look away, look away, look away dixie land

It is certainly no secret how much I love television. I especially love old television shows, the ones I watched as a young and impressionable child. Thanks to the magic of syndication and endless reruns, I have also developed an affinity for television shows that were broadcast before I was born. Truth be told, I have watched reruns of shows that I don't particularly like. Shows that I find annoying, frustrating, unrelatable and downright awful. But, I watch them. I've watched them in countless reruns... over and over and over again.

I find it funny how many shows I have just recently discovered, even though they ended their series run decades ago and most (if not all) of their primary cast is now long dead. There are some shows with which I am familiar, but don't like. Yet, I watch them. I have seen every single episode of I Love Lucy, a show I cannot stand. I have seen every episode of Hazel, a show I dislike more that I dislike I Love Lucy. I have seen every episode of more recent shows, like Welcome Back Kotter, a show I despise more than Hazel and I Love Lucy put together! However, I still enjoy such sappy series as Family Affair and My Three Sons. I am fully aware of just how hokey and unrealistic these show are, but there is still something endearing about them... at least to me. Your mileage may vary.

This morning, I caught myself watching an episode of Dennis the Menace. The last first-run episode of Dennis the Menace was broadcast on July 7, 1963 — a month before I turned two. I'm sure that I never saw a single episode of Dennis the Menace in its initial four-season run. I'm almost certain that my parents never watched it. Although it was the lead-in to the ridiculously-popular Ed Sullivan Show, I'm positive that my father's limited patience wouldn't have lasted two seconds subjected to Dennis's irritating antics. Besides, Dennis the Menace was on opposite The Jetsons. My brother, who was six at the time, probably preferred the outer space cartoon adventures to some pain-in-the-ass kid making life miserable for his neighbor. I, of course, only remember watching Dennis the Menace in reruns on a local UHF channel when I was home sick from school. Over the course of many many reruns, I have managed to see every insufferable episode of the series and will still watch it from time to time... including this morning. Honestly, I was not giving the show my full attention. I was perusing the situation on Facebook, a distraction that surely did not exist in Dennis the Menace's original run.

The Programming Department at Antenna TV chose the twenty-fourth episode of Dennis the Menace's second season to broadcast this morning. The episode — entitled "Dennis and the Fishing Rod" — centered around a tried and true sitcom trope. Dennis wants to buy his dad a fishing rod, but he doesn't have enough money. This scenario has popped up on dozens of other series, from Father Knows Best to Leave It to Beaver to any number of "family based" shows. As I scrolled between Facebook and Instagram on my phone, a line of dialogue caught my attention. It seems while Dennis was looking for additional funds to supplement the pittance fished from his piggy bank, he found a stack of papers belonging to his visiting grandmother. Among the papers were several ornately decorated pieces of paper that Dennis and his limited intellect were unable to identify. He presented the papers to his father and grandmother who then explained that they were money from the Civil War. They belonged to Dennis's great grandfather Jedidiah Mitchell who served under a general in the Civil War. General Robert E. Lee, to be specific. She went on to proudly proclaim that ol' Jedidiah was a personal friend of General Lee and he was a true hero. Dennis's dad chimes in to echo his mother's assertion. "He sure was!," says Dad, a broad smile drawn across his bespectacled hatchet face.

What??? Dennis's great grandfather fought on the Southern side of the Civil War? Dennis's great grandfather was a goddamn antiabolitionist! Dennis's great grandfather fought to uphold the right to own slaves. And Dennis's dear old dad is singing his praises as a "hero!" Boy oh boy! If I didn't hate Dennis the Menace before, I sure do hate him now! 

As the episode progressed, Dennis asked to wear Jedidiah Mitchell's hat and uniform, despite it being way too big. Grandmother Mitchell said "of course you can!" adding that Jedidiah would be proud. So Dennis sported that Confederate hat and uniform as when he went to show off to his beleaguered neighbor Mr. Wilson. Mr. Wilson, an avid history buff and collector of coins, stamps and things of that nature, didn't bat an eye when his young neighbor bounded into his house decked out in full Confederate military dress. He was, however, very interested in the Confederate money Dennis brought over. While examining the bill, Mr. Wilson was given the "okay" sign by the engraved image of Confederate president Jefferson Davis. The episode went from an innocent pursuit of a fishing rod for dad to a full-on misrepresentation of what the Civil War stood for, who was a hero and the continued "white-washing" of American history. I don't even remember if the fishing rod was ever purchased.

