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

I just might stop to check you out

I have grown to really detest organized religion. I was never a very religious or spiritual person. I had no religious upbringing at all. Sure, I knew I was Jewish and, thanks to my many anti-Semitic neighbors, I was regularly reminded. But I rarely attended services and only observed holidays if it meant a day off from school. 

When I met my wife, I was perplexed by how observant she and her family were. I found it interesting, and both historically and culturally stirring. Although I still wasn't buying into the spirituality, I was impressed and even proud of the centuries-old traditions. When our own immediate family increased by one, we instilled and exhibited the same traditions and pride to our young son. We celebrated Shabbat each week with challah and candle-lighting. We attended synagogue, not only on the so-called High Holidays but for lesser holidays throughout the year. Our son went all through Jewish day school, becoming quite knowledgeable in the history and origins of his religion — knowledgeable enough to wage heated challenges to some concepts and interpretations, much to the chagrin of his teachers. He even accompanied my father-in-law — his beloved Zayde — to the services held at a small Orthodox shul, where, despite his young age, he held his own amid the old guard.

A few years ago, my father-in-law — a very pious, learned and traditionally-minded man — was unceremonious dismissed from his long-standing position as Head Usher at High Holiday Services by a younger, disrespectful regime that had moved into control at his synagogue. He was removed without a "thank you" or grateful sentiment of any kind by a bunch of self-righteous machers, most of whom were shitting their diapers when my father-in-law was already davening shachreit. I felt this behavior went against the very basic foundation of religion. That this was done by a committee under the auspices of a religious organization made it even more unconscionable. Is this what they learned from the teachings of the Torah and the message of Talmud? Ugh! With my already waning beliefs, this was the last straw.  I was so done with religion and synagogue and services and all of it. As far as I was concerned, it was all bullshit. Total, unscrupulous, nonsensical bullshit. I vowed never to cross the threshold of a synagogue again.

Yesterday, I broke the promise that I made to myself. I begrudgingly squeezed myself into a suit and tie and accompanied my wife to the Bar Mitzvah of the son of a childhood acquaintance. I wasn't happy about going to synagogue for any reason, but, I love my wife, so I went.

The service was called for 9:30 on a Saturday morning. We swung into the parking lot at five minutes past the delegated time, just in time to see the Bar Mitzvah boy's grandparents walking in to the building. Jews aren't exactly known for their punctuality, hence the "ish" that is routinely added to appointment times ("Okay, Phyllis, I'll see you around 10-ish for a nosh."). We parked, walked up and through the doors, where we were greeted by an older woman wearing too much make-up and a name tag (designating her importance, as Jews love to show their importance). 

"Helllllloooooo!" she welcomed in a sing-songy voice, stretching the two-syllable word to an impossible nine syllables, "Have you been here before?" and without waiting for an answer, she continued, "Just ahead to the left and then up the stairs." She extended her age-atrophied arm and gestured in the general direction of "to the left."

We approached the sparsely-populated sanctuary where the rabbi — a frail-looking, pale young lady with unkempt hair and a shmata tied around her head — was leading the service with a whiny, yet earnest, voice. The hallway just outside the main sanctuary was dotted with many more name-tagged "potentates," each with their own self-appointed job. There was the smiley lady who was giving out the little Xeroxed programs, explaining what the heck is going on here for those who may have stumbled in just looking for a place to warm up for a bit. Then there was my favorite  — the old guy who was silently checking every male head for the presence of a yarlmulke, like some kind of inventory manager for God. He was also charged with distributing talllit (prayer shawl) to those gentlemen he deemed too stupid to know whether or not they were wearing one.

We chose a seat in the fifth row, just behind my in-laws. All religious services have struck me in a humorous way. I have always equated the ceremonial liturgy and chanting with the incantations I heard in horror movies or tongue-in-cheek recitations delivered by an angry Agnes Moorehead on Bewitched. Is the effectiveness of prayer determined by the proper order of the words? If you stumble over a phrase or leave out a word, does God dismiss the entire plea as null-and-void? If you ask any of the regular ritual attendees, you would think that's the case. 

