better man

I used to make regular trips to the neighborhood dry cleaner when I worked in a downtown law firm and was required to dress in what has become known as "business casual.". Now, in my current job, tucked away in the behind-the-scenes world of the pre-press department of a large commercial printer, no one cares how I dress. My standard work clothes are jeans and t-shirts, not that far off from how I dressed in high school. So, my stock of button-down shirts now hang silently in my closet, hoping to be pulled out for that rare visit to a classy restaurant or the off chance I get invited to a wedding. Well it just so happens, Mrs. P and I are going to a wedding tomorrow. The shirt I wore to the last wedding I attended hung on a hook in our bedroom closet, patiently waiting to be taken to the dry cleaner. That happened this week and, today, I went to pick it up.

My little suburban Philadelphia neighborhood is home to a large number of affluent families. Throughout its 1.74 square mile area, there are large sprawling properties boasting homes that could arguably be labeled "mansions." I do not live in one of those. I live on a block where the homes were originally built to accommodate the servants of the likes of Peter Widener (a prominent nineteenth century businessman) and William Elkins (another businessman and co-founder of the Philadelphia Rapid Transit Company with Widener). But, just down the street from my house are residences designed and built by noted Gilded Age architect Horace Trumbauer. 

It has been my experience that "affluence" walks hand-in-hand with "arrogance." And that certainly is the case in my little corner of the world. Without going into a lot of messy detail, let's just say that a certain contingency of my neighbors believe that if you are not rich or white, then you are beneath them socially and intellectually. And you are treated as thus. I have seen it first hand in the supermarket and in the post office. I used to see it on the train when I took the train to work daily. I would watch as men — in stylish suits holding fancy leather briefcases — pushed themselves in front of a gathering of people as the train pulled into the station. They believed that their income and perceived social status entitled them to board first. Once aboard, they'd spread their belongings across a seat made for two. On crowded mornings, when seating was at a premium, they would only relinquish their seats when asked a few times. And even then it would be done begrudgingly.

I have seen these same folks belittle cashiers or municipal workmen or even workers who they themselves hired. Conversely, they have also spoken to these same laborers as though they were children with limited understanding, using slow, condescending tones.

This morning, when I entered the dry cleaner, there was one of my neighbors already at the counter in mid-transaction. The dry cleaner is owned by an Asian family that has operated the business for a million years. They are friendly, accommodating and just a little bit over-priced, but — in their defense — they charge what the neighborhood will bear. 

I waited patiently with my little pick-up receipt in hand as my neighbor finished his business. He pulled a pair of pants from the pile of clothing on the counter and showed it to the woman who was helping him. The guy was wearing long basketball shorts and expensive sneakers with no socks. He had a pair of expensive-looking sunglasses propped up on his head like a headband. There was a chunky gold chain around his neck. His Maserati SUV was idling in the small parking lot.

He pulled a pair of pants from the pile of clothes on the counter and held them up to the woman who was helping him. "These pants," he began, "are tailored pants. I want them let out in the legs and the seat." The woman examined the pants, running her hand over the material. "Let out.," she muttered absentmindedly. Since she was obviously not white and probably not rich, the man automatically placed her in a social standing far below his own... so, he repeated, "These pants are tailored pants." The volume of his voice increased. "I want them let out in the legs and the seat. They were tailored when I was twenty and they don't fit well now. I need them let out. All the way!" He emphasized "All the way!," as though the pants were made with an endless supply of fabric, folded up like an accordion, and able to be "let out" or "taken in" at will. The woman frowned and shook her head. "Hmmm....," she whispered as she gathered her thoughts to answer. The man interpreted her lack of an immediate answer as a case of a language barrier. Specifically, his expert command of universally-understood English versus her feeble and inferior Asian tongue. Again, he raised his voice to a level too loud for such a small indoor space and especially too loud for a conversation with someone standing less than a foot way. And, again, he repeated, "These are tailored pants. I want them let out in the legs and the seat. All the way! As much as they can go." The condescending tone increased with the volume. The woman finally replied. "Get new pants.," she said. "New pants?," he questioned. "Yes," she confirmed, "It will cost more money to do this than a new pair of pants would cost." "So, you can't just let them out" he pressed. (It had become obvious to me and to the woman that this guy had no clue how "let them out" worked from a physics standpoint.) "No.," she replied. He pushed the rest of his clothes across the counter and left.

I stepped up to the counter and handed over my receipt. "Picking up,?" the woman asked. I nodded.

The man returned a just second later. He loudly announced that he had left his finished dry cleaning hanging on the "pick-up" rack. He chuckled nervously as he grabbed the clothing, neatly covered in plastic and uniform on bundled hangers.

The woman at the counter didn't even look up.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

i know a place

You may not know it, but you are looking at the greatest parking spot on the planet Earth. Gaze upon it. Relish in its glory, Marvel at its very existence. This, by the way, is a very, very rare photo of this parking space without a car parked in it. But, rest assured, it will be occupied as soon as I finish taking this picture. Guaranteed.

Where — you may ask — is this coveted, exalted parking space? Why, it is right in front of my house.

My wife and I moved into our house on Labor Day weekend 1986. My wife regularly parked her car in our driveway. I would take the curbside space that was adjacent to our driveway, directly in front of our house. I began to notice that, on any occasion that I moved my car — to go to work or for just a quick trip to pick up a pizza — someone would immediately pull into the parking space in front of my house once I vacated it. I could be gone for eight hours, a full weekend or just a few minutes. When I returned, there was always — always! — a car occupying the space in front of my house.

For twelve years, I took the train to work, leaving my car parked in front of my house — untouched — for five days. I would rarely drive anywhere on weekends, but if I did — to pick up dry cleaning or to claim a package at the post office — the space would be taken when I got back. I started to take my wife's car on short errands, so as not to give up my parking space.

