you wanna be starting something

For years, my father kept his family entertained with stories from his youth. Well, maybe not my mom so much. After all, she had heard all of them long before my brother and I came along. Well, maybe not my brother so much, as he really had little time for my father and his brand of semi-believable mishagas. So, in reality, my father kept me entertained with stories from his youth.

I have often mentioned my father's propensity to "stretch the truth" in nearly everything he said. He told great stories, but later in life, I came to discover that a good 95 to 99 percent of what he said was total fabrication. So the real difference between my dad and someone like Stephen King — besides the money and fame — is everyone knows the stuff Stephen King writes about is made up and he makes no effort to say otherwise. Well, that and the fact that Stephen King is a published author, many times over, as a matter of fact. Well, back in the early 70s, my father had hoped to change that.

selections from the
Dad Pincus collection

My father was a voracious reader, although his choice of reading material was questionable. He would go back and forth between nationwide best-sellers, usually purchased in paperback form from a bookseller in a nearby discount market who sold books months after their initial release at a huge reduction in price. I would sometimes get outdated comic books and Mad magazines there, while my dad stocked up on an assortment of books that he would no doubt breeze through in the coming weeks. My dad read The Godfather and a number of Ian Fleming books about super-spy James Bond. In between, he'd sneak in several thin tomes with lurid covers featuring scantily-clad, voluptuous femme fatales pawing subserviently at the feet of some muscular, T-shirted hulk. They had slightly suggestive titles like I'm for Hire and Sinful Sisters and my dad tried to hide them from his impressionable sons — unsuccessfully, I might add. 

Inspiration

One of his favorite mainstream authors was the prolific Philip Roth. Roth was a best-selling author who wrote a book in 1971 called Our Gang. Although Roth reminisced about his childhood in other novels, I don't believe that was the topic of Our Gang. Nevertheless, I do think that it was my father's inspiration. My brother had just received a manual typewriter as a gift. He hoped it would serve to help his schoolwork appear more impressive, but actually, my brother was a budding writer, and he eventually made it his chosen career. (A career, incidentally, from which he recently retired.) One day, my father announced that he was going to write a book. Now, my father often made "announcements" and rarely followed through. He would announce "This weekend, we will paint your bedroom!" and, come Saturday, we'd go out to a local hardware store to purchase a few gallons of neutral-colored paint (we had no input into the color selection). So far, Dad looked as though he was "gung ho" on this project. When we got home, Dad would put on his "painting costume," which consisted of a paint-splattered shirt and pants (I have no clue where these came from and how they became paint-splattered) and a canvas painter's cap that he picked off the counter of the hardware store as we left. He'd parade around in his duds, announcing his plans on how to tackle this venture. Then, he'd grab a paintbrush, swipe a few haphazard brushstrokes in the middle of a wall.... and leave to go smoke a few dozen cigarettes. And read. He'd go read. My mom, my brother and I were left to cover his half-assed efforts and finish the room ourselves. So when Dad Pincus "announced" that he was going to write a book, we had heard it all before and were less than enthused. But, true to his word, he sat down at my brother's typewriter and, with no previous writing or practical typing experience, he began to bang on those keys, single finger style.

Among the tales my father liked to spin, were stories about growing up in West Philadelphia — decades before Will Smith's behavior sent him for a rehabilitative stretch under Uncle Phil's watchful eye in Bel Air. At the time, West Philadelphia was a working-class, predominantly Jewish neighborhood and the majority of my dad's pals fit into that category. He knew guys whose family ran the local candy store or car repair. My dad's father drove a trolley. But, despite their blue-collar lifestyle, they had their share of interesting adventures... according to my dad. There were scraps at school and antics on the playgrounds and trips to the nearby Jersey Shore. The stories would sometimes change details, depending on how my father felt during a particular retelling. Each one of his friends had a colorful nickname. There was "Sarge," so named because he dressed as a soldier for Halloween one year. There was "Hook," who had a rather prominent nose. My dad was given the nickname "Pinky," an obvious play on his surname. Sometimes it was lengthened to "Pinky McGee" for no apparent reason. I loved hearing about my dad's friends and the origins of their various monikers. And secretly, I was hoping to — one day — read my dad's completed book.

Inspiration

My dad selected the perfect title for his memoir-in-progress. It was to be called "No Sand Tomorrow." This was a reference to an oft-told story about a group of my dad's friends spending a weekend in Atlantic City. While cavorting on the beach, one guy — who they called "Dopey," stemming from his reputation for being not-too-bright — pointed to a posted sign and questioned its wording. "Does the beach get regular deliveries of sand?" he asked aloud. His friends appeared puzzled and they asked their pal to elaborate. He pointed to the sign and read what he interpreted as its message. "It says 'No Sand Tomorrow'," he stated. His colleagues approached the sign-in-question from the back. When they all silently read the sign, they simultaneously burst out laughing. The sign said "No Sand Throwing" and it confirmed tagging their friend as "Dopey" was right on the money.

