed into a two-tiered cardboard shelf  with a large red and white sign on the front explaining how you can bring one of them home. Quite simply, all you need to do is purchase any of the qualifying products in a quantity of three and you'll be one plush polar bear richer. Of course, you could buy thirst-quenching Coca-Cola in an 8 pack of 12 ounce bottles, a 6 pack of 8 ounce bottles (the nifty glass ones!) or an 8 pack of 7.5 ounce cans. Another option, according to the official sign, was to buy three 12 ounce bags of Hershey's candy — that's right — Hershey's. I was not aware of any corporate connection between the manufacturer's of Milton Hershey's and ol' Doc Pemberton's respective comestible legacies, but Target was making the rules, not me. We read and re-read the sign and then my wife grabbed three bags of Reese's Cups and three bags of Rolos and two plush bears. We carefully checked the net weight on each bag and decided that we had fulfilled the offer's requirements.

With a full cart (how'd that happen?), we headed to the checkout area. I dutifully placed each of our potential purchases on the conveyor belt, keeping like items together — boxes of pasta, frozen foods, jugs of iced tea. The last items to be tallied were the plush bears and the candy. Our cashier scanned the bags — each ringing up at $2.49 —and then she scanned the bar-coded tag that was attached to the little fella's ear. The cash register monitor lit up with a big $9.99.

Mrs. P spoke up. "Those are free with the purchase of three 12 ounce bags of Hershey candy. There's a sign that says so."

The cashier scanned the items again with the same result. "It would say that there's somethin' free on th' screen," she said, "if these are free an' it ain't sayin' nothin'." She called Arturo, the front end supervisor, for assistance. Arturo and his necktie (the sign of a supervisor at Target) made their way over. He hefted a bag of Reese's Cups and examined it as though it was a newly discovered dinosaur fossil, turning it over several times in his hand. Once again, my wife explained the offer, this time to Arturo. He listened, although his expression was one of befuddlement. He snapped the transmit button on his store-issued walkie-talkie and repeated "Market! Come in!" until a reply crackled back.

"Check the Coca-Cola polar bears. Lady says you buy three and get a free bear. Check the candy aisle," he said into the walkie-talkie, "What's the sign say?"

"They're in the soda aisle," my wife corrected.

Without getting confirmation from his "scout in the grocery department," Arturo informed us that these candies were not included and they were not on sale. Clearly, he was clueless about the store's inventory, layout, and promotional offers. Again, Mrs. P slowly and concisely reiterated the offer to Arturo. 

Just so there is no confusion, let's pause our story to recap the actual offer that caught our attention and piqued our interest. First, there was the sign on the display.

 

Yeah, it looks like I read that right. Then, there's the bags of candy.

Approved!

Yep, they are both Hershey products and they each tip the scales at 12 ounces. We bought three bags of Rolo and three bags of Reese's Cups. So far, so good.

Finally, my wife went back to the actual display, although Arturo insisted that he could not leave the front of the store. Another Target associate would meet Mrs. P to validate her claim. My wife was met by a young lady who identified herself as a manager (outranking a mere supervisor). Together they read the sign on the display, confirming the offer. 

The manager asked my wife who was giving her a hard time at the cash register. She said it was a young man.

"Was he about this tall?," the manager asked, cutting the air with the palm of her hand at about chin level.

"About.," Mrs. P answered.

"Was he wearing a red shirt?," she continued her line of questioning.

My wife cocked her head to one side. "You are all wearing red shirts!"

"Was he wearing a tie?"

"Yes," Mrs. P said, "He was."

"Arturo!," the manager exhaled and rolled her eyes. Via walkie-talkie, the manager contacted the cashier and authorized the "free bear with qualifying purchase" deal. 

When Mrs. P arrived back at the checkout area, Arturo had conveniently "gone on break."

(* A footnote to this tale: two different customers stopped me and asked if I worked in the store.)

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

nip it! nip it in the bud!