If correctly spaced, there is room for three cars between my driveway and my next-door neighbor's driveway. If the allotted space is not divvied up correctly, the available space is not big enough to accommodate a car. But, that doesn't seem to matter. On many occasions, in an effort to park in the most wonderful parking space in the world, cars have been carelessly left by their drivers with the rear bumper extending a foot or more into my driveway. I often wondered if the violators assessed their parking skills and have determined that they are fully within their rights to block my driveway. I wonder if they get out of the car, look at how much of their rear bumper of their car is not within the safe, legal confines of  a parking space, and think: "Yes. This is fine. I will leave my car here, because I don't care if the folks who live at this house and own the car parked in the driveway will need to move said car during the time my car is parked here." And then they leave. 

Every so often, I watched from my front door as someone pulls into the space and shimmies back-and forth until they are satisfied with the parking job they have achieved. When they exit their poorly-parked vehicle, I emerge from my house and tell them that they are blocking my driveway. Never — never! — have I ever received an apology, followed by the person sheepishly returning to their car to seek another spot in which to park. No, no, no! I am usually met with an angry reply of "You can get out!" to which I very calmly counter "You are blocking my driveway. If you leave your car there, I will call the police." This retort elicits an exasperated grumble from the driver, a lot of head-shaking and, eventually, a relocation of the offending car by way of gunning the engine and screeching away from the curb. 

I have left notes on the windshield of cars that I didn't catch in the act only to find my handwritten message crumbled up in a ball and laying on my front lawn.

My wife and I have been cursed at by drivers who, wanting so desperately to park in the greatest parking spot in the world, have parked across the apron of our driveway because there was already a car in the space. (Usually it's my car!)

I don't know what it is about this parking space that makes it so desirable. There are other spaces available up and down my street. But there is something about the space in front of my house that attracts cars before all of the other spaces on the block. There are no special services that come with parking there — no blockades, no barriers, no valet. There isn't a free car wash or oil change as though you are leaving your car at the airport. It's just a parking spot.

One day, during the time that I took the train to work and my car would sit for days (or weeks) at a time, I found a note under the windshield wiper. Scrawled on a torn piece of paper was a... a... threat from someone who, in direct violation of the Tenth Commandment, ordered me to "move my car so someone else could park there."

I sometimes think I am unreasonably obsessive (re: nuts) for wanting to park my car in front of my house. I won't even park my car in front of my next-door neighbor's house if that spot is available and the one in front of my house is not. I like to think he would afford me the same courtesy if the situation was reversed. (Surprise! He does not.) I was once asked (actually demanded) to move my car from the space in front of my other next-door neighbor's house. She referred to that space as "her space." (There is not designated parking anywhere on my street.) Ironically, she (or visitors to her house) has blocked my driveway numerous times over the years. But, it seems, I am not nuts. No, not at all. It appears that everyone — everyone! — just wants to park in front of my house.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

sisters are doing it for themselves

My wife and I have lived in our house for the past 37 years. We have seen our share of neighbors come and go... I suppose. Honestly, I have never had much to say to our neighbors. Sometimes, I don't even recognize our neighbors. It's not that I am not friendly (well.... maybe it is), it's just I don't feel that just because my house is on the same block as your house, we are automatically friends. I have a — shall we say — cordial relationship with my neighbors. If I recognize a neighbor, I might — might — wave or nod. But, for the most part, I don't do anything. I don't mean to be rude, but I'd rather not engage with someone I know nothing about. For the past few years we have had an annual yard sale. Potential customers come and say "Hello" and I say "Hello" back, just to be polite — having no idea that this person lives a few houses from my house.

Within the first few years of our moving in, I noticed that a woman who lives three or four houses away had twins — two little girls. They were a few years younger than our son and they kind of kept to themselves. As the years went on, I couldn't help but notice the twin girls growing up. I saw them running around on the front lawn of their house. Sometimes, I saw them get out of the car, each carrying a small bag of groceries. Other times, I would see them waiting on the corner for the school bus as I drove past on my way to work. Once in a while, my wife and I would pass them on the sidewalk, My wife would give them a big, friendly, neighborly "Hello." I would say nothing, deciding that my wife's greeting should be taken for the both of us. The twin girls would lower their glance in shyness and mutter something unintelligible  or — more often — say nothing.

Just a couple of years ago, as I pulled into my driveway, I saw one of the twin girls emerging from a car parked in front of their house. The car had a big sign attached to its roof identifying it as a vehicle from a local driving school. I mentioned to Mrs. Pincus, when I came into our house, what I saw, adding "Boy, those twins down the street are really growing up." Mrs. Pincus looked at me funny. "Twins?," she questioned "Who has twins?" I was confused. Surely, she knew to whom I was referring. She must have seen them over the past three decades. I pointed in the direction of the twins' house. "The twin girls who live three or four houses away. The twin girls.," I pressed. Mrs. P narrowed her eyes. "Triplets," she said, "They are triplets. There are three of them."

I thought my wife was joking with me. She was not.

"What?," I asked, as though I was just seeing the twist ending of The Usual Suspects for the first time. "There's three of them?" I needed confirmation. Mrs. P assured me that there are indeed three nearly identical young ladies living in the house in question.... and that there always have been. I was dumbfounded. Mrs. P was ready to debate the "founded" part of that.

From that point forward, I don't believe I have ever seen the three girls — these alleged triplets — together. I usually see two of them or one of them, but never three of them. I don't know if the two I have seen together are the same two each time. I also don't know if, when I see one of them, it's always the same one.

