cry me a river

This will probably be my last baseball-related blog post until next season. So enjoy it... or skip it.... it's up to you.

I used to have season tickets for the Phillies. Had them for eighteen seasons. Every year, on the first game of the season, Mrs. Pincus and I would amble down to our seats, usually bundled up to stave off the early April weather. We would greet and catch-up with our fellow Phillies season ticket holders in our section, the ones we would see every year and lose touch with during the winter months. Then, I would announce that the first person who says "This year, the Phillies are going all the way!" — well, I'm going to take a swing at them.

Phillies fans are adorable. Every year, they think "this is THE year" and every year they are met with the same disappointment that transpired the previous season. And the season before that. And the season before that. The joy of being a Phillies fan is the false sense of hope presented for two months during a season that lasts seven months. The team gets hot, the bats are swinging, balls are flying over the fence, the pitching staff is striking opposing batters out left and right.... until it stops. And it always stops. The team stumbles in the post season playoffs, somehow forgets how to play baseball and scratches their collective heads in bewilderment. This year, the Phillies were pathetic in three of the four post-season games they played. As the great baseball/philosopher Yogi Berra once said: "It's deja vu all over again."

In my worthless opinion, I think the reason for the Phillies customary decline is fairly obvious. Money. Yep.  M-O-N-E-Y. The payroll for the active Phillies roster for the 2024 season was 264.2 million dollars. That is the seventh highest in Major League Baseball. The top three batters in the Phillies lineup, the ones on whom the team relies to produce runs, are Kyle Schwarber, who earned 19 million dollars, Trea Turner, who earned 27 million dollars, and Bryce Harper, who earned 26 million dollars. What sort of incentive do these guys have? Not "motivation." "Motivation" is the initial contract. "Incentive" is the promise of a big monetary windfall if the player performs well. This is not an "incentive!" Schwarber hit a massive homerun in Game 1 of the NLDS and then his bat went silent for his remaining plate appearances. Turner, for his 26 million dollar payout, didn't accomplish an extra-base hit in 15 at-bats. Harper did manage a home run in the post-season, but he also struck out five times. You see, the players get the money whether they hit a zillion homeruns or strike out on every appearance at the plate.

In July, the Phillies acquired relief pitcher Carlos Estevez to bolster their bullpen. Estevez was stellar on the Los Angeles Angels early in the 2024 season. But, the Angels were terrible and Estevez's pitching talents would be better served elsewhere — and that "elsewhere" was Philadelphia. So, for a salary of 2+ million dollars, Carlos Estevez was..... fair. In Game 4 of the NLDS, Estevez gave up a 6th inning grand slam to New York Mets shortstop Francisco Lindor, essentially hammering the final nail in the coffin of the Phillies post-season dreams. But, as the Mets planned their strategy against National League opponent The LA Dodgers, Carlos Estevez still got a 2 million dollar deposit in his bank account.

After losing the final game of the NLDS series, a dejected Bryce Harper, the Phillies unofficial team leader, spoke to the press in subdued tones about disappointment and dashed hopes and blah blah blah blah. I didn't want to hear it. I am sick of hearing overpaid athletes whining and complaining and blaming while getting salaries that are downright obscene. I love baseball. I love watching baseball and I love going to baseball games. But the price of a ticket averages around 50 bucks. Parking cost 25 dollars and the prices of food at the ballpark are ridiculous. 

Will this stop me from going to games? Probably not. Will I still get excited when the Phillies show some promise? I suppose I will. Is there a solution to my little, stupid, privleged, white guy dilemma? No. No, there is not.

Yogi Berra's quote is still ringing in my ears. It has been for years.

Pitchers and catchers report for Spring Training on February 20, 2025... and, yes, I'm a sucker.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

batches & cookies

I like cookies. Come on.... who doesn't like cookies? They are the all-time favorite afterschool, watching TV, ruin your dinner snack. They are easy to bake at home. They are easier to buy and bring home. I remember my mom would bake cookies from a recipe... until she started buying those ready-made tubes of Toll House cookie dough. Eventually, she abandoned the whole "baking" idea and just bought cookies in a package. My brother and I were just as satisfied. We didn't care where our cookies came from. As long as there were cookies in the house.

I was always partial to a brand of cookies called Mr. Chips from a small commercial bakery called Burry. Burry supplied the Girls Scouts with their wares for their annual cookie drive until the company's Girl Scout cookie division was purchased by ABC Bakers in 1989. The remainder of the company's operations were bought by Sunshine Baking. In their heyday, Burry's made some great cookies — Fudge Town, Mr. Chips and Gauchos. They also made Scooter Pies — a large, single serving concoction comprised of two graham cookies sandwiching marshmallow filling and covered with chocolate. They were good, but we didn't have them often, Mr. Chips, however — those were always present in the Pincus household. Every so often, other cookies would make an appearance in our kitchen. My mom liked Nabisco's Oreos. She also like Fig Newtons, which I always questioned their inclusion in the cookie category. They were — as far as little Josh Pincus was concerned — fruit cakes. And they were filled with a fruit that old people ate. I would sometimes eat the cake outside and toss the innards when the cake was completely consumed. Fig Newtons had a pretty funny and memorable commercial in the 70s, featuring character actor James Harder singing and dancing dressed as a giant fig. I loved the commercial, but not enough to get me to eat a fig. As an adult, I have changed my mind.

Cookies that made it to my house were sometimes purchased by the pound at a local bakery. They were dry, crispy things covered with jimmies ("sprinkles" to those of you outside of the Philadelphia area), chocolate chips (with the chips just applied to the surface of the cookie, not integrated into the cookie itself, unlike normal cookies). Some were filled with some sort of viscous jelly made from an unidentifiable fruit. I avoided those until the more colorful ones were gone. Then, if I really wanted a cookie, I'd choke a jelly-filled one down with an extra large glass of milk.

Sometime in the 90s, places like Mrs. Field's and The Original Cookie Company started popping up in malls. Cookies — once purchased in a package containing several dozen or by the pound at a local mom-and-pop bakery — were now brazenly being offered for sale by the each. One cookie! You could buy one cookie! It was certainly larger than the cookies bought in packages at the supermarket, but it was just a cookie. Soon, these places offered large cookie sandwiches, somewhat along the lines of the Scooter Pie. Two three-inch chocolate chip cookies were stuck together with a generous mound of frosting between them. These sold for a dollar or more which, frankly at the time, was unheard of! A cookie for a dollar? Ridiculous!

