i think i'm in trouble

Last week, I wrote about baseball. The week before, I wrote about being an instigator on the internet. This week, I combine the two.

I spend a lot of time on the internet, specifically Facebook. On any given day, I get a lot of suggestions to join various Facebook groups based on my interests or something I may have clicked on or something I searched for on Google or something I discussed with my wife or even something I may have just thought about. You know how the technology has advanced in those algorithm things.

Because I have shown an interest in baseball, primarily my hometown's team, I get a lot of suggestions to join Facebook groups that are devoted to all things Philadelphia Phillies. In an effort to entice me to join, I get to see a post here and a post there from the particular group — sort of a "free preview" as though it was a weekend of free HBO MAX. In typical "Josh Pincus" fashion, I feel compelled to leave smart-ass comments mostly for my own amusement, but also hoping they will cause the algorithm to immediately reject such unwarranted — and unwanted — behavior. So far, it hasn't worked, but I am still mildly amused.

The once-dominant Phillies have hit a late-season snag. After a rocky start, the Phillies turned things around, riding high and defeating opponents left and right... until they didn't. While they still hold a substantial lead over the other teams in the league, the gap has begun to narrow as the season winds down to its final weeks — weeks that will determine who moves on to the coveted post-season. With a glimmer of hope for ending this nasty slump, the Phillies scored a whopping 11 runs on the Kansas City Royals on August 24. The Phils' offense was on fire with bats a-swinging, including catcher J.T. Realmuto knocking two over the outfield wall and racking up 7 RBIs. Every starter in the Philles line-up recorded a hit. Well... almost everyone. Poor Alec Bohm, the Philles usually-stellar third baseman, couldn't hit nuthin' despite five times to the plate. At the end of the evening's contest, the Royals retreating to their clubhouse with their collective tails between their legs, the fraternal assembly that is the current Phillies roster, hung around to congratulate their efforts. Photographers captured a tender and intimate moment as first baseman Bryce Harper, who went 1-5 with an RBI in the game, threw a brotherly arm across the sagging shoulders of Alec Bohm in a gesture of camaraderie, consolation and compassion for his beleaguered teammate. A Facebook group called A2D Radio posted the image with the single word caption "THIS!". Hell, it didn't even need a caption. Everything you needed to know about the team bond these players have for each other was apparent in this photo. Harper's Jesus-like expression of benevolence. Bohm's sadness and frustration with just a touch of hope at the words of his colleague. The dimly-lit, slightly out-of-focus, slightly off-center composition. It was all there. I didn't even need the thirteen hashtags A2D thought were necessary. The initial post generated 41 thousand positive reactions as well as 276 comments, most offering some sort of variation on the "I love this team!" sentiment.

I say most offered a positive comment. Most, not all. Let us not forget about one Josh Pincus, the internet's favorite redheaded stepchild who was only put here to be the cynical smart-aleck that you have come to know and love... or loathe... whichever the case may be. 

Among the outpouring of love, I commented: 

Yeah. I did that. Yeah.... I know. But it made me laugh and that is what is most important. Jeez, it even garnered 32 reactions — granted three of them were angry. But, as they say, there's no such thing as bad publicity. Honestly, I was just making a joke. I'm always making a joke. Some are funny. Some are not. I know that. Depending who you are, none of them are funny, but I can't help that. We each have our own taste in humor. Personally, I don't find Sebastian Maniscalco to be funny, but I think Andy Kaufman was hysterical. I love the Marx Brothers but Laurel and Hardy do nothing for me. I understand that my sense of humor isn't for everyone and I will happily admit when one of my jokes bombs. Just like I'm sure you'll happily admit when one of my jokes bombs.

And then along came a wave of folks who were only too happy to tell me exactly how funny they thought my comment was. On a scale of 1 to 10, they found it to be not funny at all.

I was told, in no uncertain terms, to:

• get my head out of the gutter
• grow up
• grow the fuck up
• come out of the closet (After all, where would the internet be without a homophobic slur. One thing you can say about Facebook, it is consistent.)

In addition, I was informed that "one day I would make a friend," that I'd "probably start gooning all over [my] living room" (I didn't understand that one.) and that I had made a "douche bag remark." (That one I understood.) I was questioned with "Dude? Really?" and "Are you 10?" All in all, it was a funny diversion until I got bored and looked for the next post just begging for a "Josh Pincus" comment.

Will this make me stop making comments on the internet? Are you kidding? Does the Pope shit in the woods? (Oh, you know what I mean.) No sir. This is only the beginning. I am on a mission.