Last night, my wife and I took the train into center city Philadelphia to meet our son and his girlfriend for dinner. I noticed on our return trip to the suburbs, that two of the alleged triplets were in our train car. As the train slowed and came to a halt at our station, the two-thirds of the alleged triplets exited the train from a door at the other end of the car. My wife and I began walking to our house (the train station is at the end of our block). The two girls were creeping up behind us, chatting quietly to each other. We moved aside on the sidewalk to let them pass. They said nothing to us.

I concluded that if there are indeed three sisters, only two of them get along. The third one (if there really is a third one) prefers to keep to herself. She has a different group of friends and has a totally different set of interests. These two stick together as though they were twins, sharing friends, interests and maybe even a secret "twins" language. They shun and maybe even ignore the third sister. Perhaps the third sister is just fine with that.

That is.... if there really is a third sister.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

don't box me in

 * * * DISCLAIMER *  *  * PLEASE READ! * * *
* * * ESPECIALLY IF YOU HAVE GIVEN US BOXES * * *
Let me start off by saying the opinions expressed in this blog post are mine and mine alone. Don't not let my angry rants and annoyed disposition reflect poorly upon anyone with whom I share a household or their comparably friendlier and way more grateful character. These are my feelings and my feelings alone. Also note, that I run the risk of getting myself into some serious trouble by what you are about to read. — JPiC

Yes.

Mrs. Pincus has operated and maintained an eBay business for a very long time — around twenty years. (Before you ask, no, she will not sell your items for you.) She spends a good portion of that time packing and shipping items to customers. Packing and shipping those items requires a lot of packing material and packing material costs money. More than you would think. So, for years, we have saved every box, padded envelope, strip of bubble wrap and Styrofoam packing peanut that we received from our own shipped purchases. Of course, this is not nearly enough to cover the volume of shipped items that Mrs. P's eBay business generates. Corrugated boxes, padded envelopes, bubble wrap and packing peanuts need to be purchased on a regular basis. And like I said, that can get expensive. Always looking for a way to cut expenses, Mrs. P began asking friends and neighbors to save their boxes and packing materials. We would either come and pick them up or they could drop them off — anytime of day or night — on our front porch. This was great. Folks looking for a place to dispose of unwanted or excess boxes, lengths of bubble wrap and loads of Styrofoam peanuts now had a place to dump them. For years now, we would arrive home to be greeted by a porchful of various sizes of boxes and bags with bubble wrap and foam packing peanuts. We were happy and appreciative and all was right with the world.

Yes.

We specifically ask for small boxes, as Mrs. P sells mostly small items and large boxes are of no real use to her. On the off chance that a big box is required for a particular shipment, Mrs. Pincus usually has no trouble finding one. But, small boxes were what we were looking for. We are sincerely grateful for the small boxes, but the large ones are just discarded, chopped up and flattened for inclusion in our weekly recycling. Still, we receive a lot of large boxes. An awful lot of large boxes. Despite putting the word out that we do not need large boxes, we get them anyway.

In addition to the unneeded large boxes, we have discovered a wide variety of things on our front porch that do not remotely fit into the "packing materials" category. Among a large number of packing lists and invoices (that contain loads of personal information), we have also found the items that were originally shipped in these boxes, like makeup, bags of nuts, bolts and screws and other odd and unidentifiable pieces of assemble-it-yourself furniture. Once, we even found a package of unused syringes. Recently, we found a credit card laying at the bottom of a carton under some sheets of bubble wrap. After tracing the name on the card to a shipping label on one of the empty boxes, Mrs. P called the person, only to be told that the card was canceled and we could cut it up and throw it away.

Which brings up another point....

No.

We have found trash dumped on our front porch. Yes, actual trash, like used napkins and tissues, wrappers from candy bars, used paper cups, greasy fast-food restaurant bags, boxes filled with crumbs and shreds of torn shrink wrap. Sometimes, trash is mixed in with a grocery bag filled with newspaper, but oftentimes it's just a bag of someone's trash. Plain old trash that someone is giving to us in the name of benevolence.

Yes, your generosity is greatly appreciated. Yes, it really is. But, come on. We are not the township dump. We just want your small boxes, bubble wrap, Styrofoam packing peanuts and even the result of documents that went through your paper shredder. (No, we're not going to piece together microscopic strips of paper to gets your personal information. We can get that from the invoices you leave in the boxes.) All we ask is that you assess the practicality of what you are leaving on our front porch. Ask yourself: "Is this useful for packing or is this trash?" If it has the remnants of food hanging off of it, it's trash. Please take it down to your curb on your predetermined trash pick-up day.

Mrs. Pincus really appreciates what you do. And, on Trash Collection Day, so do I.

By the way, if this snowman head is yours, you can come and pick it up at my house anytime.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

where to now, st. peter?

It was inevitable. I'm just surprised it took this long.

On Wednesday evening, December 19, members of the Elkins Park community gathered with members of the board of the Creekside Co-op and voted to close the struggling business at the end of the day on Saturday, December 22 — three days before Christmas and six years after it first opened its doors. Everyone in attendance was sad. After all, this was the death knell for a community experiment that many looked upon with great hope. However, as I had mentioned in a previous blog post (from three years ago), it was destined to fail from Day One.

Please! Don't misunderstand me! Despite my negative attitude towards the co-op, I really wanted it to succeed. I did. But, it couldn't. It was run by a group of folks whose heart was in the right place. Until, of course, that heart shifted to be come a chip on its shoulder.