Last Saturday evening, Mrs. Pincus and I had dinner with my brother and my sister-in-law (His wife. Don't think anything weird is going on). The restaurant was in a shopping center filled with upscale, somewhat pretentious shops. One of those shops was a place called Dirty Dough, an unusual choice of name for a place that sells food. Dirty Dough offers a variety of "stuffed gourmet cookies." After a dinner that kept us late (we were talking about all sorts of things), we strolled over to Dirty Dough about fifteen minutes before they locked up for the night. The young lady behind the counter was informing the customer ahead of us of their limited offerings due to the late hour. We sort-of eavesdropped as she ran down the short list of available cookies, deciding that none of the flavor combinations appealed to us. We left, half-heartedly hoping to return in the future.

We headed to a Crumbl location we passed on our way to the restaurant. Crumbl is a trendy new chain of cookie bakeries with nearly a thousand locations across the United States and Canada. Crumbl is also open until midnight and we spotted a few folks we had just seen earlier at Dirty Dough. The Crumbl experience is an interesting one. Upon entry, no employee greets you. Instead, the front counter sports several iPads displaying an intuitive, interactive menu. One can scroll though the available cookies and make selection without a single word spoken to another human being. A team of employees can be seen busily working, scurrying around ovens, mixing dough, forming cookies — but not speaking to any customers until their pre-paid order is ready to be delivered across the counter. Mrs. P and I perused the evening's cookie selections. I settled on a traditional chocolate chip cookie and my wife opted for a frosted cookie of the sugar variety. We clicked our choices, sending little digital representations of the cookies into our virtual shopping cart. Our total was revealed and payment options were displayed. Our total, by the way, was ten dollars. TEN BUCKS! For two cookies! Cookies! Baked flour, water, sugar and such. I was paying ten dollars for two cookies. Granted they were above average-sized examples, but (and I'll do the math for you) they were five dollars apiece. FOR A COOKIE!

I swiped my credit card. Not happily, but I swiped it. A few minutes later, a young lady, handed us two small pink boxes emblazoned with the Crumbl logo. I was reminded of a scene from Quentin Tarantino's 1994 sprawling neo-noir crime epic Pulp Fiction. In the scene, dimwitted hitman Vincent Vega (as played by dimwitted actor John Travolta) is questioning his boss's wife's drink choice in a themed restaurant called Jack Rabbit Slim's. Mia (played to mysterious allure by Uma Thurman) had ordered a "five dollar milkshake." Vincent, cocked his head and asks for clarification on the beverage's contents and price.

"Did you just order a five-dollar shake?," he asks, "That's a shake? That's milk and ice cream?"

"Last I heard," Mia assures him

"That's five dollars?," he presses, "You don't put bourbon in it or nothin'?"

"No." she replies.

"Just checking.," Vincent adds.

When the drinks arrive, Vincent asks to sample the "five dollar shake" in question. Mia obliges, offering her straw and assuring her tablemate that she is free of "cooties." Vincent takes a healthy sip and then another. 

"Goddamn," a surprised Vincent reports, "that’s a pretty fucking good milkshake!"

"Told ya’.," Mia replies with a knowing confidence.

"Don’t know if it’s worth five dollars," Vincent concedes, "but it’s pretty fucking good."

I wish I could have had a similar exchange with the young lady behind the counter at Crumbl. However, I don't think she would have had the same appreciation and situational relevance from a quote from a thirty year-old movie as I did.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

moneygrabber

There's an old joke. A guy calls a plumber to fix a small leak in a pipe. The plumber arrives and he's led down the basement steps to view the leak. The plumber examines the pipe from all angles, assessing the situation. Finally, he says to the homeowner, "This looks like a 'Miami job.'" The homeowner asks, "You mean you saw a similar type of leak on a job in Miami?" "No," the plumber clarifies, "I mean with the money I get from you for this repair, I'll be able to spend a month in Miami."

Before I purchased a new car this past May, I drove my trusty Toyota RAV-4 for nearly twenty years. Over the course of two decades — as you can imagine — my car required its fair share of maintenance and repairs, as well as yearly safety inspections required by the state of Pennsylvania. When my car needed service, I took it to a mechanic named Dewey whose shop is in my neighborhood. Dewey is a nice guy, I guess. He would sometimes pick my car up at my house and drop it off when the work was completed. He has a genial demeanor, often limiting the technical jargon when he was explaining the repair that my car would need after I told of the abnormalities I thought my car was experiencing. 

The repairs that my car required — at any given visit to Dewey's shop — were extensive. Always. Even for annual inspections, at times when my car was running — in my opinion — just fine, Dewey would find something within the confines of my vehicle's body that would cost me a couple hundred dollars. Always. Once I needed a new headlight. While changing the headlight, Dewey told me that discovered that the intake valve of the deferential influx capacitor was not in tip-top working order. He innocently asked if I'd like it replaced and soon, a lousy new headlight was costing me four hundred bucks. State inspections  that should cost around fifty dollars, would always require some crucial engine component. Without a replacement, my car would not pass inspection and possible lead to a more serious issue. Of course, the new part would set me back a few hundred dollars. This went on for years. I don't think Dewey was an incompetent mechanic. I think he just went out of his way to find something wrong with my car every time I brought in. He wasn't going to let me take possession of my vehicle without a payment of at least a hundred bucks. I know nothing about the innerworkings of a car, so I was at the mercy of Dewey's perceived "expertise." So, I had him make any repair he suggested and I paid whatever he told me the bill was.

... until this year when I purchased a 2024 Subaru Crosstrek for the price of my 2004 Toyota RAV-4 and an undisclosed amount of cash. Because of the delicate computer system that is standard on new cars, I purchased an extended warranty on my new vehicle, thus eliminating any future dealing with Dewey. I would be taking my new car to the Subaru dealership for state inspections, any future maintenance and eventual repairs. My wife, who drives a 2018 Toyota takes her car to a Toyota dealer for maintenance, so, as far as I can see, Dewey is out of our lives. As a matter of fact, Mrs. P ran into Dewey at the supermarket and told him that I had purchased a new car. She said he appeared happy and wished me "good luck" with the car.

One day last week, Mrs. Pincus returned from running errands to discover that her car had a flat tire. After the involuntarily voicing of a few choice words, she called AAA and waited for someone to come and change the tire. Afterwards, we discussed her options for getting the flat tire repaired... and repaired quickly. First, we considered the Toyota dealer, but without an appointment for service, who knows how long the wait would be for a "walk-in" repair. The last thing Mrs. P — or anyone — wants to do is spend countless, non-productive hours in car dealership waiting room. The next option was rather obvious — Dewey.. We were fairly sure that Dewey, who operates a one-man repair shop, — would be only too happy to fix a quick flat tire for a member of the Pincus family. After all, we were loyal customers for over twenty years. (Yep, we took our cars before my Toyota to Dewey!) 