This episode, as well as many others in the series, was co-written by Hank Ketcham, the creator of the Dennis the Menace comic strip. Maybe he should have stuck to single panel gags in the funny pages of the daily newspaper.

I knew there was an underlying reason I hated watching Dennis the Menace. Now I know.

RIP Jay North (1951-2025)

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

i'm just ken

I watch Jeopardy! every night. Sometimes I watch it live. Sometimes I watch it as a DVR recording, as I have it set to record Jeopardy! every night. I enjoy Jeopardy! At one time — many years ago — was able to come up with a lot of the answers to the questions posed on the show. More recently, not so much. It seems that the contestants are younger and the subject matter is skewed more towards the knowledge of a twenty-something year-old than that of a sixty-something year-old. The television-related categories feature questions about shows I never seen, sometimes about shows I've never heard of. The same applies to music categories. Every so often, a question about a movie from the 1930s (that isn't The Wizard of Oz) receives blank stares from the youthful contestants and the air is unspoiled by the sound of a buzzer. Music questions about the "classic rock" era or even "disco" are given the same dumbfounded look of confusion as though the question was posed in a foreign language. But, I still enjoy watching Jeopardy! to expand my trivia prowess and to learn something new without consulting Google.

I don't care for the contestant interviews. I'm not interested in what research scientist Caitlyn from Lincoln, Nebraska did on her senior class trip or the funny story of how Jared, a software consultant from Sante Fe, New Mexico, met his wife. I watch Jeopardy! for the questions and answers. I don't care for the quirky little tics and foibles of contestants. I dislike when contestants inject a little "clever patter" or offer commentary about a previous question. I don't mind multi-day champions or tight rivalries between contestants, as long as they keep it under control and not attempt to make it "their show." 

Back is the 1960s, when Jeopardy! first premiered, Art Fleming, a typically-pleasant game-show host, served as the Master of Ceremonies. Fleming hosted every incarnation of the show until 1979 when the revived All New Jeopardy! ended its run. Fleming rarely, if ever, commented on the questions. When a particular question baffled all three constantans, Fleming never gave the correct answer in anything other than an even-keel tone of voice. He was never sarcastic or condescending. He read the questions, said "correct" or "incorrect," and reported on the final scores.

In 1984, Jeopardy! returned to the airwaves with a syndicated version hosted by veteran game show host Alex Trebek. Trebek, in an interview once the show grew in popularity, made it clear that he wished to be introduced as "the host of Jeopardy!," not "the star of Jeopardy!." He wanted to it be made clear that the show was the star, not him. Trebek hosted Jeopardy! for 37 seasons, until his death in 2020 at the age of 80. While Trebek kept his promise of just being "the host" in check for most of his tenure, he did get increasingly smarmy and condescending in later seasons. A palpable scoff could be detected in his voice when he finally revealed an answer that stumped all three contestants. He'd muster the tone of a disappointed middle school teacher when a contestant gave an incorrect answer to a question. By his final season, Trebek was making commentary about questions and injecting personal anecdotes after answers were given. If a category included words or phrases referencing a foreign country, Trebek would read it in his best pronunciation, often coming off as mocking the particular accent. During the contestant interviews, he would often counter a contestant's little story with one of his own in a subtle game of "one-upmanship." But, I still watched Jeopardy!.