One of the most intriguing phenomenons of the morning service is how many people sit in their seats with an open prayer book in their hands and pay absolutely no attention to the service. A lot of people (mostly women) aren't even facing front. They are more interested in what every one else in the room is doing. Who's walking in, who's following along, who's on the right page, who's talking to their neighbor. All of these things are way more important than worshiping the deity of choice. Also taking precedent over God is: what is she wearing? who is that new man Sheila is sitting with? and the ever popular I think Bernie is here with a shiksa! The very idea!

Look, I know I've come down pretty hard on religion. I understand that there are a lot of people who find solace and comfort in it. Just not everyone. As the years go on and generations beget generations, the interest in religion grows thin and religion itself becomes less relevant.

It's funny how my feeling towards religion were brought to a head by actions taken against my father-in-law. It's funny because this story is gonna piss him off.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

come on, Virginia, show me a sign

Our destination was a family wedding in Virginia Beach, a seaside resort town with a population of just under 450,000, making it the 39th largest city in the United States. (If a few more people vacate Mesa, Arizona, VB, as it is affectionately known to locals, will move into the coveted 38th spot.)

My wife has family in Virginia Beach and she takes the six-hour drive south several times a year. During the planning stages of these trips, she obligingly asks if I'd like to accompany her. My usual answer is, "They want to see you. They don't want to see me." That is the true consensus, although on the surface, that feeling is vehemently denied. This time, however, I thought I'd take the trip, after hearing that so many people Mrs. P met over the course of these visits were a bit skeptical that there even is a "Mr. Pincus." I'd show them!

The wedding itself presented an interesting situation. The groom (my wife's cousin) is a field reporter for the local NBC affiliate in Virginia Beach. The bride is the weekend news anchor for the competing CBS affiliate. They are a terrific — and extremely photogenic — couple, who swear their union is based on love and not at all on "out-scooping" the competition. (I would add that he's Jewish, she's Roman Catholic and they were married by a Methodist minister, but you'd probably think I was making the whole thing up. So, in order to keep what little credibility I have — I'll skip that part.) The ceremony was lovely. I was introduced to several of those who doubted my existence. Though they gave me the ol' narrow-eyed once-over, some were still not convinced — despite my insistence that we've been married for almost 30 years. Meanwhile, the newlyweds and their friends partied hard into the night, eventually ending up at a bar in the lobby of our hotel. The next morning, a few of the groomsmen showed up for breakfast in the same clothes they wore when they escorted wedding guests to their seats. They either each rented several of the exact same suits or they had a really, really good time.

Ariel needs constant
supervision.

On Saturday morning, we were afforded some free time before the wedding. My wife was determined to take in some of the famous Virginia Beach sunshine. I was determined not to set foot on sand of any kind.  I shun the beach in any form. I don't like the water, especially when other people are in it. I don't even own a bathing suit. As an alternate activity, I trekked up the "Boardwalk" to see what this resort town had to offer. When I heard "Boardwalk," my head was immediately filled with memories of the Atlantic City Boardwalk of my youth, its perimeter lined with cotton candy, balloons and ferris wheels, its splinter-filled planks daring bathers to tread barefoot. The Virginia Beach "Boardwalk," however, is actually a three-mile stretch of concrete, totally uncontaminated by boards. The jewel in the crown of the cement promenade is a 31-foot tall bronze statue of King Neptune, a shirtless, gray-green behemoth that looms malevolently over the gawking tourists, keeping close watch on adjacent Neptune Park and the awkward teenage cover band that was rocking its small bandstand. The figure is both stunning and frightening. There are other assorted memorials and sculptures that dot Virginia Beach's Boardwalk, lending just enough reverence and history to the otherwise jubilant atmosphere. There's the Norwegian Lady, a nine-foot, forlorn-looking patinated lass erected to commemorate the wreck of the Dictator in 1891. (A duplicate statue stands in Østfold, Norway.) Nearby is the recently-installed Naval Aviation Monument Park, featuring a quartet of statues honoring the history of ... you guessed it ... naval aviation. (This particular weekend hosted a massive "sand soccer" gathering, with scores of colorfully-clad youngsters kicking up the sand and clamoring for a beach's worth of pizza and lemonade. "Learning" didn't rank high on their list of priorities.)

WTF?