The co-op floundered because it couldn't quite decide what it wanted to be. Did it want to be a gourmet market? A community gathering spot? A convenience store? It wasn't sure. I do know what it wasn't. It wasn't a co-op. Sure, you could become a member, but, unlike a true co-op, no one was required to put in a certain amount of work time. Membership fees entitled members to the peace of mind that comes from knowing you are supporting a business that is poorly run. Oh, and once a month, you could choose a day to receive 5% off of your shopping order. Aside from those meager "benefits," the co-op offered nothing of substance to members. The place was chock full of salaried employees who didn't necessarily live in the community, something that sort of defeated the purpose of the co-op's mission. Plus, and perhaps even more astounding, at the conclusion of the meeting that decided the co-op's demise, a collection was established to help meet the final week's payroll for the co-op's forty-five employees. Forty-five! That place should have run comfortably and effortlessly with less than half of that staff. I feel bad that folks were losing their jobs in the thick of the holiday season, but, if the co-op management had been more realistic, their final decision would have affected far fewer people.

But that was the problem with the co-op. The whole deal wasn't fully thought out. Before they sold their first jar of sun-dried tomatoes or smashed their first avocado, the co-op board purchased the building, instead of renting. Once the doors finally opened (after a lengthy, delay-filled three years), the co-op chose to stock some of the same products one could pick up for less money at one of the three supermarkets within close competitive distance. They opened for the business day well after the foot traffic had passed their locked front doors on their way to the train station, thereby losing potential "grab and go" breakfast business, as well as missing the boat on commuters picking up something to take to work for lunch.

In the six years of the co-op's existence, I never received a flyer, a coupon, a sample, or any sort of enticement letting me know that they were open for business. Twice, I remember stepping off the train after my evening commute and spotting a young lady in a co-op apron offering a tray of tiny tidbits to my fellow riders. After two consecutive days, she was never seen again. On the handful of times I reluctantly breached the co-op's doors to pick up a small container of milk to tide me over until I could make it to an actual supermarket, I was never asked if I was interested in becoming member and never told how beneficial a membership would be.

I never found the co-op welcoming. I never found the employees friendly. I always felt like I was an outsider at a party where I was not on the guest list. Well, now that the party's over, visitors to the co-op's Facebook page are already speculating on what's going to move into the vacant space. While they are making many wild and totally unrealistic suggestions, a few have proposed that another local co-op — a successful one —  absorb our co-op.

And that, my friends, is why the co-op closed.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

no time left for you

We had another yard sale. This time, we went in a slightly different direction, offering more household items and less items from Mrs. Pincus's eBay store.

After spending the week filling our living room to overflowing capacity with a vast selection of items, we plastered the neighborhood with signs announcing the date and time. Early on Saturday morning, we arranged the stuff on our front lawn and driveway in such a way as to avoid another possible lawsuit. Then we waited for customers,

Meanwhile, our neighbors across the street, set up their own offerings on their lawn, They were the ones who first proposed the idea of a yard sale to my wife a few years ago. Rae dragged a few items down the long walkway that bisects their front lawn. She set a large, plastic storage bin upside down near the sidewalk as an improvised tabletop and placed a few small items on its bumpy surface. She pulled up a folding chair and also waited for customers.

Our lawn soon began to draw a few people whose attention had been distracted as they strolled down our street. However, I glanced across the street to see that Rae was nowhere in sight. Instead, the plastic bin was now filled with the items that once graced its base. A hand-written sign reading "FREE" was taped on the container's side, Rae's yard sale had lasted approximately four minutes... and that was being generous with the time. I imagined that her calendar was marked on this particular Saturday with a five minute block allotted for "YARD SALE" — including set-up time. I'm certainly not faulting her. Some people just don't have the patience for retail.

Or to sit with a lawn full of their shit.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

hi, neighbor! hi, neighbor!

Mister Rogers would have sung a different tune about how beautiful the days are in his neighborhood had he lived next to the lunatics that occupy the house next to mine. We live in, what is known in our area, as a "twin home." In some other parts of the country, this sort of structure is called a "duplex" or "semi-detached." It's basically a single building comprised of two single-family dwellings sharing a common wall at the center. The individual floor plans of each home are usually mirror images of each other. (A "duplex," in the Philadelphia area, is the same idea, but the individual homes are stacked on top of each other instead of side-by-side. That concludes the architecture lesson of this blog.)

There always seemed to be something weird going on in the house next door since the day we moved in to our house in 1986. Not necessarily "Amityville Horror weird", but weird nevertheless. Our neighbors were a female couple who mostly kept to themselves. I was fine with that. I know I am not the most warm and friendly guy that ever lived. A cordial nod or wave (or maybe even an infrequent "good morning") is just about the extent of any neighborly relationship I've ever had. Sometimes, I didn't even get that from those two women next door. One day, just after our son was born, I was in his room checking on some sounds I heard from the electronic baby monitor. He was enjoying a sound afternoon nap in his darkened room. I heard something outside, so I parted a couple of the Venetian blind slats that covered the window overlooking our, and subsequently our neighbor's, backyard. Through that tiny horizontal opening, I spied my neighbors relaxing in their newly-installed hot tub on their newly-installed wooden deck and they were sans clothing of any kind. I quickly snapped the blinds to their original position and thought about what sort of environment my son would be exposed to.... no pun intended. But, luckily, those ladies moved away long before my boy's curiosity expanded beyond the likes of The Mighty Morphin Power Rangers.

The house was soon purchased by a young man in his 20s with a great job, a lot of money and very little life experience. Within his first week as our new neighbor, he approached my wife and me with a proposal for new rain gutters for our houses. He went on to suggest copper gutters, elaborating on their classic elegance and aesthetically-pleasing appearance or some such flowery bullshit. We didn't need new gutters. I didn't want new gutters, but, somehow, I was talked into getting new gutters and expensive copper ones to boot. Our new neighbor had already received a price from a contractor, which he shared with us. I questioned the unusually low price, as covering the entire building or was that the price for each of our homes. He assured me it was one price that we would split down the middle. "Okay." I figured, "This kid works as an accountant for KMPG, an international financial audit and consulting firm. I guess he understands how to read a work estimate." We agreed to have new copper gutters installed.