A good portion of the day was spent typing and retyping this story. When my dad decided that he was able to properly convey this tale from his youth in a way that achieved both sentimentality and humor, he yanked the page from between the typewriter's rollers and read it to his family... over and over and over again... each time as though was reading it for the first time. Then, he retired to his bedroom to smoke and read.

Another
inspiration

Don't bother checking Amazon or Barnes and Noble or your favorite local used book reseller. You won't find a copy of No Sand Tomorrow anywhere. It never made it to publication. Actually, it never made it past that single paragraph. The rest of my dad's book was puffed away in the smoke of countless Viceroys and forgotten in the jumble of the many chapters of some pen-named hack churning out erotic sagas in a dimly-lit room.

My dad was just a guy who liked to announce things he never intended on finishing.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

sit down, you're rocking the boat

In the summer of 2012, Mrs. Pincus went on a cruise with her extended family. It was made very clear, by my brother-in-law, that I was not included in this trip. Just as well. The thought of going on a cruise, despite being an avid fan of The Love Boat, did not have the least bit of appeal for me. Upon my wife's return, however, I heard all about the endless food, planned activities and kitschy entertainment. I have to admit, I was slightly intrigued. So, based on Mrs. P's casino "activity" (at the time), the good folks at Harrah's Atlantic City offered us a free cruise. With a little bit of convincing, we took the offer. (The "free" part was the clincher.)

Flash forward to today, I am the veteran of eight cruises. I never imagined that we would become the people that I made fun of on our first cruise... and in such a short period of time! I still maintain that all of the cruises have basically been identical. Sure, they have been on different ships with different people and at different times of the year, the overall experience has been the same. They've all featured buffets with endless amounts of food, planned activities (like trivia contents, where on our most recent cruise, we were accused of cheating) and hokey entertainment presented by troupes of fresh-faced performers giving their all as though they were on a Broadway stage, not one rocking back and forth in the middle of the ocean.

Mrs. Pincus and I have had conversations with a number of crew members, something — believe it or not — not many passengers do. A lot cruisers treat the crew like servants, foisting angry demands upon them with a tone of of contempt. Others ignore the crew, except for waiters and bartenders. But my wife and I have had really interesting interaction with crew members while we were waiting for a trivia game to start. Most cruise ship staff hail from outside of the United States, so we have heard fascinating tales of sneaking stealthily through farmland in the Philippines to steal watermelons. We were told about tiny villages in the Middle East, where a crew member's family is the recipient of wired funds and get to see their loved one in person every six months. We learned how employment on cruise ships works (six month "contracts" with the option to renew). These stories have all brought me to the conclusion that most cruise ship staff are akin to carnies. Some of them — not all of them, but a lot of them — lean towards the transient and unseemly side of society. I can only imagine what goes on below the "passenger" decks and I imagine that it's not unlike the "steerage party" scene from Titanic. I picture crew members crammed into tiny, closet-sized rooms — drunk, dirty and sleeping with each other. Just my opinion.

On our third or fourth cruise (I honestly forget which), Mrs. P and I encountered a particular member of the entertainment staff. He stood out from the rest of the young men and women, in that he was wild and rambunctious and overly animated. On our first evening aboard, we met him in the showroom, prior to showtime. He was dancing wildly to the piped-in music. He was hugging guests and acting silly. He came over to where we were seated and made exaggerated "flirty eyes" at Mrs. P. (All in fun, of course.) He introduced himself as "Oston," explaining it was like "Boston" without the "B." Then, he turned his head as an attractive young lady walked by. He loudly remarked: "There goes my future ex-wife." (We would hear that joke countless more times thoroughout the week.) Oston was a native of Turkey and regularly reminded everyone of that fact. When hosting activities,  he would regularly mock his difficultly with non-Turkish phrasing by announcing: "Press 1 for English." We ran into Oston nearly everywhere we went on the ship — hosting trivia games, wandering around near the pool, at the buffet, in the showroom, everywhere. He walked a thin line between fun and annoying. 

At the end of the week, we thanked Oston for enhancing our vacation. However, Mrs. P and I secretly agreed that he would most likely be fired at the end of this trip. He just didn't fit in with the "Norwegian Cruises" persona. We couldn't put our finger on what exactly was the problem, but it was something.