And that mission is to make me laugh. Me. Not you.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

it's obvious

Twelve years ago, I was working in the marketing department in the main office of a national chain of an after-market auto parts supplier. I worked in a large room with a dozen other graphic designers, pumping out full-color newspaper circulars. It was a grueling process. We had to keep up with the various price changes and product switches from category leaders, along with the whims and fancies of several vice-presidents in charge of  "something or other." These guys would wander through the department and peer over the shoulders of my colleagues and me as we worked diligently on our computers, moving and adjusting our circulars, as per instructions determined in a weekly marketing meeting. In an effort to justify their jobs, a VP would — on the spot — instruct a particular artist to "change that block from red to yellow" ...only switch it back to red an hour later. This would occur on a daily, sometimes hourly, basis, forcing an artist to make a pointless change and carry said change across a dozen different demographic-specific versions. Things like changing the width of a dotted line around a coupon or flipping the positions of adjacent items in an ad were regular and anticipated changes... often made as the print deadline loomed closer. They were changes for the sake of change, mainly to reinforce the ego and control of upper management.

One day, one of my coworkers brought in a microwaveable meal for consuming in the noon hour. In the meantime, the package sat on his desk. It was a quick-serve bowl of pasta that had newly been introduced to the market. As artists often do, some of us assessed the package design and surmised a scenario for how it was created. The first thing that was noticed was a large out-of-place block on the otherwise well-designed package front that read "GREAT FOR LUNCH" in big, gaudy yellow type. The rest of the package featured a nicely-placed logo, a "beauty shot" of the fully-cooked product and a few small pictures of other available varieties of the same line. As a group, familiar with the modus operandi of a controlling VP — one who perceives himself as a "marketing genius," we figured that the design department at this particular company had just finished the final version of the packaging. Then, one of these VPs came by and insisted on the inclusion of the "GREAT FOR LUNCH" callout, reasoning that how else would anyone know it could be eaten for lunch. The designers had to scramble to change the design, staying late at the office to redo the design of every package in the line. Meanwhile, the VP went home at a normal hour and told his family: "I did marketing today!"

A dozen years later, I came across a similar scenario, leading me to believe...  nay, confirm... that some things never change and people "in charge" like to be in charge and like to let everyone know they are in charge. I ordered a box of foil wrapped, pre-moistened wipes to clean my glasses. After a few days, the package arrived. The box featured a clean, white design with the essential information presented plainly and pleasingly across the front of the box. The logo, the name of the product, how many wipes the box contained and a small row of icons indicating the various items on which the wipes could be used, besides eyeglasses. However, in capital letters in a spot of white space, were the words "IT REALLY CLEANS!" This was obviously the last-minute work of some corporate stooge who felt compelled to exercise his superior position over the lowly designers in the company's marketing department. "How will anyone know that this cleaning product really cleans unless we put it on the box?," he thought and, channeling Pharaoh in The Ten Commandments, he proclaimed "So let it be  written and so let it be done." Once again, a group of designers had to stay late at the office to implement ridiculous changes made by someone who has no business in the field of marketing.

Look, I don't claim to be an expert in marketing. I have, however, been exposed to bad marketing for over forty years. (To be fair, I've seen good marketing, too.) But, it seems that bad marketing is more wide spread. Hell, I worked in a marketing department for ten years under someone who didn't know shit from shit, yet she kept her job when I got let go.

I think that all of these so-called, self-proclaimed "marketing geniuses" should all meet for dinner at this place to discuss their various strategies.

After all, they must have the best food in town. The sign says so! Otherwise, how would people know?

Genius!

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

we're off to see the wizard

Tired of searching through countless channels for something to watch, Mrs. P and I settled on a repeat showing of The Wizard of Oz that was just starting on Turner Classic Movies. Of course we have both seen The Wizard of Oz numerous times, but there is something comforting about watching the venerable film on real-time broadcast television (without commercials) that feels like a 102-minute visit with an old friend. (Honestly, there are some "old friends" that I couldn't spend 102 seconds with... but that's a story for another blog post.)

Cut!

Although it was released 22 years before I was born, I am obsessively familiar with The Wizard of Oz. Most people my age share my familiarity with the film and have fond memories of its yearly showing on television. The reason for its cross-generational "beloved" status, I believe, is the fact that the storytelling moves along at a pretty brisk clip. Unlike the current crop of bloated, backstory-heavy, CGI-laden, three-plus hour films being churned out of Hollywood, The Wizard of Oz wastes not a second of footage. Every scene is meaningful and adds to the flow of the story. Perhaps, this is why so many "Oz-adjacent" movies were failures at the box office. They suffered from too much explanation of a subject with which the audience was already familiar. They were bogged down with unnecessary subplots that added nothing but time. As a matter of fact, in an effort to keep the film concise, a scene was cut from The Wizard of Oz after initial screenings. The producers felt a particular musical number slowed the action down. (This was the notorious "Jitterbug" dance sequence, clips of which are readily available on YouTube.) 