The next morning, Mrs. P took her "temporary spare tire equipped" car over to Dewey's shop. I, of course, had left for work a few hours earlier. That afternoon, I called my wife to see about the progress of — what I assumed — would be a fast repair. 

"How's your car?" my text to my wife read.

A few minutes later, I received this response...

She went to to explain that — according to Dewey's expert assessment — her car would need four new tires and rear brakes. 

Apparently, Dewey missed us.

Desperately.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

if a picture paints a thousand words

I draw. I draw a lot. If you follow my online antics, you already know this about me. A little while ago, I decided to see if I could turn my drawing ability into some cash. I posted a little "ad" on my website offering my "alleged" talents to my alleged "legions of fans." For a small, reasonable fee, I will draw a portrait of the person of your choosing in that "Josh Pincus" style you've come to love (or revile, depending on your particular taste in art). I've been taken up on this offer a few times. More recently, I have branched out in the sticker and t-shirt business, but my portrait proposition has remained open and available.

On Friday morning, I was posting my daily celebrity death anniversaries (as one does) on Instagram. Then, as is my habit on Friday mornings, I posted my weekly "Dead Celebrity Spotlight." This is a drawing of a recent or not-so-recent celebrity, accompanied by a little story about why they were significant. Sometimes it's someone of worldwide renown. Other times, it's a long forgotten name, whose claim-to-fame endeavors are unsung and usually forgotten. Once posted, I get a smattering of "likes" and comments from a tiny, online faction who share my fascination with death, celebrities or any degree of combination of the two. As I settled back to finish a cup of coffee and figure out the plot points of the My Three Sons episode that was flashing across my television screen, a notification of a private Instagram message popped up on my phone. It was from someone with whom I was not connected. I get these a lot. After I post a photo of my son's cat, I will get inundated by unsolicited offers to become a "brand ambassador" for a line of cat toys. Just this week, I got a message from someone noting my affinity for singer Orville Peck and asking if I'd like to promote their similar-sounding songs. Both of these types of messages were deleted by me.

However, the message I received on Friday morning — the one that drew my attention away from a 60 year-old episode of the Fred MacMurray sitcom — asked if I was available for commissions.

I quickly responded that I was indeed and sent a link to the area of my website that details the steps to make one of my portraits your own. This person — who we'll call "Jimmy" — immediately and anxiously responded. He said he'd like me to draw his kids and sent me a photo of two young men standing on a driveway and looking like they'd rather not have their picture taken. I said I'd be happy to draw them once I received payment of $100 (the reasonable fee I mentioned earlier). I sent my wife's PayPal account info, reiterating that I would begin the drawing after I received payment. He asked for the PayPal user name on the account. I replied with an explanation that PayPal does not really employ "user names" like other payment apps and that the email address would be enough to accept payment.

He pressed for an account user name... somewhat relentlessly.

I spoke with Mrs. P, who assured me that — as I already knew — an email address is all that is required for PayPal payments. But, this guy Jimmy wasn't convinced. He pressed again and he pressed harder. Each of my explanations were met with an angry-toned "WHAT IS THE USER NAME" reply. Finally, Mrs Pincus logged into her PayPal account. She saw that PayPal recently added a "user name" that is essentially meaningless. It seems this useless addition was created to pacify those folks who were used to the "user names" associated with online payment upstarts Venmo and CashApp. I informed Jimmy of this new-found information and repeated the $100 fee and the proposed start time for his drawing. He asked if this was my first commission. I replied: "No. I have been doing this for forty years."

Then, I should have ducked to avoid the monkey wrench that Jimmy hurled at me.

"I am willing to support your artwork to the sum of $500," he said via text message in the Instagram app.

SCREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!!!!! The biggest red flag began waving in my head! A red flag so big that it could bring the participants in the Indy 500 to a grinding halt. No one — and I mean no one offers five times the agreed-upon price to an artist whose name is not Picasso, Renoir or Dali. And especially one of questionable notoriety and named Pincus.

"Thank you," I quickly replied, "but $100 will be just fine. Please do not send more than $100 for a drawing."

"I am doing this willingly," Jimmy replied aggressively, "so don't worry about it, hun."

This sounded really, really fishy. "If you'd like me to do a drawing, please just send $100.," I repeated.

That was the last of our exchange. That was last night. So far, no PayPal payment has been received from Jimmy... nor do I think there will be.

The internet is filled with weirdoes. And they all know how to find me.

If you'd like a drawing and you're not a weirdo, you can contact me HERE.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

hang on to your ego

Many, many years ago — too many to count, I designed a poster for a local disc jockey who had seen my work from another local disc jockey. I never met this DJ, so we corresponded via email. She explained the theme of the event she was planning and what sort of graphics she had in mind. Back then, I was asking very little for freelance work. I had a good full-time job and I looked as "side work" as a fun distraction from my everyday grind of creating newspaper circulars (which was the major focus of my job at the time). We decided on a fair price... a very fair price, as a matter of fact. To be honest, I think I asked for fifty bucks. Maybe even forty.

I sent the DJ several designs and she replied with some changes and edits. I did what she requested and, after four or five proofs, she gave me her approval, with a promise to pay sometime after the event occurred. I was fine with that arrangement. The dance party for which I did the poster was April 8, 2010. That date passed. And passed. And passed. Needless to say, I did not get paid.

I emailed the DJ, gently reminding her of our monetary agreement. A sufficient period of time elapsed with no response. I emailed again. I was a bit firmer in the wording I chose, hoping she'd get the message. Nothing. Nothing at all. Weeks turned into months and still no payment, no contact, no nothing. I was persistent. It wasn't that I really needed the money, I was angered by someone not holding up their end of a deal. 

Somewhere around September, she finally replied. Her message was short and curt. She explained that attendance for the event wasn't what she had hoped and she could not afford to pay me. No apology, just a sentence (maybe two) outlining those two (in my opinion, unrelated) facts. Did she really think that was it? Did she use the same tactic with the electric company? The lighting in my home wasn't what I had hoped, therefore I will not be paying my bill this month. I immediately responded with an email expressing my anger, frustration and disappointment. I also made it clear that regardless of the success of her event, I was still entitled to received payment. How many people attended her event had nothing to do with me or our agreement. I received no response.

I still kept up a regular schedule of emails to this DJ as the year 2010 came to a close. In December, I saw her name pop up in an internet "chat room" (remember those?) when the subject of holiday plans was being discussed. She was saying that she purchased a six-pack of beer for a friend as a Christmas gift. I sent her a private message, identifying myself and berating her for buying gifts when she still has long outstanding financial obligations. She said she had been low on funds, couldn't afford to pay her bills, but needed to buy Christmas gifts. Then she called me an "asshole" and told me I just ruined her holiday. Then she abruptly left the chat room. Sometime in the spring of 2011, she sent me a check for five dollars, saying it was all she could afford and this was to settle her debt.