My wife and I went on another cruise this past October. This time, we sailed on the Carnival Pride, out of the Port of Baltimore, just a two-hour drive from our suburban Philadelphia home. The Pride is a smaller ship than any of the others on which we previously sailed, and it made for a more intimate and enjoyable trip. On our first evening aboard, we spotted a familiar figure dancing wildly in the aisles of the Pride's main showroom. It was Oston and he was up to his old unmistakable tricks. We got his attention (which was tough, considering his short attention span) and he came over to us. We jogged his memory until he "sort-of" remembered us from that Norwegian cruise several years earlier. Mrs. P asked him how long he has been with Carnival. He smiled a crooked smile and proudly told us that this was his first cruise with the line. He also told us that he had briefly been employed by Royal Caribbean after leaving Norwegian.

On this same cruise, we met a quiet woman who was traveling with Flossie, her eight-year-old daughter. Flossie revealed herself to be a natural performer, as we saw her participating in a number of karaoke sessions as well as showing off her dancing skills in other audience-participation activities. And during the course of the week aboard the Pride, Flossie became enamored with Oston. She followed him from activity to activity, silently observing him with big, puppy-dog eyes. Flossie even bought a plush teddy bear, which she named "Oston," in homage to her favorite crew member. Oston seemed flattered by the youngster's extra attention, but it was hard to tell since his behavior could only be described as "off the rails." At the end of the cruise, Flossie was in tears and parting with Oston was borderline traumatic.

My wife connected on Facebook with Flossie's mother. She told Mrs. P that the ride back home (they drove back to Toronto from Baltimore) was rough, as poor Flossie cried most of the time. When she wasn't crying, she was talking about Oston. Mrs. P remained in regular contact with Flossie's mom and one day, just a week or so after our cruise, she told my wife that they booked another cruise aboard the Pride for November — just so Flossie could see Oston again.

Just prior to their November sailing, Oston emailed Flossie's mom, asking her to pick up some personal items for him. (He knew that they would be sailing.) He asked for toiletries, as well as socks, underwear and sneakers. Flossie's mother complied with all of his requests. When the date of the cruise arrived, she met up with Oston and handed over the items he asked for. He expressed his gratitude. Flossie was ecstatic at seeing Oston. The week aboard the Pride was magical for her. Oston (and all of the entertainment staff) paid special attention to the girl, sometimes affording her "co-hosting" duties at certain activities. Flossie's mom sent Mrs. P photos and videos of little Flossie dancing and singing with Oston. Her smile was huge in every shot. At the end of the week, Flossie and her mom had another tearful departure and headed back to Canada.

Then things got..... strange. 

Flossie's mom received a barrage of texts from Oston saying that he quit his job with Carnival. He was at the airport with Turkey as his destination. A lot of what Oston was saying was incoherent, either due to a language barrier or his erratic behavior. He told Flossie's mom that he has misplaced his passport and left his bags at the airport. He was staying with friends in Maryland... or Pennsylvania. He kept changing his story. In one text, he sounded "desperate" (as Flossie's mom described it) and said he felt "worthless."

Then he asked Flossie's mom for money.

Flossie's mom had, evidently, made connections with other crew aboard the Pride. They warned her to steer clear of Oston. They pegged him as a conman. They explained that he had a pattern of this behavior and he should be avoided. One of his former coworkers told Flossie's mom it would be best to end all contact with Oston right now.

Flossie's mom was confused. She saw no signs of any deceit from Oston... on either of their cruise encounters. He was enthusiastic and appeared sincere with Flossie. Sure he was a bit wild, but he interacted with Flossie like a protective older brother. But these accusations of being a con man sure seemed to be feasible. Flossie's mom was diplomatic and, most importantly, realistic. She explained to Oston that, while she would like to help, she was in no position to offer the financial support he requested.

Flossie's mom hasn't received a text from Oston since.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

I wanna be a boss

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

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

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

Do you know us?

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

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

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

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

And then I blocked Slick's number.

That chapter of my life is now behind me.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

let's go trippin'

Oh what a fucking ordeal this turned out to be. (Wait a second. That sounds familiar. Didn't I just start a post like that? Are all subsequent blog posts gonna start like that? Well, only if they turn out to be a fucking ordeal... like this one.)

It began way back in 2009. That's right – this tale is six years in the making, However, I didn't become aware of it until a year later. But wait – I'm getting ahead of myself.