Even though I love The Wizard of Oz, watching the movie with me is akin to watching The Rocky Horror Picture Show at a Saturday midnight showing. I recite dialogue along with the long-dead actors. I comment on the action. I make up on-the-spot, smart-ass jokes and repeat tried-and-true ones from previous viewings... and I question some of the more peculiar and nonsensical things that occur. Yeah, I know that it's about a girl that travels over the rainbow via a cyclone and lands in a full-color world filled with talking scarecrows, green witches and flying monkeys (blue ones, too). That aside, there are lines of dialogue and action sequences that make no sense — even in the context of a fantasy story. I think the fact that it was made in 1939 and included some of the same snappy dialogue that was so prevalent in films of the era is part of the "problem" I have with The Wizard of Oz. But there are other things that, even after zillions of viewings, still don't sit right with me.

How old is Miss Gulch supposed to be? Clara Blandick (who played "Auntie Em") is 63. It can be surmised that she has known Miss Gulch for years. Auntie Em acknowledges that Miss Gulch owns "half the county," however Margaret Hamilton — obviously disguised by theatrical make-up and costuming designed to hide her age — is only 37 years old. And what sort of successful business venture allowed a 37 year-old to "own half the county?" And who owns the other half?

Frank times five.

When Dorothy stumbles across Frank Morgan as "Professor Marvel," the first of five roles he portrays in the film, he rifles through her belongings while offering the young girl a crystal ball reading. I find this very creepy. In true "fake psychic" fashion, he alludes to Dorothy's aunt. "Auntie Em!," Dorothy confirms. The good Professor corrects her, stating that the woman in question is, in fact, named "Emily." How does he know this? Her name is not written on the photo he finds in Dorothy's basket. Her full name could be "Emma" or "Emmaline" or "Embeth" or "Emmylou." Hell, it could even be a nickname for "Melissa" or "Gemma." What does this guy know? He didn't even get the reference Dorothy made about the "crowned heads of Europe" and that's painted right on his fucking wagon!

Jerk.

Once Dorothy gets to Oz, she meets the true villain of the story. No, not the Wicked Witch of the West, but Glinda, the so-called Good Witch of the North. This seemingly sweet and nice, pink-clad fiend is the first citizen of Oz that Dorothy meets... and within seconds, she insults the poor girl. "Are you a good witch or a bad witch?," she innocently asks. Dorothy answers that she is not a witch at all, adding that "witches are old and ugly." Glinda giggles and tells Dorothy that she herself is a witch. An astonished Dorothy, wishing to be cordial to her greeter in this unfamiliar land, says, "I never heard of a beautiful witch before." Glinda replies, "Only bad witches are ugly!" So... if she asked Dorothy is she was a good witch or a bad witch, that means she hadn't quite determined if Dorothy was beautiful or ugly, knowing full well that she was a good witch and therefore beautiful. Glinda still required confirmation of Dorothy's "witch" status because her level of beauty wasn't good enough for Glinda. Later in the film, she makes it snow on Dorothy and her companions to counteract the effects of the poppies designed to put the crew to sleep... knowing full well it would rust one of Dorothy's friends. In the film's conclusion, she announces that Dorothy could have returned home to Kansas at anytime, that she always had the power. When questioned "why didn't you tell her?," Glinda smugly replies "She wouldn't have believed me?" Did you even bring it up and let Dorothy decide? For goodness sake, you told her there was a wizard at the end of the yellow brick road and she believed that! Dorothy begged to go home for nearly two hours and you never, ever mentioned that a couple of clicks on her new shoes could provide that in "two seconds." (Those are your words, Glinda!) It's funny when Glinda's "traveling bubble" shows up in the final scene at the Emerald City, the Scarecrow points and says "Here's someone who can help you." Glinda? Really? She hasn't been helpful yet!

When Dorothy meets the Scarecrow, she tells him that the crows in Kansas would be frightened by a talking and dancing Scarecrow. He asks: "Where's Kansas?" Dorothy explains, "That's where I'm from" and the Scarecrow doesn't press her for more information. "That's where I'm from" doesn't answer his question. That was pretty rude! Oh, wait... he doesn't have a brain. Fuck him. He probably forgot the question anyway.