Nearly a decade later, Mrs. Pincus experienced a disputed charge by one of her many eBay customers. It seems this guy's credit card was compromised and he questioned every charge on his recent bill, including one for some items he bought from my wife. However, this guy was a previous customer. Mrs. P sent him a friendly email, identifying herself and the charge as legitimate. He apologized via email and promised to sent payment immediately using a different method.

You know where this is going.... right?

Well, weeks went by and no payment. Mrs. P — in the middle of fulfilling holiday orders, rushing to the post office and keeping up with a barrage of questions from potential buyers — regularly emailed this particular customer, still requesting payment. He does respond, albeit several days after the remainder are sent out. He explains something about working with his credit card company to "make this right." Sometimes he says he's been busy with work-related things, but payment will come immediately. (It doesn't.) Sometimes he doesn't answer. 

Mrs. P contacted eBay. They were no help, telling her that there was nothing they could do. It was all on the customer because of the nature of the issue. Mrs. P tried emailing again, nicely but firmly requesting payment. This time, his response included the statement: "I have been caring for my mother. I will get to it as soon as I can."

People don't understand that we all have issues. We all have problems. We all have mishagas in our lives. What makes you think that your problems are way more important than mine or anyone's problems?

Oh right. Ego.

I made it! Top of the World, Ma!

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

she works hard for the money

My wife is very entrepreneurial. That's a fancy word for always trying to make a buck. She has an uncanny knack for seeing the resale value in just about anything. Her business philosophy has always been "There's a lid for every pot." (I cleaned that one up considerably.) She has offered things for sale that the average person would deem "trash." But, as the old expression goes: "One man's trash is another man's treasure." She's not forcing anyone to buy her stuff, but if some like-minded person seeing a bit of viability left in something that they can snap up for a couple of bucks — well, that's the service Mrs. Pincus provides.

Recently, Mrs. P has been offering items for sale on a local Facebook marketplace page. This page has been set up as a virtual yard sale, offering a wide variety of new, slightly used or very used items without the hassle of cluttering up your front yard or driveway with the soon-to-be discarded from your house. Just take a picture, compose a brief but truthful description and wait for someone to see the same value that you see. Once a deal is made, electronic payment is logged and Mrs. Pincus sets the item out on our front porch — a safe, contactless pick-up in these cautious times during a pandemic.

A few weeks ago, our city-dwelling, non-driving son bought a new shopping cart to replace his once-reliable cart — now showing signs of age. The old cart sported the battle wounds of the city — scraped paint, bent axle, a wobbly wheel. Sure, the thing served him well, but its time had come and a new cart was purchased. My wife saw some resale value in the old cart and offered to sell it for our son, if only to net a few dollars. We brought the well-worn, well-loved cart home. My wife took some pictures, wrote a short, but very honest description mentioning all of the cart's flaws and posted it in the local Facebook group. She asked for five dollars, noting that it still had some life left in it and that a handy person could tinker around and fix it up. A brand new cart can run upwards of thirty to forty dollars, so five bucks was quite a bargain. And if you weren't interested, you could just... keep... scrolling.

Well, this is the internet and on the internet everyone has a fucking opinion. Immediately, Mrs. P's post erupted with a barrage of insults. 

"Why are you selling trash?" 

"You should be ashamed of yourself for selling junk!" 

"This is garbage." 

...and many more variations on the theme.

There were some comments expressing legitimate interest, but, as if often the case, an initially eager potential customer disappears after their first question is answered. But, one person replied with interest. A text chat ensued and finally the gentleman agreed to purchase the cart for five dollars. However, he explained that he is older and, therefore, doesn't use any of these payment apps. From the grammatical structure of the majority of his texts, his command of cellphone technology was spare. He promised to drop off a five dollar bill in an envelope when he came to collect the cart. We weren't too worried. After all, who would come out of their way to steal a less-than-new shopping cart? And if that was indeed their scheme, hey! it's only five dollars.

The buyer said he'd be by our house around 3 PM on Saturday. He said he lived about a thirty-minute drive, so around 2, Mrs. P set the cart out on our porch. And we forgot about it.

3 o'clock came and went. So did 4 o'clock. And then 5 and 6. The sun began to set and that poor shopping cart stood as a silent sentinel under the illumination of our porch light. Just before my wife and I were ready to turn in for the evening, Mrs. P's phone signaled a Facebook message. As expected, it was the cart buyer. He went off about crossed plans and time constraints and some rambling story involving his wife. The gist of his message was that he would not be coming to get the cart today, perhaps tomorrow. He apologized several times and even offered to leave six dollars for the inconvenience. He said he would come Sunday morning. As my wife confirmed his arrival time, I went downstairs to bring the shopping cart inside.

Early Sunday morning, I returned the shopping cart to its spot on the porch. The buyer — allegedly — would be coming before noon. He didn't. Just before 4 PM, we heard the unmistakable sound of our wooden screen door open. It had to be the buyer finally collecting the cart and leaving his payment in the space between our screen door and front door. But, within a few minutes of the familiar "creak" of our door, my wife received an irate Facebook message.

"Why you sell me crap?" it read. Before Mrs. P could type out a calming, level-headed response, another message chimed in. "One wheel wobbles! This is junk dammit!"

"Are you still here?" Mrs. Pincus replied, hoping to catch the buyer still on our front porch. No reply for a long time... until suddenly an electronic "DING" announced a new message in angry thread. "No! This trash! GOODBYE!"... followed by more silence.

Oh.... and we have six bucks.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

nothing compares to you

If you've been paying attention, you probably know how much I love Disney... especially the theme parks. I've been to Walt Disney World in Florida many times and I've been to Disneyland in California many times. When people find out about my affinity for Disney, they just assume that I like going to all theme parks. They assume incorrectly. To paraphrase Sinead O'Connor: "Nothing compares to Disney." I have been to Universal Studios once and that was one time too many. Actually, my experience there showed me why Disney is at the top of the heap and all others in the theme park game aspire to reach "Disney" levels... and, most likely, never will.