Mrs. Pincus and I just returned from a short trip to Laughlin, Nevada. Without going into too much unnecessary detail, it was a free trip with free airfare, free meals and free accommodations at Harrah's Hotel Casino. However, just because something is free doesn't mean it is wonderful or should be envied. Laughlin, it should be noted, would be the place of insertion for the tube if the state of Nevada were to receive an enema.

My wife and I, whose ages each hover around the half century mark, brought the average age waaaaay down when numbered among the other members of the chartered trip. We were one of the few that did not come complete with our own tank of oxygen, our own aluminum, four-wheeled walker or several cartons of unfiltered cigarettes.

Just after midnight Pacific time, we landed at Bullhead City International Airport, a flat one-story building reminiscent of a bus terminal located at the end of a two-lane blacktop road that bisects a huge expanse of dirt. A set of steps was wheeled up to the plane and the travel-weary group was herded off to waiting buses, but not before several dozen rewarded themselves with a cigarette for sitting patiently through a five-hour flight. After a three-minute ride across the Colorado River (That's right, the airport isn't even in Nevada. It's in Arizona.), we were assigned rooms via the contents of sealed envelopes and we were on our own for the next four days.

During the week, despite our greatest efforts, we spotted some people we recognized from the flight. One couple, in particular, stood out. The man looked like Don Knotts, the scrawny, nervous actor most famous for portraying Barney Fife on The Andy Griffith Show and, later Mr. Furley, the weasly landlord on later episodes of Three's Company.  His female companion resembled 70s-era Cicely Tyson, the Academy Award-nominated actress famous for her ground-breaking role in The Autobiography of Miss Jane Pittman. We saw this couple everywhere. In the casino, in the restaurants and in the halls. At the end of the week, we saw Don and Cicely again as we boarded our airport shuttle bus for our journey home.

Our plane touched down an hour early in Philadelphia. We were forced to taxi around the airport in search of a open gate and access to the terminal. It was like driving around the tarmac looking for a parking space. Finally, United Airlines offered its heartfelt sympathy by opening a gate for us, which our adept pilot promptly overshot trying line up the plane door with the expanding corridor that was our exit. (I shit you not!) At last, we were permitted to leave. Heading toward the baggage claim, my wife commented that she hoped we would never ever encounter any of these people ever again...ever.

Our designated baggage carousel was currently winding down from its previous flight. A few straggling passengers were watching three lonely pieces of luggage travel around and around and around— sad and unclaimed. Soon the carousel's perimeter was lined with many familiar faces from our flight, anxiously awaiting the arrival of our checked belongings. Don and Cicely staked themselves a prime spot directly across from Mrs. Pincus and me. We would soon realize that we had great front-row seats for the entertainment portion of our luggage retrieval. Suddenly, Don's weary eyes widened as he spotted, what he believed to be, one of his suitcases. In reality, it was one of the leftovers from the flight before ours, already on its fifty-eighth lap around the conveyor. He excitedly reached towards the bag and, upon realizing his error, pulled back. The black tweed overnighter continued on its familiar route. A minute later, the bag returned to Don's field of vision. And once again, he made the reach and, again, disappointment swept across his face when his mistake became apparent. I swear to God — and I am not exaggerating — he did this ten more times. Ten! Ten more times! I remind you that, at this point, there were three bags on the conveyor belt. A small red bag with a metallic ribbon tied to the handle, a beat-up blue suit bag and Don's bag's doppelganger. Each time the black bag came into Don's peripheral vision, he swiveled his melon-like head around and lit up, knowing that this time the case was his!

A flashing light went off and our group's luggage appeared in a clump and was soon in the hands of its rightful owners. After identifying and grabbing my wife's suitcase and my wheeled duffel bag, we waited to see what Don and Cicely's bag really looked like. It turns out, it was a swirly paisley pattern and as different from Don's prey as could be.

Mrs. Pincus and I made our way to the airport parking lot, never turning back once.