Dorothy's initial meeting with her three traveling buddies in Oz culminates in a similarly melodic song, each specific about what the characters seeks from the Wizard. The Scarecrow and the Tin Man's renditions are seamless with their dialogue and work as a plea to convince Dorothy that they should be included on her journey to the Emerald City. However the Cowardly Lion awkwardly sets his song up with the introduction "I just gotta let you know how I feel" even though they have already decided to take him with them to the Emerald City... but.... he sings anyway.

Why does the Wicked Witch of the West have gripper tape wrapped around her broomstick? Does she use this in case a pick-up game of stickball breaks out on the yellow brick road or among the Winkies at her castle? Are there sporting goods stores in Oz? This is a pretty specialized item to obtain. Sure they have metal buffing services, hay stuffing services and a beauty parlor at the Emerald City, but gripper tape? That's a big ask. They could probably order it, though.

Speaking of the castle, when Dorothy is held prisoner by the Wicked Witch, brave Toto escapes to alert the Scarecrow, the Tin Man and the Cowardly Lion of her location and her predicament. The intrepid trio make their way into the castle and Tin Man begins hacking at the wooden door of the room where Dorothy is imprisoned with his ax. From the other side of the door, Dorothy announces: "Hurry! The hourglass is almost empty?" referring to the timekeeping device the witch left as a reminder of her fate. However, Dorothy's rescuers have never seen the hourglass. How come they don't stop and question: "What hourglass?" You didn't say anything about an hourglass! What are you talking about? Are you still tripping from the poppies? I thought the snow took care of that?" Nope, they just continue to break the door down. When they finally get to Dorothy, not one of them points and says: "Oh! That hourglass!"

In the final scene, Dorothy is saying her tearful goodbyes before she heads back to Kansas with the Wizard in the hot-air balloon he absconded from the Omaha State Fair. She says goodbye to the Tin Man who tells her his new heart is breaking. She says goodbye to the Cowardly Lion who acknowledges that he would have never gotten his courage if it weren't for Dorothy. Then she turns to the Scarecrow and — right in front of the other two — she tells the Scarecrow that she will miss him most of all. The Tin Man and the Lion can hear you, Dorothy! We can all hear you! That is pretty insulting! After all, what exactly did he do that the others didn't? Geez! Worst of all, the goddamn Scarecrow doesn't even say a word! He doesn't thank her for her assistance in getting a brain. He doesn't even say "goodbye." I guess being named "Interim Wizard" went right to his newly-gifted brain!

So, finally, Dorothy is going home. But, Toto jumps out of Dorothy's arms to chase the Oz equivalent of a cat. If you watch carefully, the balloon just doesn't "up and go" without Dorothy. No, the Tin Man continues to unravel the docking rope and barely makes an attempt to pull the balloon back down... even though he is still holding the rope! It is obvious that he selfishly wants Dorothy to stay in Oz. Only he knows why.

I didn't even bring up curious lines of dialogue, like "Here, have some cruellers" or "You're more trouble than you're worth one way or another" and, when Dorothy asks a castle guard if she can have the witch's broomstick after melting their tormentor, he replies, "Yes! And take it with you!" Well, of course, she going to take it with her! She doesn't just want to hold the witch's broomstick, she wants a murder trophy.... like a serial killer.

Oh! And what about that bucket of water! If you know that water will melt you, why are you keeping open buckets of it around your castle? You are just asking for one of your disgruntled employees to dump that bucket on your head after denying a perfectly reasonable vacation request. The witch should have banned all open containers of water from her castle. She knew about the magical powers in her sister's shoes, but didn't think leaving buckets of water all around  her castle was a bad idea.

One more thing.... Where does the red brick road lead to? 

Oh look.... I can watch The Wizard of Oz anytime I want! I think I'll watch it now.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

i started a joke

I think I'm a pretty funny guy. It doesn't matter if you don't think I'm funny... as long as I think I'm funny, because my humor is purely for my own amusement. If you happen to think the things I say are funny, well, that's just a happy by-product of me amusing myself. As a matter of fact, when someone doesn't "get" my humor, that makes it all the more funny. And if they get angry at the "playing dumb" sarcasm, which is the tone of a lot of my humor, well.... it just gets funnier. For me, anyway... and that's what's most important.