Turns out, this guy didn't have the vaguest understanding of how to read an invoice. As I had originally suspected, the price was for each of our homes and the total would be doubled, not split. I was furious and I let him know it. I paid our share and never spoke a word to that guy for the remaining two years he was our neighbor. 

Two years after the rain gutter incident, he was transferred to Southern California. Unable to sell his house (for which he grossly overpaid), he offered it for lease and became a bi-coastal landlord. (As a footnote to his move, he took his girlfriend with him to the Golden State, where she promptly left him after he was fired from the job that transferred him. Five jobs later, he still remains in California and is still unable to sell the house connected to ours.)

Our new neighbors, now lessees, were six college students who turned the left half of our twin into National Lampoon's Animal House. For eighteen months, we were subjected to keggers on the deck, loads of trash and boisterous and unruly crowds of "college dudes" all accompanied by the strains of bad rap music. After they finally vacated, the current residents — also renters — moved in.

Once again, our relationship started out cordial. My wife, always friendly, welcomed our new neighbors. At first they, too, were friendly. But soon, they retreated into isolation. They were rarely visible. They pulled their young son from school. We began to hear loud noises through our common wall — banging, screaming, crying — at all hours of the day and night. One day, I saw our neighbors dumping something over their backyard fence. Then I saw them do it again. Soon, we began to smell skunks regularly and a groundhog took up residence in our backyard. There was something eerie and dangerous about their behavior, like the kind of people you see on the receiving end of a government siege on a separatist compound. An event that usual ends with the power being shut off and the launching of some sort of incendiary device. We did our best to steer clear of them.

A month or so ago, during a particularly heavy rain storm, the ceiling of a room on our second floor took on the characteristics of Niagara Falls, Rain water had broken through several ignored cracks and was now soaking the floor and furniture. We threw down some tarps and an inspection, when the weather cleared up, told us we needed a new roof. Mrs. P contacted our West Coast neighbor and he agreed to have his roof replaced as well, hoping for a better price to do the whole building. (Lucky for him, we know how to read an estimate.) We assumed that he, as landlord, would inform his tenants about the upcoming work. It certainly wasn't our responsibility.  Again, his informing skills, like his invoice-reading skills, leave a lot to be desired.

Just before 9 AM on the day the roofing work was to begin, Mrs. Pincus received this text from our renting neighbor. (Note - Mrs. Pincus is, of course, designated by the little Grateful Dead icon.):

(I blocked out the name of their landlord., but it's "Len," if you really must know.)

The roofers were waiting for delivery of a Dumpster that would be left of the street for the duration of the repair project, approximately two days. While they waited, the unloaded building materials and parked their truck in my neighbor's driveway. She was not happy and acted as though it was a complete surprise. She was rude and angry and took her anger out on my wife.

The next day, after she had sufficient time to calm down. Mrs. P received this text:

Ah, what could possibly top a rude comment? Why, a little racism, of course! Nothing like a derogatory reference about cleaning at 7:30 in the morning.

The work was completed late on the second day. The roofers planned to return the next morning to pick up any unused material and leave our property looking as it did when they found it. They also needed to arrange for removal of the full Dumpster. Before I left for work, I secured the parking spaces in front of my house with a couple of trash cans strategically-placed behind the Dumpster. I was satisfied with my positioning of the cans and began to make my way back to my house, my neighbor barged out of her house screaming and pointing.

"When is this thing moving?," she screeched, gesturing towards the Dumpster.

I calmly answered, "I don't know." I honestly didn't, but I assumed it would be gone in an hour or two.

"Well, it's been blocking my driveway all week!," she shrieked, teeth bared, arms waving wildly.

First of all, it was two days, not all week. Second of all, it would most likely be moved before noon. Third of all, I didn't give a shit. Actually, make that first.

"I didn't put it there.," I replied, this time with a little bit of edge in my voice.

She responded with an incoherent stream of shrill squeals, too high pitched for me to recognize any actual words. I silently answered by going into my house and shutting the door — mid-squawk.

A later conversation my wife had with the house's owner revealed that he would be putting the house up for outright sale in the spring and that the current tenant would be moving in May... or sooner if a sale agreement comes first.

I anticipate the Munsters moving in sometime this summer. In comparison, that wouldn't be such a bad thing.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

gotta feel for my automobile

I woke up around 6, pretty much like I do every morning. I poured myself a bowl of cereal, made a cup of coffee and brought them upstairs to watch a little television before getting dressed to go to work. This is how most of my days begin.

As I was forcing my feet into my boots, I glanced out the window. Since I take the train to work — and have for the past eight years — my car is always parked in front of my house. I rarely move it, except for short trips to the supermarket or dry cleaners. Actually, for fear of losing my convenient parking spot, I will often take my wife's car on those quick errands. She parks in our driveway, so I know that the space will still be available when I return. However, if I do move my car, invariably, someone will have parked in my space within the few minutes that I was gone. I don't know what it is about that parking space, but it is a prime and sought-out location on my block. 

Looking out the window, I spotted something under the windshield wiper on the passenger's side of my car. I hurriedly gathered my wallet, train pass and keys. I kissed my still-sleeping wife "goodbye," and hastily went out the door. I lifted up the wiper and grabbed this small sheet of paper before the wind could whisk it away.

Hey, I have as good a sense of humor as the next guy, but what the actual fuck?!?

It was a generic-looking document, trying its very best to look official and imposing. I'm sure you've seen them before in joke and novelty stores. Someone purchased this for the sole purpose of pissing me off. And it worked. Mission fucking accomplished.