In 2010, I received a letter from an attorney informing me that this was my final warning. As far as I was concerned, it was also my first warning, as I had not received any previous correspondence from this particular lawyer. I quickly skimmed the letter and my attention was grabbed by such legal-jargon words as "negligence," "fault," and a few more fearsome-sounding Latin ones. Although the return address was in Philadelphia, I was not familiar with the particular law practice. The letter, upon closer scrutiny, recapped an incident that (allegedly) occurred on my property the previous winter. A seasonal employee of the United Parcel Service was (allegedly) attempting to make a delivery to my home. Because of the nature of my wife's business, she receives assorted sized packages of merchandise at our home on a regular basis. (Before you jump to a conclusion of an illegal operation, Mrs. P operates an eBay store and sells a variety of legitimate merchandise.) The UPS employee, who I'll call Miss Menteuse, was carrying a stack of boxes and (allegedly) tripped on my driveway. The letter went on to brandish the words "damages," "restitution" and several others that could all be punctuated by the greedy "cha-CHING" of a nuisance lawsuit.

I immediately called my insurance company. I explained about the letter to my agent's assistant*. She listened attentively, taking down details, asking a few questions including for a copy of the letter. I followed that call with one to my local police department. I asked if any reports of an accident had been filed about my address in the past year. Police records were checked and my answer was negative. So, I figured I'd just let my insurance company handle it. After all, that's what I pay insurance for, right?

So that was that. Wrong!

A little over a year later, I was contacted by mail by a new lawyer. This one was contracted by my insurance company to represent me. The letter explained that I would most likely have little or nothing to do regarding a pending lawsuit and that everything would be handled between my insurance company and their office. This letter was just informational. So, I filed it under a stack of papers on my nightstand and forgot about it.

Until I received the next letter, many, many months later. This one requested (demanded?) an appearance by my wife and me at a deposition. Mrs. P and I were to be questioned informally, but on the record, about the (alleged) incident. Furious, I arranged for a day off from work. My wife and I trekked out to a corporate campus in the western Philadelphia suburbs to "our" attorney's office. Here we got to meet the (allegedly) injured Miss Menteuse for the first time, nearly three years after her (alleged) "episode on our driveway. We also had the pleasure of meeting her legal representative – a shifty, slimy, hairy-knuckled shyster in an expensive-looking pin-striped suit. He looked like an extra in a B-movie Godfather rip-off and spoke like those slick ambulance-chasers you see on afternoon TV between The Price is Right and Judge Judy. A court reporter sat poised to document every word and the questions began. 

Miss Menteuse's attorney produced a wrinkled legal pad from his weather-beaten briefcase and kicked things off by calling me "Mr. Menteuse." 

I corrected him. "Pincus," I said.

"Huh?," he replied, as though he had never heard either name before. Realizing his error, he over-apologized and explained that, of course, his client's name was "Menteuse" and it was an honest mistake. 

Caution! May cause
irreparable damage!

And that's pretty much how it went. This distracted, fourth-rate Clarence Darrow hammered me with elaborately-phrased scenarios that evoked both confusion and impatience from me, my wife and my attorney. He often prefaced a question with "Now, I'm not trying to trick you.," accompanied by a leering, toothy grin. Each time, it was quite obvious that he was trying to trick me. Eventually, Miss Menteuse recounted, to the best of her apparently-rehearsed recollection, the events of December 2009. She told how the boxes she was carrying were piled way past her eyes, blocking her line of vision. She explained that she, indeed, walked all the way up to my front porch and decided not to scale the two steps, instead opting to seek alternate access to my front door. She then walked backwards to the sidewalk, and admittedly, without checking the path in front of her, crossed my narrow driveway and fell. As she rubbed her (alleged) injured ankle, she looked around and surmised that she had caught the heel of her work boot in a small, uneven piece of paving – a small, time-eroded imperfection that had been in that condition for the twenty-five years I have owned my house. Then, Miss Menteuse launched into a sob story, touching on (alleged) unemployment, being a single parent (allegedly), (alleged) constant pain and the (alleged) impaired ability to function properly as a productive member of the human race. All delivered with the gut-wrenching emotion of Meryl Streep in Sophie's Choice. However, there was nothing wrong with her that an award of fifty thousand dollars wouldn't cure.

Several tedious hours later, we were dismissed from the proceedings. Our attorney confidently speculated that this whole matter would come to some kind of settlement before it would reach an actual court date. My wife, whose greatest concern was that we would be in jeopardy of losing our house, was assured that was an impossibility. This was more of a thorn in our insurance company's side. Relieved, we thanked him and headed home.

But it was far from over.