On my walk back to my hotel, I discovered the real draw of Virginia Beach. If you like beer, pancakes and henna tattoos, this is the place for you! For nearly thirty blocks, I passed enticements in varying sizes and establishments offering endless brands of barley brew, unlimited buffets of flapjacks and modestly priced, hand-applied temporary body art. This place is a one-stop shop for the beer-drinkin', hotcake consumin' disciple of self-expression. As long as your self-expression does not include foul language. In the 1990s, a "No Swearing" law was passed in Virginia Beach. The Boardwalk and the beach block of Atlantic Avenue are punctuated by these humorous-looking, yet no-nonsense, signs reminding revelers to "keep it clean."  So, please, drink to your heart's content, but drop an F-bomb and you're subject to a $250 fine and 10 days community service. I shit you not!

Virginia Beach is not unlike any one of a hundred little resort towns that dapple the length of the Eastern seaboard. Though some are big and some are small, Virginia Beach has something that those other municipalities lack.

Family.

Oh, and grass beach mats - 2 for 5 bucks.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

walk this way

For the better part of the last year, I've been walking. To work, to concerts, to dinner, and so on. It began as a way to become more active without actually becoming more active. Truth be told, it takes the same amount of time for me to walk from my house to my office as it did to take any combination of public transportation options (although that's less a reflection of my physical prowess as it is an indication of just how badly fucked SEPTA, the Southeastern Pennsylvania Transportation Authority, is these days). What started as a half-assed way to work off my morning Franken-Berry has become more than just a regular part of my day, it's become an ever-unfolding adventure.

Though I mostly stick to the same 30 minute route to and from work each day, the very nature of living in a city as large and bustling as Philadelphia has meant that no two days' walks are ever the same. Or boring. I see sleekly designed houses spring up from long vacant lots. I see the sad, well-dressed masses of Philadelphia's businessfolk emerge silently from cramped subway staircases. I see whimsical set-pieces for a touring revival of The Wizard Of Oz unloaded from semi-trucks like common crates. I see women dressed head-to-toe in anachronistic glamor that even Norma Desmond would find tacky. I see a city hum faintly with activity in the after-hours. I see where a young man lost his life one bright morning.

In this most recent winter, I braved several snowstorms just to walk. Not out of pride or spite, but out of habit. When it came time to renew my SEPTA pass for the spring months, I opted out. The money I had previously put toward a guaranteed, slow, late, inconvenient ride found better use elsewhere. Like getting the soles of my boots replaced.

choo-choo ch-boogie

(click to enlarge)

At 4:55, I found myself in my usual weekday spot. I watched my homebound train pull along the platform of Suburban Station. Once the train stopped, I filed in right along with the rest of my fellow commuters. I grabbed an aisle seat and sighed, letting the day wash away. Other passengers were doing passenger things - talking on cellphones, manipulating iPads and Kindles, while others were reading actual books. Just ahead of me, next to the exit, two blond women in facing seats were having a very animated chat. The doors swooshed shut and, once again, the train was moving.

The train made its usual stop at Market East station. In the crowd of commuters, a guy got on and plopped himself in the empty seat next to the blond woman that was facing me. (I will call him "Dick." 'cause that's what he was.) She frowned and sort of scooted closer to the wall, allowing more room for Dick to spread out his briefcase, Kindle, elbows and knees. The two ladies continued their conversation, when, suddenly, Dick interrupted. The blond facing me winced and gave him an uncomfortable look. He cocked a smile under his porn-star mustache and waved his hands as he forced his way into their conversation. With the smuggest of looks on his face, he narrowed his eyes behind his circa 1973 wire-framed glasses and gestured dramatically, the hinged case of his Kindle flapping with each point he made. I couldn't hear everything they were saying, but from the looks of things and the few words I picked up, the discussion surrounded the purchase of a laptop computer. I heard Dick say "Mac Book" and "three thousand dollars." I saw the blond snicker, shake her head and say "no way!" Then she raised her voice, as though announcing to the entire train, and said, "I'll look it up right now. Dude, you got ripped off!" She turned her attention to her iPhone. Dick was not fazed at all. As a matter of fact, he was making "kissy lips" at the blond with her back to me.