In June 2004, contestant Ken Jennings kicked of a run of 74 consecutive wins on Jeopardy!, thus cementing his place in pop-culture and game-show history. Little did we know back then that his brief time in the spotlight would lead to a bigger role the realm of Jeopardy!. After Alex Trebek's passing, Ken Jennings was the first in a series of on-air auditions to find a new host for the game. Former show producer Mike Richards (not the guy from Seinfeld) was announced as the new host, only to relinquish the role after some unsavory office behavior came to light. Ken Jennings was named as new show host, along with actress Mayim Bialik. The two would share hosting duties until Bialik (not a fan favorite) was relieved of her duties after siding with writers in a labor dispute. (She is a union member and she was supporting her fellow union members.) Non-actor Jennings assumed sole hosting duties from that point forward. Jennings proved to be a serviceable host. He smiled. He read the questions. He listened quietly as contestants revealed their favorite foods or told of a childhood pet or gushed about meeting an ex-vice president. 

Until he didn't.

Ken Jennings was named the sole host of Jeopardy! starting with the show's 40th season. As his time went on, he began to become very comfortable in his role. He also began to slip into areas that he previously avoided. After ruling on wrong answers, he started to announce the correct answers with a noticeable tone of superiority in his voice. He would sometimes offer a cocked smile and an accompanying shake of the head as he corrected a wrong answer. He began to quickly cut off a contestant when ruling a response as "incorrect." When a question would stump all contestants, he would give the right answer like your mom would, expressing impatience while going over your "eight times tables" for the twelfth time. At times, he has adopted Alex Trebek's penchant for reading clues with an over-pronounced, over-dramatic accent when applicable. While I once thought Jennings had promise, I now find that he grows more and more insufferable with each new game.

I still like Jeopardy! I will continue to record and watch Jeopardy! I will not let the host or quirky (read: weird) contestants distract me from answering questions from my sofa and learning something new while I eat dinner.

It's about the game. The questions. The answers. It's a half-hour of diversion. I just don't need those other diversions.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

don't know nothing

See this graphic? I don't know what it means. I don't know what it's trying to illustrate. I don't know what sort of idea it is attempting to explain in simple, easy-to-understand pictures. I just Googled "marketing" and this came up. And that, my friend, pretty much sums up "marketing."

When I'm not drawing pictures of dead people or visiting cemeteries or watching fifty-year-old TV shows or shitting all over Ringo on the internet, I go to an actual job. I work for a large commercial printer that produces thousands upon thousands of circulars for supermarkets and other customer-friendly retail businesses up and down the east coast. I work in a small office with a dozen other graphic designers who, on a daily basis, toil over the whims and nonsensical ideas of any number of individual store owners or "marketing experts" with "a vison." That "vison" translates to every single circular looking exactly the same week after week after week. Despite this, every so often, a completely composed circular is disrupted just hours before it gets sent to press by some yutz with a "brand new idea." Understand that these stores are selling canned vegetables and paper towels and frozen chickens. The same products are included week after week. But, still, they want things to STAND OUT and GET NOTICED. They use phrases like BIG PUSH and BLOWOUT SALE and other meaningless jargon. A circular that should take a few hours to compose, ends up being stretched over several days because someone binge-watched Mad Men this weekend and fancies themselves the Don Draper of the grocery world.

I've been doing this, in one capacity or another, for over forty years. I've seen it all... and most of it has been bullshit. Sure, I have met and worked with genuine "marketing" professionals. These are people with legitimately clever and innovative ideas that have the potential to motivate and inspire customers. But, for the most part, true "marketers" are harder to find than a kosher ham sandwich or an honest politician. Instead the World of Marketing (sounds like a theme park) is filled with spineless, wishy-washy dishrags with no real ideas. I can't figure out how these people (and I have met dozens of them) are able to advance themselves to positions of authority. They get to a corporate level where final decisions are placed in their hands, yet they never want to commit, fearing a wrong decision will result in a dressing down from their boss. Instead, they shoot out monosyllabic emails that read: "Thoughts?," then sit back and wait for their underlings to come up with something. If submitted ideas are good, they will take the credit under the guise of "team leader." If a bad idea is chosen, they are the first ones to point their finger at the source. I saw this practice for the dozen years I worked in the marketing department of a large law firm. I never saw so many useless, lazy people with no original ideas. They just spewed buzz words and asked for "infographics" or some other new trend they just read about in a marketing publication. 