After trying (unsuccessfully) to convince my son that our local Disney Store was Walt Disney World, we broke down and made our first trip as a family to Walt Disney World in 1995. Because we are Pincuses with a penchant for the unconventional, we drove to Florida from our suburban Philadelphia home. We loaded up our minivan with luggage and food and activities for the road and headed south on I-95, stopping along the way to see the sights. As we drew closer to the Florida state line, we passed more and more billboards advertising "FREE THEME PARK TICKETS." We already had our Disney World admission, but my 8-year old son — also an avid Nickelodeon fan — was anxious to get an up-close look at the "Kids' Network" at Universal Studios theme park that had just opened its competitive doors a few years earlier. So, after a bit of cajoling, my wife swung the minivan into the gravel parking lot of a small building on a service road, just off the highway in South Carolina. A young lady behind a high counter greeted us with a smile. She explained that, in order to secure tickets to Universal, we would be required to attend a brief seminar at a soon-to-be-opened time-share complex minutes from the Disney compound in Orlando. My wife and I were young and naive, not fully aware of the hard-sell, pressure-heavy experience that awaited us. We excitedly made a reservation for mid-week to tour the complex, with effortless visions of free tickets to Universal Studios clouding our collective thoughts. We hopped back into our van and I tucked the reservations card away with our important papers.

Early one morning, our little family entered the Magic Kingdom, eager to share each other's joy and ride Pirates of the Caribbean a couple of dozen times. Disney, of course, did not disappoint. My son's first taste of a real, live Disney theme park was borderline mind-blowing. We basked in his excitement, as we re-watched familiar sights though a new set of eyes. We were also treated to that signature Disney service. Disney "cast members" filled our day with smiles and friendly words and honest-to-goodness happiness — from ride operators, to restaurant wait staff to the cheerful guy sweeping the walkways. Every Disney employee was willing to bend over backwards to make sure each and every guest had the greatest time.

A reasonable facsimile.

A few days later, we drove down a desolate stretch of Route 192 through Kissimmee until we arrived at the entrance to The Isle of Bali, a construction site with a single tower looming high above the giant piles of debris and dirt-caked bulldozers. The tower, a light brick structure inlaid with an aquatic pattern, was flanked by two in-progress edifices that had not made much progress at all. We found our way to a large conference room that was packed with folks milling about — obviously lured by the promise of free theme park tickets, because no one looked the least bit interested in buying into the sucker-pitch of a time-share. They were all like us — families on vacation. We were directed to a complementary continental breakfast, but no sooner had I begun to smear a lump of cream cheese across a pale, thin bagel than we were interrupted greeted by our day's tour guide. He was a cheerful young man who resembled Tim Meadows before we knew who Tim Meadows was. He shook my hand, tousled my son's hair and led us to a small table covered with a linen tablecloth. Before he began his presentation, he made several persistent attempts at sticking our son in a "kids area" where he would be "more comfortable." When he finally realized that we weren't letting him out our our sight, "Tim" proceeded with the most incoherent pitch I ever heard. We could barely follow what he was saying, as he jumped from tales of overseas vacations to domestic golf courses, to fishing lakes for fishing (I swear he said that!) to the constant mispronunciation of the name of complex itself. He repeatedly called the place "The Bile of Ali." I kid you not! At the end of a grueling two hours (yes! two hours!), we squirmed and declined every single "supervisor" who accosted us after "Tim" failed to lock us into a commitment. Finally, when we just asked for our free tickets to Universal, we were met with scowls and directed to a door. "In there." we were told. I suspected that a blazing furnace lay on the other side on the closed portal. But, no. Inside was a bare room with a bare Formica counter and bored woman in attendance. Without a word, she handed over an envelope with three passes to Universal and sent us through another door that dumped us in a remote area of the parking lot. Whatever.... we got what we came for.

Universal Studios was just okay. We went on some great rides (Back to The Future, ET, Jaws) and encountered typical "theme park" atmosphere (I seem to remember Elroy Jetson and Beetlejuice passing us on a walkway that was dotted with a recreation of San Francisco's Fisherman's Wharf just a short distance from the fictional, shark-threatened town of Amity). But, to me and my Disney-loving family, there was something missing. Universal was closer to a regular, no-frills amusement park than the magical wonderment that echoed the dreams and imagination of a visionary artist from Marceline, Missouri. The employees (decidedly not "cast members") were not smiling and sort of trudged around like they had better things to do. The place, while certainly impressive, didn't sparkle with that otherworldly, pixie-dust sprinkled enchantment that we had come to expect from "theme parks" of this magnitude. Sure, it was nice, but it wasn't Disney. It was just a big place with rides.

While we waited in line for one of those rides, we suffered the blistering Florida heat along with our fellow day guests. As the crowd snaked its way through the roped maze of the queue line, a uniformed fellow skirted along the outside of the line carrying a vendor's tray stocked with $8.00 cans of beer. He paced slowly along the line, making sure everyone saw his pricey, thirst-quenching wares and he even had a couple of takers. My family took full stock of this scenario.

The next day, we were back in the welcoming arms of Walt Disney World. The Florida heat was not diminished in the least and we found ourselves in a similar situation, waiting in a fairly long queue for a Disney attraction. In an antithetical reflection of the events of the previous day, a cheerful, brightly-clad Disney cast member slowly walked along the outside of the ride line. She had a large water cooler (the kind you see at construction sites) ingeniously strapped to her back. She was filling up paper cones with ice water and distributing them to every single person in line. Every single person. While the majority of the recipients thanked her and were grateful for the free refreshment, the Pincuses took note. This was a perfect example of why Disney is successful at what they do. Sure they want your money, but they also know how to make their guests happy. And they think of everything.

It's been twenty-three years since the events of my little tale unfolded. I haven't been back to Universal Studios since that day in 1995, so I don't know if they stepped up their game. I do know, however, that Disney continues to prove themselves to be "The Happiest Place on Earth." Early this year, I came across this heart-warming photograph taken at Disney's Hollywood Studios in Florida. It rains nearly every day in central Florida. That's why nearly every merchandise store at every Disney theme park showcases a fully-stocked display of overpriced rain gear. I don't begrudge Disney for trying to make a buck. After all, that's really what they do best — make their stockholders happy. But, because they are marketing geniuses, they don't appear to be forcing the foul weather items in your face, rather they are merely offered for sale, if you so choose to make that purchase. But Disney also knows how to make their "guests" feel like actual "guests." As proof of that, I offer this photo of a "Green Army Man" street character silently lending some assistance to a wheelchair-bound guest, who was caught in an Orlando downpour.

This is Disney at its finest. A true depiction of the Disney brand. I hope someone at Universal is taking note.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

my milkshake brings all the boys to the yard

After much preparation, we had another yard sale at Chez Pincus this past weekend. In the days and weeks prior, a diligent and determined Mrs. Pincus gathered loads of items that she deemed no longer worthy of the Pincus Home Collection. The various household cast-offs were combined with a selection of surplus items from my wife's eBay store and the whole lot lay in silent repose until early Saturday morning, when we dragged every last piece out on to our front lawn and newly-paved driveway, where we arranged everything into a pleasing display. Pleasing enough to entice someone to get this stuff out of my life once and for all.