Dick must pull this shit every night on his way home.... the slick bastard.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

Ah, look at all the lonely people

As much as I dislike people, I enjoy looking at them. Maybe it's the artist in me. Maybe it's my natural curiosity. Maybe it's just a weird fascination. Whatever the reason, I often find myself observing people — old, young, male, female, tall, short — across a wide variety of body types and ethnic make up. Humans are an unusual bunch. And, because of my daily route of travel, I am exposed to a diverse assortment of people in their natural habitat — the city. After many, many years of study, I have come to one very jarring conclusion: People are sad.

Every day, for the past seven years, I have taken the train to and from work. The train is a great place to watch people and I have watched them closely. I have seen any number of women — dressed in power-wielding, business-executive suits — sit in a train seat and apply a full face of makeup from an open, amply-stocked palette of cosmetics resting on the seat beside them (a seat normally reserved for another commuter). When they are through administering the final touches (a dabbing away of stray smear of lipstick or the removal of an errant clump of mascara), they look sad. Not stunning, nor attractive, nor intimidatingly corporate, but sad. I have watched as men thumb absentmindedly through a newspaper — their hair unkempt, their neckties askew, a stain on a lapel, a time-worn briefcase on their lap  — with a forlorn expression upon their weary faces. Not one of joyful "I'm ready to close a major deal!" or jubilant "Today's the day I get that promotion!," but one of sadness and grief.

As I make my way through the train station on my way to my office, I pass hundreds of sad faces. Some dressed to the nines in suits that I could never afford. Some in dirty, inappropriate-for-the-season outerwear clutching a shabby bag of their meager worldly possessions. I see people yammering into cellphones and others talking aloud to no one in particular.

And none of these folks look the least bit happy.

C'mon! Cheer up, everyone. Things could be worse. 

Not much, but still.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

they put coffee in their coffee in Brazil

Java.

Mud.

Joe.

From its beginnings in 15th century Yemenite monasteries, coffee has become a staple in the life of 100 million Americans. Ward Cleaver, Steve Douglas or Mike Brady wouldn't have dreamed of starting a day without it. When time-traveler Marty McFly stumbled upon his father's adolescent hangout, Lou the counterman served him up a steaming cup of coffee when the request came for "something without sugar in it." Jerry Seinfeld and George Costanza spent nine seasons picking apart their lives over a cup of coffee. Special Agent Dale Cooper wouldn't have made it through an investigation without a slice of cherry pie and "a damn fine cup of coffee."

I began drinking coffee in high school. Once I started art school, I drank coffee daily, downing three or four cups on some days. As an adult, I start every morning with a cup of coffee. A year or so ago, we purchased a Keurig single-cup coffee maker and things couldn't have gotten more convenient. I have a cup of coffee before I leave for work and another one when I arrive at my office. Sometimes, I'll even swallow an additional cup in the late afternoon. I've been doing that for years.

Coffee was the original no-frills beverage. It didn't get much simpler than hot water forced through ground coffee beans. It was quick. It was hot and it was cheap. As reflected in the 1955 setting of Back to the Future, coffee was a nickel a cup. The classic panhandler begged for a few spare coins for a cup of coffee. The cheapest date you could plan was "Hey, let's meet for coffee." You could impress (or repel) a girl for under a buck.

Then something happened to coffee.

Coffee became the drink of choice among the coolest members of society. Coffee connoisseurs began to spring up everywhere. Exclusive coffee specialty shops opened on every corner. Ordering a hot beverage was as intricate as giving instructions on landing an aircraft. And then, those complicated instructions got compacted into truncated code. A secret language only understood by elite coffee drinkers and seasoned baristas. There's another word — barista!  Who ever heard that word  before Starbucks invaded our lives?

Now, before you spill your tall skinny half-caff double-shot vanilla latte, I am not about to knock Starbucks. Look what Starbucks has accomplished. They have succeeded in making us go from starting our mornings with a small, dark cup of plain brewed Maxwell House to carrying a bucket-sized container of overly-sweetened coffee that looks like an ice cream sundae and costs as much as two dozen donuts. And they did it in about a decade. Starbucks has spawned a number of copycats and together they have turned the humble cup of coffee into an 18-billion dollar industry in the United States. Homeless can no longer just ask "spare some change for coffee." At that rate, it would take months to accumulate enough money for a "short" (or as we long-time coffee drinkers say: "small"). As a supporter of free enterprise, I have no problem with Starbucks. More power to them. I just don't like the taste of their coffee. I do, however, admire their achievement in getting society to accept whipped cream and chocolate syrup in the same "coffee condiment" category as sugar and half-n-half.