Once I traded in my "business casual" for the "down-and-dirty" world of pre-press (a big room of artists churning out quickly-composed ads for huge print runs. Google it, if you really care), I thought I'd never have to deal with that corporate mumbo-jumbo again.

I was wrong.

One of the companies I create circulars for on a weekly basis is a chain of supermarkets based in New York. They are a family-owned business, with ten stores located in affluent areas of Long Island. I deal with a young lady who is experiencing her first job right out of college. Here, she is able to apply her useless marketing degree for the sole purpose of selling an extra pound of strawberries – just by adding a big red "burst" that says "SWEET!" on top of the picture. My entire interaction with her (and everyone at this company) is via the internet through a collaboration website called Ziflow. All communication is through messaging on this website. Considering that I get the bulk of my instructions from her, she is an inarticulate communicator. She has a very difficult time explaining exactly what it is that she wants. Plus, her spelling is atrocious. Sometimes I have to stare at and reread messages several times before I can understand what I am supposed to do. She has no concept of proportion and sizing, however she uses terms like "lower the opacity" regularly. Oh, when she says "lower the opacity," she really means increase the opacity. But, after three years of doing these circulars, I have come to understand and interpret what is required.

Just this week, while working on this week's circular for this particular supermarket, I started getting messages from someone named "Norman" – a name I had not seen before. Norman instructed me to add a burst here that says "Great For Your Family!" Another message changed a headline that read "CATERING" to "Check Out Our Catering!" The next message asked for my thoughts on – and I quote – "reconfiguring the front page into a graphicly-pleasing hierarchy"... or some such third-year marketing bullshit. I merely replied that my job is to follow the layout with which I am provided. Surprisingly, he didn't press the issue.

I make no design suggestions. Zero. Zilch. Although I have been a graphic designer for over four decades, my role in my current job is not that of a designer. I am a layout artist – pure and simple. I do what I am told by the customer. I do not embellish, nor do I make any suggestions. I was told by my boss on Day One that we, essentially, produce trash. The circulars that we create have a shelf life of one week and are never ever looked at again. In that one week, they are just glanced at by the consumer. The target audience is someone looking for a good price on a box of Cap'n Crunch or a family pack of pork chops. We are not producing great works of art. We produce easy to understand presentations of everyday grocery items. If the consumer wants to see the Mona Lisa, they can go to the fucking Louvre. They are never gonna find it in a supermarket circular.... no matter what a store owner wants.

I Googled "Norman" and discovered that he has recently been hired by this chain of supermarkets with the title of "Merchandising Director" or something corporate-sounding like that. His job description is a run-on sentence of some of the thickest bullshit I have ever laid eyes upon. Immediately, I had flashbacks to my time stuck in marketing meetings at the law firm and watching a bunch of idiots with marketing degrees pat each other on the back while bandying about phrases like "low-hanging fruit" and "vertical juxtaposition" and "let's table that offline, but not until this afternoon, because I'll be out of pocket until 1 o'clock"... whatever that means. Norman, I quickly surmised, was a corporate asshole. And he proved me right after instructing me to add a big red burst to a picture of cherries that screamed "More Fruit, Less Pit!" His next decision was to make sure the words "Veggie Mac Salad" appear on one line, even though those words appeared on two lines in a featured block of various deli salads for over a year. Once I adjusted the size of the text to get "veggie" to drop down to the next line, Norman went home to tell his family that he made a crucial corporate decision at work today that will net the company untold profits. Later the same day, he indicated several places where he wanted the word "WOW!" to appear in a big red burst.

When Monday rolls around, I will be treated to another barrage of Norman's genius. Noman will pose passive-aggressive scenarios regarding whether a headline should say "Meat Sale" or "Sale on Meat." Norman will wait until an hour before press deadline to rearrange the placement of wedges of cheese or to question the height of a dollar sign.

To borrow a line from Ursula, the Sea Witch: "It's what I live for."