Look, it's fairly obvious that a lot of things piss me off, but this really pissed me off. A lot! I don't talk to a lot (almost none) of my neighbors. Not because I'm not friendly (which I'm not), but because... because... well, I just don't. On one side of my house, I have a woman who is a fucking inconsiderate, selfish asshole. She regularly sorts her recycling at 5 in the morning while singing show tunes at the top of her lungs. She also fights with her son at all hours, also at the top of their collective lungs. Plus, nearly every day, I find — and pick up — trash that has made its way from her overturned trash cans to my lawn and driveway. On the other side of my house, I have a family of renters who scream at their child so loudly that we can hear it right through the common fire wall that separates our individual dwellings. I try to be a good, cooperative neighbor, but I also keep to myself. I shovel my sidewalk when it snows. I take my trash out on the designated day and bring the empty receptacles back within the time period specified by the township ordinances. In the summer, I pay a guy to mow my lawn on a regular basis. I pay my property taxes on time... and in my particular township, those taxes are a bit high, if I may say so. But, I digress.

So, who the fuck feels it is their duty? obligation? right? to tell me where and for how long I can park my fucking car? Who has the fucking nerve to put a note like this on my car — to actually touch my car — and do it anonymously... dare I say, cowardly? Which one of my fucking, self-righteous neighbors is keeping a timer on how long I park my car in front of my own fucking house?

I hope whoever left that little note on my car is reading this. And I hope everyone else is listening carefully.

Gee, did that come off as "angry?" I sure hope so.

Okay... on second thought... I guess it was pretty funny.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

under my wheels

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

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

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

Warning! Warning! Danger! Danger!

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

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

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

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

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

Nice work there, Alex

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

clowns to the left of me, jokers to the right

Twenty-eight years ago, we moved into our home in the small suburban community of Elkins Park, just outside of Philadelphia, not far from where my wife grew up. We live on a quiet block, though most blocks in this neighborhood are pretty quiet. The only real noise comes from the infrequent blasts from the nearby fire house siren and the clatter of the regional railroad that runs twenty feet behind my house. (Having the train so close is actually a plus, as I can practically roll out of bed and make it to the station at the end of my street in a matter of seconds. Literally, seconds!) Aside from those two sonic sources, there are few disturbances... except for my neighbors on either side of my house.

I have chronicled the unneighborly exploits of one neighbor (here and here and especially here), but the other next-door neighbors are giving that nut a run for her money.

Our house is colloquially known as a twin. In other parts of the country, this type of house is known as a two-family dwelling, semi-detached or a duplex (although a duplex means something different in the Philadelphia area). A "twin" (or whatever you choose to call it), is simply a single building, with a separate entrance to each dwelling and there is a shared center wall. The lot line runs down the middle of the house. You own the half of the lot your home is on. You are responsible for the maintenance and insurance on your half of the house/lot. You can paint your house a different color than the other side, different roof color, whatever you'd like. Clear? When we moved in, the house connected by that aforementioned center wall was the residence of two women who kept to themselves. We would see them when snow needed to be shoveled or grass needed cutting, but we never socialized. After they moved, a succession of nondescript occupants moved in for short periods. Then, Len, a young, hip accountant with no apparent accounting skills, overpaid for the place and turned it into a fucking frat house. He threw regular, loud parties that raged into the wee hours of the night, frequently spilling out onto his front porch and lawn. The limited available street parking was hogged by visitors who would repeatedly block my driveway. After several years, Len's employer transferred him to sunny southern California. Unable to unload his investment outright, he offered the house as a rental. A slew of college students moved in for an 18-month "par-TAY" that picked up where Len's inconsiderate celebrations left off. The parking situation grew worse, as the four tenants each owned a car (as did their numerous guests) and soon our block began to resemble the long-term parking lot at the airport. At the end of a year-and-a-half, the students vacated and, thankfully, a normal, respectful family moved in - Rae and O. O., a general contractor, had his sights set on the slowly-crumbling, long-unoccupied single home directly across the street. Not long after he moved his family in to the home adjacent to ours, he packed up the whole shebang and moved ninety feet away, single-handedly rebuilding the place around his patient family's daily life.

Then, Fan's family moved in.

I sensed something off about them from the moment I met them. They struck me as out-of-place hippies — in a Manson Family sort of way. The dad, (who I'll call "Cool"), gave the impression of one of those survivalist guys who stockpile canned food, drinking water and high-powered weapons in his basement, knowing that government agents are gonna come pounding at his door after they shut off the electricity. Mrs. P and I attempted to be friendly (well, Mrs. P anyway), even inviting them to our yearly "Night Before Thanksgiving" get-together. They came, stayed a very short time and left. And slowly withdrew. They turned down subsequent invitations, or just plain didn't show up. No more neighborly "Hellos." No more acknowledging nods as we simultaneously dragged our trash cans down to the curb on Tuesday evenings for the next day's collection. We didn't push it. If they wished to be left alone, I would happily grant that wish. I've been doing it to my other neighbors for nearly 30 years, so I'm pretty good at it.

One evening, Mrs. P and I were sitting down to dinner. With no effort, I have a clear view of my attached neighbor's backyard from my kitchen window. I looked up from my veggie burger to see Cool skip off the wooden deck at the back of his house. He was carrying a plastic food storage container in his hand. He walked toward the fence that separates his yard from the train tracks just on the other side. He stretched up on tip-toes, removed the container's lid and dumped its contents over the fence. He then returned to his house. Over the next few weeks, I saw this ritual repeated almost daily.