Since I hopped on to Facebook, I have had a great time amusing myself by posting silly pictures with sillier captions or leaving slyly sarcastic comments on other people's legitimately earnest posts. I just sit back and marvel at how many people don't get that I am joking. I laugh at how many people will "mansplain" a topic of which I am clearly making light. Well, clearly to me, anyway, and, as we have already established, that is the goal. The people who have known me personally (IRL, as it were) usually know when I am joking... which is always. The folks who only know me through an internet connection should figure things out within a few posts. C'mon, did I really think that Dennis the Menace found Mr. Wilson dead on the sofa... no matter what the screenshot of my television depicts? Do I need someone to explain that George Reeves was not wearing his Superman suit under his Civil War-era garb in his brief appearance in Gone with the Wind? It's a joke! I'm joking! They're all jokes!

A few days ago, MeTV, the retro television network I spend an inordinate amount of time watching, posted a little quiz about the final episode of M*A*S*H in which the character of "Radar O'Reilly" appears. A brief intro was followed by a series of multiple choice questions aimed to test readers memories about details of the show. I discovered the post through a Facebook link under the headline: "How well do you remember the ''Good-bye Radar'' episode of M*A*S*H?" It was accompanied by a photo of actor Gary Burghoff in character as the naïve company clerk with suspect extrasensory powers. At this point, there were just a few comments from readers, mostly affirming their sentimentality towards the series and that  episode in particular. This was the perfect — perfect! — scenario for a little of that patented Josh Pincus "smart-ass" humor that I've come to know and love (I cannot speak for you.) 

I have been a fan of M*A*S*H for years. I watched it in first-run and have watched reruns dozens — possibly hundreds — of times over the past forty years. (That's right, M*A*S*H had its final original episode broadcast forty years ago.) I like some episodes, I dislike some episodes. I like some characters. I dislike some characters. Overall, It's a show I will watch and one with which I am very familiar. Heck, my favorite all-time television episode is a 1974 episode of M*A*S*H called "Adam's Ribs." (I even wrote about it HERE.) Eventhough I like M*A*S*H, I will gladly make fun of it, because I make fun of everything... because everything is funny. So, injecting a little bit of sarcasm in the otherwise staid comment section was something that was custom-made for ol' JP. Here is my comment:

Of course M*A*S*H fans will recognize this as a deliberate misquote from the poignant 1975 episode "Abyssinia, Henry," that marked McLean Stevenson's swan song as the befuddled commanding officer "Lt. Col. Henry Blake." The line was delivered by Gary Burghoff to an unsuspecting cast and the tearful reactions in the episode's final scene were real. But, the internet is a relentless, humorless place, fraught with serious people who feel it is their self-appointed duty to keep the internet honest. Instead of putting their focus on inconceivable concepts like a child sex-trafficking ring operated by a former US senator under the cover of a Washington DC pizza parlor or the gubernatorial appointment of a religious zealot to a municipal board of directors, after he claimed that the public water system is responsible for turning men gay, they choose to put their time and energy into setting me straight on my confusion over a four-decade old sitcom. This is the battle they choose to fight. This is the hill they choose to die upon. The responses to my comment came in thick and fast.

CLICK HERE TO ENLARGE

It was hysterical! Do these people really think I was being serious? Let's analyze this for a second... First of all, if I can post a comment on Facebook, then I have access to the internet. If I have access to the internet, don't they realize that I can look this quote up in a matter of seconds? And, if they are such experts and bound to uphold the good and decent legacy of M*A*S*H, don't they see that the quote is spot-on accurate, except for the substitution of Radar's real name for that of Henry Blake's? And, most of all, don't they realize that this line was delivered by RADAR HIMSELF?!?! The whole thing is stupid, obviously comical and far from serious. 

At last count, ten people had made some attempt at correcting me, either with a brief "No" or "Wrong" to some actually taking the time to explain why I am wrong. These, of course, are the same people who enjoyed seeing the added request of "show your work" at the bottom of a lengthy word problem in seventh-grade math class.

A few responses were phrased as though I had just revealed an extramarital affair at a memorial service for Grandpa. How dare you! How dare you sully the legacy of the greatest achievement in the history of broadcast television! M*A*S*H stands for all that is good and decent in this world and making a factually incorrect statement about any aspect of the series is akin to blasphemy... even worse. A couple were written as though M*A*S*H was a documentary, Radar was real person and I flunked the final exam. The more self-righteous responses to my stupid joke were posted, the funnier it got.