Another year has passed when we received a letter, once more, requesting our presence at a non-binding arbitration. I called our attorney for a translation of the "legalese" of the letter, of which his office was copied. He broke it down in layman's language. A panel of three impartial attorneys would hear both sides of the case and make a decision of either dismissal or a monetary award. The decision, however, could be appealed, in which case, another settlement could be attempted or it would go to trial. A case of this nature, according to our attorney's experience and speculation, would be dismissed by any sane judge.

We soon found ourselves in the sterile, corporate surroundings of municipal building in the county seat. Three gentlemen in dark suits introduced themselves as the arbitration committee and informed all parties that they were ready to proceed. The entire deposition was reenacted for the benefit of the committee, with Miss Menteuse's attorney, once again, showing off everything he learned from Perry Mason reruns. Miss Menteuse offered her testimony first, tinging her answers with sorrow. In addition to her belabored account of the (alleged) incident, she told an irrelevant anecdote about a family vacation to Niagara Falls that seemed to baffle all present. When it was my turn in the hot seat, I repeated my statements from a year ago nearly verbatim (it was the truth), as Mrs. P sat behind me with the most forlorn look on her face. And once again, we were dismissed.

Another year's passing brings us up to the present. It turns out that the three-person panel fell for Miss Menteuse's tale of woe and deemed me an uncaring slumlord who had neglected the upkeep of his property for twenty-five years until it fell into an unsafe state of disrepair. They felt that the sum of thirty-two thousand dollars would make everything all better. Miss Menteuse's attorney felt otherwise and filed an appeal one day after the committee's findings were tendered. It seems either he or his client were not satisfied with the amount of the reward. So, after many months, another arbitration was agreed upon. This one will (allegedly) be it – final! binding! winner take all!

Once again, we were to meet on neutral grounds – this time, an attorney's office in downtown Philadelphia. Mrs. P and I arrived at 8:30 in the morning – forty minutes early for our appointment – only to be informed that the schedule was changed and the session would take place in the afternoon. We left and I returned alone, after being told that Mrs. P would not need to be present. For the third or fourth time (I lost count), the story was told. The boxes, the neglect of my property, Miss Menteuse's carelessness, my disregard for human life, her pitiful, struggle-filled existence – all the drama and pathos for a brand new, singular audience. Miss Menteuse's weaselly little legal representative was blatantly disinterested. He never put down his cellphone, he shuffled through an unorganized stack of papers, he tripped over words and couldn't recall dates or events. He told everyone that over the course of the last year, Miss Menteuse had lost an adult daughter in a fire (it was irrelevant to the case and was only used as a sympathy ploy), then went on to compare her pain from the fall to that suffered by someone who had been in a fire. His closing statement rambled on and on, still trying to get me to admit that my driveway is a deathtrap. Finally, the proceedings ended and, after some deliberation, the solo arbitrator would give his decision withing the week.

I received an email from my attorney. It was a summation that read like the recap of a long round of Deal or No Deal:

In today’s mail I received the arbitrator’s written opinion. He found the plaintiff 49% negligent and you 51% negligent for this incident. He determined that her damages were worth $26,000. However. based upon the reduction for her 49% the net award to the plaintiff is $13,260.

She and her lawyer essentially fucked her out of thirteen thousand bucks.

So, after six grueling years of paperwork and (alleged) doctor visits and depositions and arbitration, Miss Menteuse will end up with (after her slime ball attorney takes his cut) approximately $8000. I hope she's happy. Now that this is all over, I know I am. 

Allegedly.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

*In over thirty years, I think I actually met my insurance agent only once.

right down Santa Claus Lane

In 1823, Clement Clarke Moore wrote the epic holiday poem A Visit from St. Nicholas, better known as Twas the Night Before Christmas. For nearly 200 years, this holiday favorite, describing Santa's clandestine visit to the narrator's home, has been a central part of many families' traditions. Many a father or grandfather has gathered the kids around for a spirited recitation of the multi-stanza rhyme.

For coming holiday season, Canadian publisher Pamela McColl has decided to issue a new, slightly altered version of the beloved classic - minus two lines that refer to Santa Claus' use of tobacco. The lines "The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth/And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath" have been excised by Ms. McColl, an outspoken anti-smoking advocate. Fearing that children may be influenced and take a cue from Santa's smoking habits, Ms. McColl said, "I just really don’t think Santa should be smoking in the 21st century."

Now, I don't smoke and I don't like being around smoke. But, come on!,  isn't this taking political correctness a bit too far? Someone has decided, in 2012 — after 189 years since its first publication — that Santa Claus, a fictional character in a poem, should not smoke because it presents a negative influence on an impressionable child. Yet, in ten or so years, this person will have to deal with explaining to the same child that they've been lying to that child about the existence of Santa.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com