In 28 years, I have never seen nor smelled the noxious odor of a skunk in our neighborhood. Since I witnessed Cool's "dumping procedure," the stench of skunk fumes has been a weekly occurrence. It's odd and bit coincidental that they started at the same time. Soon, the skunk smell was accompanied by this:

A groundhog! A fucking groundhog was brazenly sitting in my neighbor's yard, munching on some delicious, discarded morsel, thanks to Cool's Wildlife Smorgasbord. Whatever shit he's been dumping over the fence (a violation of township regulations), is now attracting all sorts of property-damaging critters. My neighbor is a renter, so having no real financial interest in the property, aside from a possible security deposit, he obviously doesn't give a shit. And, with a landlord living two-thousand miles away, even less of a shit is given.

In the past, I have called the local police for various reasons (a stolen bike, an on-going annoyance lawsuit, a bat that got into our house) and they have always been attentive, helpful and courteous. I called the Township Municipal Services to report this woodland creature incident and I am still waiting for a return phone call. In the meantime, the skunk smell is overpowering, strong enough to bring tears. And I spotted the groundhog in the yard again this morning. I think he gave me "the finger."

I wonder when the next round of neighbors are due, because this one (and his four-legged, furry pals) has over-stayed his welcome.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

I've got a bike, you can ride it if you like

For twenty-eight years, two 10-speed bikes stood motionless on my back porch. Previously, they resided in the bicycle storage room at my in-law's apartment building in Atlantic City. Before that, they took up an inconvenient hunk of floor space in my fiance's (now my wife of 30 years) living room. My bike got quite a workout in the early 1980s. I would often ride it late at night from my job on the edge of North Philadelphia, weaving dangerously in and out of traffic and across the cobblestone streets of Olde City to the Queen Village condo where I spent weekends with my future spouse. In the summer, after we were married, Mrs. P and I would wake early and ride our bikes on the famous Atlantic City Boardwalk, like we did when were were kids.

But then we bought a house and moved to the suburbs. Then we had a baby. Then the baby grew up and started school. And then leisure time slipped away, replaced by a bustling, busy life. And our bikes were soon ignored, relegated to the back porch, where they would lean on their extended kickstands undisturbed, dust gathering, tires deflating and dry-rotting, rust forming here and there.

Last Saturday, our neighbors Rae and O. had a yard sale and invited us to supplement their cast-offs with anything we'd like to add. My wife surveyed our three-story, six bedroom vault of accumulation and selected a couple of seldom-used beach chairs and a few rattan pieces that had worn out their welcome. After a quick dusting to make them presentable (and saleable), I lugged them across the street, and deposited them on my neighbor's front lawn where they stayed for approximately two minutes when a woman bought all of our stuff. 

O. and my wife had previously discussed the sale of our bikes. O. told us that, through an ad he placed on craigslist, a man was coming to see a bike that he was offering. O. invited us to bring over our two bikes and maybe the customer would be interested in a package deal. I dragged our two bikes from our back porch and wheeled them unsteadily across the street on flattened tires. O. opened the fortified high wooden gate to his backyard and I parked our 10-speeds next to his in a secluded area next to his large recycling bin.

This afternoon, O. called my wife in a panic. "Did you take your bike back?," he asked.

"No. Of course not.," she replied, "Why?"

O. gulped. "Someone stole our bikes! I moved them from my yard to the front porch because it was raining and now they're gone!"

"What?!?," my wife exclaimed in disbelief.

"Actually," he continued, "they left one of yours. The silver one. They took my bike and the red one." (The silver one that the thieves deemed unworthy was mine.) O. was very upset. A native Israeli, he began ranting about his disappointment in America. Mrs. P suggested that the police be notified. O. seemed confused. 

"Why call the police?," he asked.

Mrs. P explained that the proper procedure in this case was to file a police report. Then, officers will be extra concerned with the possibility of another theft. Not fully convinced, O. reluctantly called the police. (Actually, Rae made the call.) A short time later, a police car pulled up in front of our house. An officer emerged and headed straight over to Rae and O.'s house. My wife watched as the officer returned to his cruiser. He sat behind the wheel busying himself with some paper work, when My wife approached and introduced herself.

"Hi," she said, "I wanted to tell you that one of the bikes that was taken is mine."

"Yeah," the policeman smiled, "your neighbor told me. As a matter of fact, we just got a red bike over in the evidence locker."

"Really?," my wife questioned.

"Yeah," he continued, " a man just up the street gave a report earlier." The officer looked down at his clipboard and, in his best "Sgt. Joe Friday," read "just the facts" straight from the scribbled form. "He said that around four o'clock today he saw four black teenagers* walk up the front path of your neighbor's house, up to the front porch and come back down with two bikes. They ditched the red one on someone's lawn halfway down the block."

My wife followed the officer over to the police station. She was led to the evidence locker to identify the bike. The officer unlocked the gate and, sure enough, there was Mrs. P's red bike in all its dusty, flat-tire glory. The officer ripped a big "EVIDENCE" sticker off of the frame and my spouse maneuvered the bike into the back of her SUV.

When I got home from an evening doctor's appointment, I wheeled our two bikes — my wife's newly-returned red one and my unwanted silver one — back to the safety of our back porch, where, perhaps, they will reside for the next twenty-eight years without another harrowing adventure.

* * * * * * U P D A T E * * * * * *

The mighty Cheltenham Township Police force set up a surveillance team specifically focused on nabbing the wave of bicycle crime sweeping the area. On Wednesday, July 30, a vicious trio of youngsters — ranging in age from 8 to 15 — were apprehended by authorities. The gang's M.O. was snatching unattended bikes from porches, driveways, yards and unlocked garages. The little bastards were caught in the act. Thanks to the fine work by the Cheltenham Police, the reign of terror is over.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

* the officer's actual words

glory days

After eighteen seasons, Mrs. P and I chose not to renew our Philadelphia Phillies season tickets. It was a roller coaster experience from the lows of last-place finishes to the highs of a World Series win. We witnessed a no-hitter, a playoff clincher on the last day of the season, the implosion of the old toilet-bowl that was Veterans Stadium (the Fightin' Phils' home for 33 seasons) and the christening of the beautiful new, state-of-the-art Citizens Bank Park (now, celebrating its tenth anniversary). The Phillies themselves have come full circle in that time, going from a pathetic conglomerate of uncoordinated losers to scrappy hustlers, hungry for the win and now returning to an aging group of "memories of one-time greatness." A lot of factors played into our ultimate decision. So as the 2014 baseball season approached, we resigned ourselves to the reality of watching the Phillies on television.