I recently began selling t-shirts on the website TeePublic. A recent addition was this one, prompted by my regular response to those who don't "get" me. Perhaps you'd like one too. They can be very helpful... and they come in a wide variety of sizes and colors.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

fooling yourself

Plenty of people have called me "dumb" or "stupid" or "foolish" in my life. I am the first one to admit when that is applicable. Unfortunately, it is more often than I'd like. Let me warn you. This post might have you calling me some names. 

For years now, since I was diagnosed with hypertension, I have been starting my day with a bowl of cereal. My doctor believed that it would be beneficial to my health if I ate breakfast every morning and, for the most part, I listen to my doctor... except when I don't. So — on doctor's orders — I eat breakfast. And my cereal of choice is something sensible, unlike my selections when I was a kid. No loops comprised of "froot" or "smacks" glazed with "honey" (or "sugar" if you are as old as I am). Nothing with mini marshmallows or indeterminate shapes that rip apart the roof of my mouth. No, my cereal choices are limited and I have opted for Cheerios.

In 1941, General Mills introduced "Cheerioats," later shortening the name to "Cheerios." They were an extruded circle of tasteless grain that weren't the least bit enhanced by the addition of milk. Touted by the likes of "Cheeri O'Leery," a cute little cartoon character that interacted with the top stars of the day, and later "The Cheerio Kid," an All-American boy who got his muscles from Cheerios, the cereal was a top seller for years. In 1976, over 35 years after its initial introduction, Cheerios offered an alternative flavor - Cinnamon Cheerios. Three years later, they premiered Honey Nut Cheerios. By the time I started to eat breakfast on a daily basis, Honey Nut Cheerios was the top selling brand of cereal in the United States.

I like Honey Nut Cheerios. I like them a lot. I go through a box approximately every ten days. To be honest, I don't require a lot of variety in what I eat. I have been eating a bowl of cereal every day for the past seven years and the overwhelming majority of those bowls have been filled with Honey Nut Cheerios. Every once in a while, I decide to switch to another kind of cereal, but I always find myself coming back to Honey Nut Cheerios. As a matter of fact, while I am eating a different kind of cereal, I try to  calculate how much longer the contents of the box will last until I can return to my old stand-by. I don't want to be wasteful. I will dutifully eat a bowl of cereal that I do not like just to finish it off. It won't be the last thing I ever eat (until it actually is), so I eat and grin and bear it. 

My usual choice — when I stray from Honey Nut Cheerios — is Quaker Corn Chex. These are awful. They are thin, sharp-edged squares that are reminiscent of eating milk-soaked throwing stars. "Corn" is actually the most appealing flavor of the available "Chex" line of cereal that includes wheat, rice and their own version of a honey nut flavor. I have not tried their take on honey nut, but based on the blandness of the ones I have tried, I will pass for now. Chex has produced and discontinued a number of flavors over the years. I imagine they all lacked any sort of taste and decided to stick with the unpalatable originals. I have tried various versions of fruit-infused cereal including several varieties of raisin bran, blueberry and strawberry Cheerios and a limited edition box of frosted flakes labeled "banana creme" with a smiling Tony the Tiger offering up a brimming bowl of the stuff. The freshly-opened box emitted a fake, chemically, laboratory-conceived aroma of bananas. The flakes themselves appeared to be standard Kellogg's Frosted Flakes, but the overpowering smell made them difficult to consume. But consume them I did and, after ten days, I happily tossed the flattened yellow-hued box into the recycling bin. 

I have tried to introduce regular Frosted Flakes into my cereal rotation, but they are coated with a ridiculous amount of sugar. I don't remember them being so sweet when I was a kid, or, perhaps I'm just more sensitive to sugar since I stopped eating candy bars and ice cream and stopped drinking soda. So, I always seem to gravitate back to Honey Nut Cheerios. I don't know why I keep straying. All of the cereal I eat that isn't Honey Nut Cheerios, I do not like! As a matter of fact, when we are compiling our weekly shopping list, I have told my wife to add Honey Nut Cheerios on a regular basis. I have also said that if I ever ask for anything but Honey Nut Cheerios, just write "Honey Nut Cheerios" anyway — no matter what I ask for. It has become a running joke in the Pincus house. Mrs. P asks if I need cereal. I answer "yes, I do" and I mention that I'd like to try something different. She laughs and — not matter what I say — she adds "Honey Nut Cheerios" to the list. I have gone so far as to request Gerber's baby cereal, the likes of which have not seen the inside of my house in over thirty years and she writes "Honey Nut Cheerios" as she nods her head in agreement.