The weather was on our side that day and the crowd was fairly steady, thanks to (no lie!) three hundred signs we stapled onto nearly every utility pole in our neighborhood. Mrs. P, wrapped up in her "I mean business" change apron, performed a nimble retail ballet, as she flit from one customer to another, answering questions, making change and — cha-CHING! — moving merchandise.

During the course of the day, I mostly just sat on my ass and watched. After emptying my living room and dining room of the piles of assorted "treasures," I decided that the actual sale was best left handled by my spouse, with her sharp business prowess and sweet interpersonal skills — two qualities in which I am sorely deficient. So, I sat. With a big cup of coffee in my hand, I parked myself on the edge of my porch and sat.

Look at this stuff...

Although I was content to sit silently, I knew that, since this was my house, I would be called upon to answer some questions about the items strewn about my property. So, unavoidably, I fielded an assortment of some of the most idiotic questions and comments. One man strolled up our front walkway, stopping before a narrow wooden bin filled with the remnants of our once-proud record collection. He withdrew a copy of a 1997 greatest hits release by the British ska band Madness. He held the album up for me to see. "Madness.," he chuckled as he read the printing on the cover, as though I couldn't read it myself. I offered a cockeyed, uncomfortable smile and thought, "I know, idiot, it's my fucking album." The man replaced the album, turned around and walked away.

...isn't it neat?

Another fellow picked up a glossy photo of Dire Straits guitarist Mark Knopfler that my son had decided he could live without. This man, as if mimicking the "Madness" guy, showed the photo to me and pointed to it. "Mark Knopfler.," he said, and then put it back in with our album inventory and strolled away.

Wouldn't you think...

Since moving into his own house, my son has slowly (very slowly) begun to dismantle and pare down a twenty-plus year collection of stuff that had accumulated in his former bedroom. He has taken some mementos to his house, while others have been discarded and still others have been offered at one of our previous yard sales. One of those items, an acoustic guitar, was now perched on the cement steps that lead to our front porch. There were several inquiries about the instrument — an introductory model from the good folks at Sam Ash Guitars. One older gentleman in a tie-dyed shirt and a long, gray ponytail fastened with a schmatta to keep it in place, asked the price of the guitar and if he could inspect it. My son grabbed the zipper pull on the case and traced the zipper all the way around the shape of the bag until the guitar was revealed. "I haven't played it in a long time.," my son said as he removed the guitar from the case and handed it to the potential customer. The man peered down his nose at the instrument. "Looks like the bridge is gettin' pulled up by the strings. I can adjust the strings fer ya.," he said, his spindly fingers daintily turning the tuning pegs, his eyes under his furrowed brow focused on the oxidated strings, "I guess it hasn't been played in a while." My son rolled his eyes and whispered to me, "Didn't I just say that?" The man asked, "What're ya askin' fer it?" My son replied, "A hundred including the case. Interested?" "Naw," the guy answered, "I'll adjust the strings for you, though. Got any other guitars?" My son frowned with disgust and whipped the guitar out of the guy's hands and zipped it back up into the case.

...my collection's complete?

In preparation for this sale, I went through my closet and whittled my wardrobe down to just the clothes I regularly wear. I made several large stacks of pants and jeans that I haven't worn in years or no longer fit me or both. The always-enterprising Mrs. P suggested we should put them out at the yard sale rather than just donating them to a local old clothing drop-off box. So, a bunch of my clothes now sat beside a bundle of bent snow shovels and a tall, narrow set of Ikea CD storage shelves that survived our flooded basement. Much to my surprise, a few men furiously unfolded and examined my jeans, each selecting several pairs for purchase at two bucks a pop. While I was happy to sell them, I felt it a bit unnerving that some dudes are now gonna be walking around my neighborhood wearing my pants. Pretty creepy, if you really think about it

What the guys go crazy for.

Throughout the course of the morning and afternoon, I think more people asked about the beautiful set of connected wooden auditorium seats that we have on our front porch. My wife found them in an antique store. They were rescued from an elementary school in Atlanta, Georgia (...or so we were told. Great antiques must have a great story attached to them) and ended up at our home. We did our best to block the chairs with boxes and empty bins, but still, people craned their necks for a better view and asked, "Oooh! How much are the movie theater seats." I offered the same answer to all, "They are bolted to the porch. If you want 'em, you have to buy the house."

Overall, our sale was a success and we moved a lot of unwanted items out of our house. We held on to some things, storing them on our back porch for one more public offering at a future yard sale. Some items, however, had overstayed their welcome and were amassed in the back of my wife's SUV for donation and eventual tax deduction. But, the real lesson learned here is: "Boy, people are strange."

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

any colour you like

Earlier this week, the United States Treasury Department announced plans to remove the portrait of Andrew Jackson, the seventh President of the United States, from the twenty-dollar bill and replace it with the image of Harriet Tubman, the courageous and defiant freedom fighter and fierce proponent of the Underground Railroad. Andrew Jackson, who has only graced the monetary note since 1928, was the owner of over 500 slaves. He fought and won the bloody Battle of New Orleans in which 285 British troops were killed and nearly 500 hundred were captured. Unfortunately, The Treaty of Ghent — that ended the War of 1812 — had been signed several weeks earlier. He started wars with many tribes of Native Americans and, as President, he signed the Indian Removal Act of 1830, forcing tens of thousands of Native Americans off of their land.

When the news of the redesigned twenty-dollar bill was made public, Twitter and other media outlets lit up like a bunch of racists igniting Southern-purchased fireworks on the Fourth of July. I could not believe the amount of blatant, unbridled bigotry I was seeing in my Twitter feed. There were feeble references to "tradition" and "respect" regarding Andrew Jackson coupled with flat out insults and historical unfamiliarity and misinformation in reference to Harriet Tubman. It made me think that all of the talk of "equality" and "opportunity" and "inclusion" and "freedoms" are just bullshit as far as a lot of people in this country are concerned. I see textbook examples of those types of people during highlights of every "Donald Trump for President" campaign rally. Those people, waving their flags and throwing punches at anyone who doesn't look like they do, are the voice of the racism and prejudice that exists in our great nation.

The thought of bigotry makes me nauseous. Partly because it's just wrong to arbitrarily discriminate against people because of their skin color, national heritage or religious beliefs. Partly because my father and grandmother regularly discriminated against people because of their skin color, national heritage or religious beliefs. It was something I grew up with, something I knew was wrong and something from which I promised to distance myself.