But, as the Phillies were opening their season on the road in Arlington, Texas, Mrs. P and I received word that the law firm that employs me had offered the Marketing Department (of which I am a member) tickets for the first Sunday home game. The firm has access to a so-called "luxury suite," one of many corporate-owned private boxes that accommodate sixteen people, lavishing guests with food and drink and a personal hostess. It's a pretty sweet deal, especially if you are used to sitting out in the "regular" seats with the commoners. While the suite is very nice and affords a great way to see a ball game, it does not offer the best seats in the house.

"May I see your tickets, please?"

Early this week, while the Phils were losing their home opener at the hands of the (currently) red-hot Milwaukee Brewers, Mrs. P called me at work to see if we had plans for Thursday evening. I told her that we did not and she cheerfully informed me that Rae and O., our neighbors from across the street, invited (actually insisted) us to join them at the final Phillies-Brewers match-up. Rae works for a multi-billion dollar international pharmaceutical company*. The company owns four seats in the prestigious Diamond Club section of Citizens Bank Park. That's the cordoned-off section that you can see from your shitty, third-deck seats and wonder "How do you get to sit in those seats?" Well, the answer is: You gotta know someone.

"I must be in the front row!"

On Thursday, we arrived at the ballpark and followed the flow of the crowd around the concourse until we found ourselves at a set of imposing glass doors that screamed "for privileged people only!" We flashed our gold-stamped tickets and were happily welcomed into the fray. Smiling staff members ushered us towards a flight of stairs where we were wrist-banded and admitted into a secret world of gourmet buffets, a fully-stocked, top-shelf bar and impeccably-themed baseball everything — tables, chairs, light fixtures, floor tiles — everything! It was awesome. Our special gold tickets entitled us to unlimited food and beverages. That's right, unlimited! Of course, we partook of the typical baseball game fare — goat cheese and wild mushroom ravioli with pesto and focaccia, freshly prepared before our eyes. Also, forgotten in the lyrics of  "Take Me Out to The Ball Game," there was grilled steak and chicken paninis (for you carnivores) and a full salad bar, plus a huge selection of alcoholic and soft drinks — all included in the price of admission. For us, that was "free."

"Don't cry."

After dinner, we found our way down to our actual seats. According to our tickets, we were in Row 3. Aramark, the multifaceted food service entity, occupies seats in Row 2. There is no Row 1. Row 1 is the field. We were so close to home plate, I thought I was going to be tagged to catch that evening's game. We were mere feet from the Brewer's on-deck circle. During the game, I marveled at how young all the players are. They look like children, even Aramis Ramírez, a seventeen-year veteran who played for two other teams. I was so close, I could tell which players need a shave. When admitted steroid user Ryan Braun came up to take some practice swings, the taunts and insults from behind me were so loud and so clear, he had to have heard them. Perhaps he was removing his batting helmet to wipe away a tear. Or perhaps he was just blotting up some sweat and didn't really care what the Philadelphia fans are hollering at him.

A nice young lady introduced herself as our server for the evening. She displayed a list of the complementary offerings and, once again, we over indulged, requesting sodas and candy and peanuts and Cracker Jack (just like the song says.) She also told us that the buffet would be open until the sixth inning. I made a mental note to run up at the bottom of the fifth for ice cream in a souvenir mini Phillies helmet Maybe two! I'm sure they had my favorite flavor — "free."

"Better ...or worse?  Better ...or worse?  Better...? "

The overall experience was surreal. I have been watching baseball since I was a kid, but I never saw a game from this vantage point. The balls come rocketing from the pitcher's hand (especially from a master like Phillies starter Cliff Lee). The foul balls drop from the sky like atomic bombs. And of course there are things you never get to see, unless you are this close. Like this guy, for instance. Between innings, he stood at the edge of the field next to a guy seated behind a giant-lensed camera. With an enormous headset straddling his skull, he raised a series of colored, Plexiglas squares high above his head. He meticulously timed the duration of each hoist, substituting a different hue as he ticked off the seconds on his wristwatch. I was fascinated by this guy! I had never noticed him before, but now, being just a few feet from me and I couldn't stop looking at him! What was his purpose? Who was on the other end of his sophisticated communication device? And, most importantly, what did he write for "occupation" on his 1040 form?

The Phillies, who took an early lead on a home run by off-season acquisition Marlon Byrd, were now in a catch-up situation. The stalwart Brewers widened the gap in the score. The Phillies, who couldn't hit a ball out of the infield, were obviously not up to the task of winning. The game plodded along. O., admittedly not familiar with baseball, was losing interest. He asked me the location of seats that my "firm law" provides. (O.'s native tongue is Hebrew, where, like most languages, the adjective follows the noun it is modifying.) He fiddled with his phone, posing for "selfies" of Rae and himself. He was bored. Judging by the vast amount of empty seats, the remainder of the 25,000 announced attendees had had enough of this drubbing as well. In the ninth, third baseman Cody Asche swung at an outside fastball for out number three and the weary Phils recorded their fourth consecutive loss.

But, man, were those seats great!

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

* I originally thought that she was cooking up meth in her basement when she told us she worked in the pharmaceutical industry.