I'm gonna run out for some coffee now.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

that's my daughter in the water

- - -   ACT I   - - -

INT. DINING ROOM - NIGHT

It is a celebration dinner. A birthday party for a ten-year old. Gaily colored paper plates and napkins are laid out at each place-setting. A small representation of the family is there. Everyone has taken their place at the table. The BIRTHDAY GIRL has requested the seat at the head of the table. Her little sister PEALY sits three spaces away, separated by GRANDFATHER and GRANDMOTHER. FATHER and MOTHER are both seated at the far end of the table.

BIRTHDAY GIRL

(excited)

Has everyone seen my cake?

Isn't it beautiful?

FATHER

(loudly to BIRTHDAY GIRL and PEALY)

Y'know, everyday your mother and I have to convince ourselves not to kill you.

And every day, it gets more and more difficult to contain ourselves.

BIRTHDAY GIRL

stares silently.

PEALY

stares silently.

- - -   END SCENE   - - -

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

where rocking horse people eat marshmallow pies

I'm gonna plead ignorance here. I did some research, but it only turned up bits and pieces and not a full explanation.

For some time now, I've seen these guys selling pies. I don't know if it is purely a Philadelphia phenomenon or if it exists in other cities. I've spotted them in several places, but mostly on the median strip in the middle of bustling Broad Street and Windrim Avenue and sometimes at the foot of the escalator off of 15th Street at the entrance to the Market-Frankford subway line and Suburban Station.

They pace the street, facing oncoming traffic, waving a shrink-wrapped pie in the air, silently offering it for sale. They don't call "Pies for sale!" or anything like that. They just pace and wave. Wave and pace.

The pies look vaguely homemade, with golden crusts and golden-brown filling, not unlike pumpkin or sweet potato. The salesmen are all African-American and their appearance is reminiscent of Nation of Islam leader Louis Farrakhan. They vary in age from early thirties down to barely seven or eight. Though not in uniform, per se, they all dress similar, as though they are following a dress code, sort of like Target employees. Solid color ill-fitting suit with pants that are too short to cover their white socks. Shined, two-tone shoes. White shirts adorned with a tiny red bow tie clamped tightly at the neck.

I don't know if they represent a particular group or movement or religion. I don't know the significance of their appearance. I don't know what the sale of the pies supports. And I don't know how the pies taste, but they sure look good.

Who are they and have they made it to your town yet?

that guy

Do you know that guy? Of course you do. You've seen him before. I see him everywhere, and I know you do too. I've seen him in the mornings when I'm waiting for the train that takes me to work. Then, he's on the train. There's several of him on the train as a matter of fact. He's got his bag on the seat next to him, not allowing anyone to share his seat. He also eating something big and sloppy and totally inappropriate for the morning commute.

I've seen him on vacation, unhappily accompanying the family that he hates through a theme park or other tourist destination. He is sad. Sad about being there. Sad about being there with his family. Sad about the hand life has dealt him.

I've seen him at the supermarket, wanting to purchase that giant bag of barbecue potato chips, only to be told by his wife that he cannot get them. "They are not good for you," she berates him, as she drops a half-gallon of gourmet specialty ice cream into their shopping cart.

I've seen him in a restaurant, sitting at a table while his kids scream and yell and climb under the table and wander off to stand and stare next to someone else's table. Then they announce the need to visit the bathroom. His wife won't move her ass, insisting "I took them to the bathroom last time. Now it's your turn." He just wants to order three hot fudge sundaes and eat them at another table. In another restaurant.

I've seen him at my job, hunched over a desk, fighting back sleep, keying wrong information into a spreadsheet. He is neither qualified for nor pleased to be doing his job. And he lies to his family about what sort of job he has and his level of importance within the company.

I know you've seen that guy. Just look around. He's there.