Colorful.

So, after a full day of monitoring my little corner of the internet spew its racist opinions about something as insignificant as whose picture is on money, as though a change will disrupt the delicate balance of..... whatever,* my work day ended. I boarded my train and came home. My wife met me at the train station. As I got into her car, she told me that she had sold a large Little Tykes climbing structure that my nieces had outgrown. Mrs. P had listed the piece on a local Facebook "yard sale" page and it sold almost immediately. The toy was in my in-laws' backyard and a couple were coming to pick it up shortly.  She needed some help maneuvering the awkward and bulky piece to a more convenient spot near the driveway. Once we got to the yard, we decided to take a shot at disassembling the structure and we were successful. When the buyers showed up — right on schedule — they were happy to fit each piece in the back of their SUV.

The toy had, in reality, belonged to a friend of my mother-in-law. A very nice woman that I know well. At least I thought I knew her well. After the transaction was completed and the happy buyers were on their way, my mother-in-law called her friend as were gathered around the kitchen table for a quick dinner. Although the phone was cradled and pressed close to my mother-in-law's ear, we easily heard both sides of the conversation. My mother-in-law explained that Mrs. P has sold the piece and the method through which the sale was made. We could hear squeals of approval and a few questions about the condition of the piece and the about the buyers  — including one question that made me bristle.

"Were they white?," she asked. We heard it clear as crystal.

I was dumbfounded. The purchase was made and the buyers were happy. I couldn't understand what their race could possibly have to do with.... with..... anything. The only color that mattered was that their money was green.

That's really the only concern that anyone should have with whose picture is on it.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com


*Hey! Remember when quarters began sporting different state imagery for over a decade? Didn't destroy us, did it?

well, don't waste your time waiting

I was clicking away on the Internet and I stopped to read an article on a particular webpage. Because I live in the Philadelphia area and it was early December, this banner ad popped up in the middle of the story I was reading:

Yes sir, our good friend Bruce Springsteen was coming to Philadelphia. He just released a sprawling, seven-disc box set called The Ties That Bind, a comprehensive collection of songs, demos, outtakes and performances from the pivotal The River-era of the venerable Jersey rocker's career. It features the original The River album along with tracks that The Boss deemed sub-par enough to leave off the disc in 1980, but good enough for the fans that have stood by his side for the next 35 years. And, as if the flood of audio wasn't enough, there's four hours of never-before-seen footage of Bruce performing these songs, rehearsing these songs, talking about these songs and burning these songs into two stone tablets with fire from his fingertips. 

So, in order to promote this release and sell the faithful followers on a set of essentially Springsteen cast-offs, rejects and filler, he's springing the remainder of the E Street Band from their various retirement facilities and dragging them on the road to recreate the whole The River experience for those who saw it the first time around (like me) and those too young to have witnessed it.

That's right. I saw The guitar-slingin' Jersey Devil for the very first time on December 9, 1980 when The River tour made a stop at the Philadelphia Spectrum. It was one of the best concerts I have ever seen. He was magical and fully dazzled the audience. Bruce and his band played a marathon three-hour set, delivering their "Detroit Medley" encore with the house lights on and oblivious to the fact that Mark David Chapman was shooting John Lennon to death just 96 miles away. 

After that, I saw Springsteen two more times and the spell was broken. Then, he released Lucky Town and Human Touch simultaneously and I was all done with the Bruce Springsteen portion of my life. I was his biggest fan. I still know every single lyric to Lost in the Flood and Incident on 57th Street but now, I couldn't name a Springsteen song that came out after 1985.

So, just out of pure curiosity, I clicked on the banner. I was immediately taken here:

The Wells Fargo Center, the current multi-purpose venue that replaced the outdated (and now long-gone) Spectrum, had placed me in a "virtual waiting room." According to the website, due to the heavy demand for tickets, I was relegated to watching an animated circle of dots draw and redraw itself until I was connected to the actual ticket-purchasing section of their web presence. Well, I had no intention of purchasing tickets, but, I do have a sense of adventure so I waited to see how long it took until I was given the opportunity to actually buy tickets. 

One minute.

Two minutes.

Three minutes. I opened another tab.

Ten minutes.

I read an article. I checked my email. I clicked through a pop-up to see what had become of the cast of F-Troop.

Twenty minutes. That circle had orbited itself about a zillion times.

Thirty-minutes. I went and got a cup of coffee. When I came back, a new graphic appeared, this one offering the option to request the best available tickets for the February 12 performance in Philadelphia. Again, my curious finger clicked the "find tickets" button and it returned with a pair located on an upper level section at a price of $150 each, not including the additional convenience and service charges. The tickets on the secondary market threaten to command upwards of three-hundred dollars a pop.

I laughed to myself. My first concert — Alice Cooper — cost me $6.50 for a ticket. That was the going rate, with a few topping out at ten bucks (Elton John comes to mind.) When I saw Bruce Springsteen in 1980, nineteen-year-old Josh Pincus had to scrape together an unheard of $15 for admission. Thirty-five years later, time had tacked a zero at the end of that already steep price. 

I imagine that the shows on this tour will sell out. I imagine Bruce Springsteen will make a ton of money to add to the ton of money he already has. I imagine the money he will make for touring in support of an album that is thirty-five years old will give him great satisfaction. The one-time working class guy who grew up out behind the dynamo near the darkness on the edge of town is living the "American Dream."

The ties that bind indeed.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

stacks of green paper in his red right hand

"It was made very clear to me what I'm supposed to do here. I smile, wave my little hat... I did that, so when do I get paid?"  — Tom Hanks as Jimmy Dugan in "A League of Their Own" (1992)

Once again, I am confounded by the inability of some people to follow simple rules of conduct... especially when the party making the rules is dropping a ton of money in your lap. Of course, I am referencing two recent stories to break in the news around the same time. One concerns Jared Fogle, the one-time spokesperson for the highly-successful sandwich shop chain Subway. When Jared was an average, unknown college student, he famously dropped over 200 pounds by restricting his food intake to Subway sandwiches (sans fatty condiments like mayonnaise) and walking a lot. His story was brought to the attention of Subway's marketing department and the first commercial featuring the newly-svelte Jared appeared in 2000. He went on to make over 300 commercials for the chain over a period of a decade. Subway partly credits the "Jared" campaign with tripling their growth over that period and they rewarded him accordingly. It is estimated that Jared's net worth is around 15 million dollars. Plus, he was lavished with first-class travel and stays in 5-star hotels, all on Subway's dime. Jared's instructions from Subway were pretty simple. Subway was willing pay Jared to be the smiling face of the company in exchange for exploiting Jared's incredible weight-loss story. Jared only had to show up at publicity events, smile, shake some hands and get paid. No math, no real work and instant celebrity status with no real exhibit of talent. Pretty sweet deal.