Today, however, I managed to convince her to purchase something called "Cheerios Cinnamon Oat Crunch." I don't know... it was late at night... we were tired... Mrs. Pincus was reviewing our shopping list for an early morning curb-side pick-up and I nonchalantly snuck the request in as though it was another head of lettuce. All I know is... as soon as I finish the box of Honey Nut Cheerios I am currently working on, I will crack open that box of Cheerios Cinnamon Oat Crunch, fill up a bowl, add milk and prepare myself for more disappointment.

Almost as disappointing as reading an entire blog post about me and my eating cereal habits.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

that thing you do

As we are in the throes of Chanukah — I believe we are up to night eighteen or nineteen — I am reminded of just how not religious I am.

I have never been a big fan or supporter of religion. I attended synagogue only a handful of times as a child. As a teen, I went to many Bar and Bat Mitzvahs of friends, but didn't have a ceremony of my own. Of course, I took full advantage of religious holidays as a day off from school, but those days never ever included any sort of formal observances.

In 1982, I met Mrs. P (of course, she wouldn't actually become "Mrs. P" for another two years), who, I would later find out, was pretty traditional in her religious beliefs and practices. Within a few minutes of our first meeting, she informed me that she observed the laws of kashrut (keeping kosher). I immediately made a joke, stating that the only people I knew who kept kosher were in their eighties. Indeed, my wife kept a kosher home and when we got married, since she maintained the kitchen, the rules of kashrut were applied there, as well. 

In my pre-vegetarian days, I still ate what I wished (except, of course, in our house). But when our son was born, I made the decision to go "full-on kosher." I figured it would be confusing and contradictory, in his young eyes, if Daddy ate one way and Mommy ate another. As our son grew, he was enrolled in Jewish schools, with religious reinforcement at synagogue and at home. We lit candles every Shabbat (Friday evening) and heartily celebrated all Jewish holidays — major and minor, including a lot I never heard of and some I suspected my wife was making up. I was still not comfortable with the religious aspect of the whole deal, but the bond that was formed within our family was very strong, so I overlooked what I saw as "nonsense."

As our son entered the waning days of his high school years, he questioned everything. Every single concept, idea and reason for tradition. Of course, he brought his questions home for discussion. My wife stood by her traditions, but I, who had no religious upbringing, was in complete agreement with the utter baloney I always felt religion represented. However, as time marched on, my wife's solid beliefs relaxed and softened. We attended synagogue services less and less — with my attendance dwindling to "never." I stopped requesting days off from work for all Jewish holidays. I still (reluctantly) go to holiday dinners at my in-laws' house, mostly because the religious rituals and the blind, fanatically-outlandish behavior of those who participate in them make me cringe.

And, now, ladies and gentlemen, here's where our story takes a ridiculous, inexplicable turn....

I still light Chanukah candles. I like lighting Chanukah candles — every night for as long as the holiday lasts. When I was a kid, we had an electric menorah (technically a chanukiah, as a menorah is a word that refers to any candelabra) that featured light bulbs that just twisted into a socket with each new night of the holiday. It wasn't until I got married that I was introduced to an actual Chanukah menorah with actual wax candles. My wife and I, and later our son, light one every year during the nights between the end of November and the end of December that the lunar calendar has designated as Chanukah. Mrs. P and I no longer exchange gifts, but when our boy was a boy, it was another instance of warm family bonding. Why do I still do this and still enjoy it? I don't know.

Every year, on the days corresponding to the Hebrew dates of the 9th and 28th of Tishrei respectively, I light a yahrzeit candle in remembrance of the passing of my mother and father. Although my parents practiced little to no observance of religion, I remember my mom kindling a little shot glass-sized candle twice a year in honor of her parents. There are really no religious overtones (as far as I can tell) associated with this ritual. I miss my parents, though not a day goes by that I don't make some sort of reference to them. I don't say any sort of prayer before I light the candle (Don't even get me started on my feelings about prayer, that's a subject for another, extremely lengthy, blog). I just light it and that's it. Why do I do this? I don't know.

Just this past week, my department at work held its annual holiday luncheon and gift exchange. After lunch was finished, we gathered around a big conference room table that was laden with gaily wrapped gifts. The distribution plan involves each member of the department bringing a gift. Then numbers are selected from a hat (or bucket or bowl... whatever holly-decorated vessel in available). One by one, in number order, participants choose one of the gifts and unwrap it. The next person can either pick a new gift or "steal" a gift that has already been chosen. This process, which, at times, can verge on vicious, continues until all the gifts are opened and no fist fights erupt. In some circles, this party game is called a "Yankee swap," or "white elephant exchange," or a number of racially-insensitive names that I will not mention.