Cha-CHING!

But, Jared had a secret and the money fueled his growing ego. While representing Subway, his meal ticket (pun intended), he explored his lust for underage girls, solicited sex from underage girls and expanded his collection of child pornography. Now, I understand deep-seated urges and how they can be acted upon. I also understand self-control. Jared could have easily sought professional help for dealing with a condition of which he was, no doubt, well aware. Instead, he saw what he understood to be an endless supply of money headed his way and chose to indulge his fetishes, possibly falling into the belief that money makes you smart and puts you on a level above most members of society. A plush room at The Plaza, chauffeurs, publicists and an entourage only reinforced that idea. However it all came crumbling down around Jared in August 2015, when Subway severed all ties with him over allegations and an eventual guilty plea to federal charges of possessing child pornography and traveling to pay for sex with minors. Nice work, Jared. If only you would have just done the minimum of what was expected of you.

Cha-CHING!

Almost simultaneously, Josh Duggar, co-star of the wildly popular TLC Network reality show 19 Kids and Counting, got himself into some hot water. His show, 10 seasons strong, was a day-to-day chronicle of the Duggars, a family of devout Independent Baptists. They frequently discuss values of purity, modesty, and faith in God. The Duggars vehemently oppose birth control, saying they have allowed God to determine the number of children they have. Since this has been put into God's deistic hands, the title of the show has changed twice with the addition of two more children. Recently, Josh, the eldest son of baby-machines Michelle and Jim Bob Duggar, was accused of child molestation. This was a shocker for fans of the God-fearing, pious clan, however things grew worse for the 27-year-old Duggar son, when it was revealed that four of his victims were his sisters. As these allegations surfaced in the news, TLC promptly canceled the series, which contributed to Josh's estimated net worth of 200 million dollars. That's right, 200 million! Now, Josh, a proclaimed devotee of his religion, family values and all that self-righteous stuff, has been named as an active member of AshleyMadison.com, a website devoted to hooking up married adults for adulterous affairs. (For those playing along at home, "Thou Shalt Not Commit Adultery" is Commandment Number 7.) Look, perhaps the religious tones of the show were not really within ol' Josh's beliefs and he was just playing along for the sake of his family and the money. But, for goodness sake, Josh, if you could have just kept your hands to yourself and sought professional help with your newly-gained funds, that cash cow would still be flowing with the milk of unlimited wealth. And cheating on your spouse? Really? Was it worth the 200 mil? Because your wife, the former Anna Keller, is gonna take a good chunk of that if she decides to seek a divorce. Or maybe she'll just let God decide that, too. But, obviously, God doesn't take too kindly to that shit either. He did burn those rules into a rock right in front of Moses' eyes. I think he made his point.

A little closer to home, I had a co-worker who was hired with specific instruction as to what his job entailed. He was to keep peace within a particular department that displayed signs of friction. That's all. The department's work output was, otherwise, pretty good. It's just that the individual team members were constantly at each other's throats, filled with contempt and mistrust for one another. This guy was just supposed to unite everyone and readjust the focus of the department to one of harmony. (Ironically, he succeeded in uniting everyone in their dislike for him.) For this task, he was grossly overpaid. Now, despite a clear explanation of his role, he proceeded to make unnecessary, overly-complicated and "un-asked-for" decisions. He also exhibited behavior that was, shall I say, unappreciated by some of the female members of the department. He was reprimanded over and over again, until the company finally had enough. If only he had just followed the concise instructions that were clearly explained to him, he would still be collecting that obscenely-large paycheck. Instead, the salary only served to feed an unwarranted ego, one that he couldn't keep in check. He is currently seeking employment elsewhere.

Cha-CHING!

This behavior is nothing new. Back in the 60s, budding filmmaker Bob Rafelson came up with the idea for a sitcom about a struggling rock group. Taking inspiration from the Beatles and their wild antics in the film A Hard Day's Night, Bob joined up with Bert Schneider, whose father was the head of Columbia Pictures' Screen Gems division, to bring his idea to the small screen. The pair placed an ad in a trade paper, looking for "Folk & Roll Musicians-Singers for acting roles in new TV series. Running Parts for 4 insane boys, age 17-21." Of the nearly 500 applicants (including Stephen Stills and, allegedly, Charles Manson), three were chosen to join the already-cast Davy Jones, a proven Broadway actor who had originated the role of "The Artful Dodger" in Oliver! The three additional young men had their roles clearly explained by Bob, Bert and musical director Don Kirshner. They were actors, not musicians. They were playing the parts of musicians. The music was already figured out and they would have nothing to do with it. With that understanding and their cooperation, they would be paid a lot of money. As simple as that sounds, Mike Nesmith, a country singer-songwriter with a modicum of talent, Peter Tork, an unsuccessful guitarist who, prior to this casting, was working as a dishwasher, and Micky Dolenz, a former child actor who was hired purely on the merit of his "unusual face," understood something different. They were convinced they were chosen based on their musical chops and they were to be the next Beatles. Only Davy, the true professional, got it. He understood that he was not Paul McCartney and this was not the Beatles. This was just another acting role and he was going to hang on to it as long as possible, because he knew acting roles are tough to land on a regular basis. The trio (again, not including Davy) were shocked and insulted when they were barred from participating in a recording session. When the money started rolling in, their egos inflated, ignoring the fact that the success was due mostly to someone else's expert casting and predetermined musical choices. When Kirshner presented the "band" with a check for one million dollars (twenty-five thousand each) and a tape of what he selected as their next single,* an ungrateful Mike Nesmith offered his thanks by slamming his fist through a wall and informing the bewildered Mr. Kirshner "that could have been your face, motherfucker." The Monkees, under the tutelage of Nesmith, sabotaged their success and, in essence, orchestrated their downfall. The show lasted only two seasons. Although their fame endured, only Davy embraced the novelty and happily made it his career, right up until his untimely death in 2012. The others begrudgingly took part in reunions over the years, but then took the money as though it was owed to them. They probably still don't realize that they merely "fit the suit."

What is the moral of these stories? If you think it's "Money is the root of all evil," you weren't listening. The true moral is "Listen. Keep your goddamn mouth shut and listen."

www.joshpincusiscrying.com


*The song was "Sugar, Sugar," eventually recorded by a group of anonymous studio musicians and released under the name of the fictional "The Archies." Kirshner commented that he was forced to create a band that couldn't talk back to him.