At this year's event, I opened, and eventually came home with, the most fitting gift. Even as I tore the concealing Santa Claus-themed wrap, several of my co-workers began to laugh knowingly. It was a game with a very Josh Pincus-centric title:

I think this sums things up nicely.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

***** ***** ***** ***** *****

My annual Christmas music compilation is available as a 
FREE DOWNLOAD 
at ge.tt for a limited time.

This year, it’s a whopping 81 minutes worth of pure Christmas cacophony that’s sure to ruin your holiday celebration within seconds. Need to clear your house of unwanted guest who have overstayed their holiday welcome? Download this compilation, crank it up and watch those ungrateful freeloaders head for the door. (You may even follow them.)
 You get twenty-seven eclectic Christmas selections that run the gamut from weird to really weird plus a custom full-color cover with track listings – all for you and all for FREE! (That’s right! FREE!)

(Please contact me if you have trouble with the download.)

people gonna talk

Well, it's December and winter has hit the Philadelphia area. On most mornings, I will wait for my train out on the open-air platform. On days that begin with temperatures in the low 20s, I reluctantly opt for the warmth that the small ticket office offers. I say "reluctantly" because I really have to weigh the situation. Sure, I don't want to stand out in the cold and freeze my ass off, but do I really want to subject myself to what goes on inside the ticket office?

The office (which is only open Monday through Friday from 5:45 a.m. until 11:45 a.m. — and not a minute past!), is tiny, cramped and in desperate need of a good refurbishing. It is a sad, nondescript room with high ceilings, dated, cracked linoleum floor tiles and dingy cream-colored walls. Two adjacent walls have wooden, slat-backed benches that can accommodate three people, if they are courteous enough to occupy their allotted space. Otherwise, those taking refuge in the ticket office are relegated to standing around, scattered haphazardly like prisoners in the exercise yard. The ticket agent — a gray-haired woman in a heavy fleece pullover (no matter what the weather) — sits in a separate little area behind a half-wall of glass. Small as it is, it seems to have been outfitted with all the comforts of home — a microwave and toaster oven, a radio, a small television, three wall calendars, two clocks that display different times and a plethora of snacks all neatly stacked on top of a filing cabinet that looks as though it has not been opened in decades. On cold weather days, such as today, the waiting area inside the ticket office can get pretty crowded, putting standing space at a premium. Most people wait quietly, rubbing their gloved hands together to generate heat. Others, though, choose to loudly engage their fellow commuters in some inane chit-chatty conversation.

Conversation one:

Commuter 1: It sure is cold this morning.
Commuter 2: Yeah, it sure is.
Commuter 1: My office at work is always cold, too. Summer. Winter It's always cold.
Commuter 2: Mine is always hot. All the time.
Commuter 1: Yeah. I guess it's always one or the other.

Conversation two:

Commuter 3: Oh! So, how are you?
Commuter 4: I'm good. How is Jacob?
Commuter 3: Jacob is at college in New York. How is Jacob?
Commuter 4: Jacob is good. Jacob has a new job.

Conversation three:

Commuter 5: Did you park your car in the lot?
Commuter 6: No, they're vicious in that lot. If you have a new car, it will get scratched in that lot.
Commuter 5: I don't have a new car.

Conversation four:

Commuter 7: Is the next train to Jefferson Station on time?
Ticket Agent: I think so. I'm not sure.
Commuter 7: Well, is it reported late?
Ticket Agent: I'm not sure.
Commuter 7: Don't you get some kind of report or notice?
Ticket Agent: No, not really.
Commuter 7: Aren't you in contact with someone somewhere?
Ticket Agent: Not really.
Commuter 7: So, you don't know when the train is coming?
Ticket Agent: Well, you can check the schedule.

Since the trains are usually late (my train has not been on time in ten years), the amount of time spent standing that close to this mindless, thoughtless, nonsensical rambling can wear on one's nerves. So, I have to decide which is worse: listening to this relentless blather or risk frostbite before the train arrives.

After a few minutes, I always make the same decision. I weave my way through the close crowd and brave the cold.

***** ***** ***** ***** *****

My annual Christmas music compilation is available as a 
FREE DOWNLOAD 
at ge.tt or jumpshare.com for a limited time.

This year, it’s a whopping 71 minutes worth of Christmas cacophony that’s sure to ruin your holiday celebration within seconds. You get two dozen eclectic Christmas selections plus a custom full-color cover with track listings – all for you and all for FREE! (That’s right! FREE!) 

   

(Please contact me if you have trouble with the download.)

www.joshpincusiscrying.com