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

you're no good

My son and went to our first Phillies game of the 2025 season. I love going to beautiful Citizens Bank Park. It's a great facility. It's easy to get to and (relatively) easy to get out of the parking lot when the game is over. In between, there's a lot to see, a lot to eat and a lot to do, besides the baseball game, which — for most attendees — is the main attraction.

This particular Saturday afternoon game began with Photo Day, an annual event during which fans get a face-to-face encounter with their hometown favorite players, coaches, broadcasters, mascots (the renowned Phillie Phanatic and his mom, Phoebe) and even the ball girls — Megan, Ashely, Ashely, Ashely, Caitlyn, Ashely, Megan, Ashely, Caitlyn, Meagan and,,,, who am I forgetting?... oh right! ....Ashely. Several hours before the scheduled first pitch, fans are invited down the the playing field to stand on cordoned-off plastic platforms (so as not to scuff up the pristinely-trimmed grass), while the team representatives mingle within the safe confines of a thin rope barricade, waving, fist-bumping and even posing for individual pictures to the delight of the faithful. My son and I ventured down with the crowd and — all in all — it was a fun experience. We met some players (who all look like kids), got some pictures and just had a lot of fun.

Then, as the skies darkened with the threat of rain, we found our seats — on the second level Section 243, right in front of the giant scoreboard — and waited for the game to start. 

We should have hoped harder for rain. Right off the bat (no pun intended), the Milwaukee Brewers scored four runs, thanks, in part, to former Phillie Rhys Hoskins. It was all downhill from there. The Phillies lost 17-7, a dubious feat not achieved by the Phils since 1947. It was a brutal, ugly affair and, as a 60+ year Phillies fan who has seen his share of Phillies disappointments, it was still hard to watch.

In the eighth inning, with a good portion of the seats in Citizens Bank Park now vacated, a fellow staggered down the aisle that divided Sections 242 and 243. He teetered back and forth as he leaned precariously over the edge of the balcony and screamed, "YOU SUCK!" in a strained yelp that stretched the range of his vocal cords. The object of his succinct derision was Milwaukee left fielder Isaac Collins, who was patrolling the grassy area right in front of us, but on the lower ground level. For the entire inning, for as long as it took Phillies offense to rack up three outs, this guy screamed and hollered and shrieked and wailed some of the meanest and degrading insults at Collins. He yelled about his fielding ability (or lack thereof). He yelled about not belonging in the big leagues, adding that he wasn't even good enough for a Triple A minor league squad. He even yelled when Collins took his cap off to wipe his forehead, advising him to "PUT YOUR CAP BACK ON! IT ISN'T HELPING!"... whatever that meant. When Trea Turner popped out for the final Phillies' out of the eighth inning, the yelling guy ambled back up the steps, gripping a can of Surfside in one hand and fumbling with the bannister with the other. He muttered, "Collins is a BIG NERD!" to no one in particular and he navigated the steep stairs. Once he disappeared from sight, the few folks who remained in our once-packed section, looked around to silently acknowledge the absurdly of this guy and his relentless heckling. I broke the ice, commenting aloud (as one does at a ballgame) that this guy was yelling at a player several hundred feet away, in a outdoor stadium filled with ambient noise and loud music... not to mention that the home team was down by fifteen runs. 

The top of ninth inning saw Phillies' utility man Weston Wilson try his hand at pitching, handily handing the Brew Crew three outs while only giving up a single along the way. When the Brewers' players took to the field to defend their lead and allow the home team one slim opportunity to even up the score, the yelling guy also retuned to his post at the foot of our section. Before play started, the yelling guy addressed my son and me. "You're gonna help me yell at Collins, right guys?," he asked, swigging his Surfside while he waited for an answer. "Sure, we will," we replied with a laugh. "I hate this fuckin' guy.," he said, "He stinks! He shouldn't even be in the Majors!" Without waiting for further comment from us, he turned his head toward the field and screamed, "YOU SUCK, IKE COLLINS!"  Considering how much Isaac Collins is, apparently, hated by the yelling guy, he has given him a palsy-walsy nickname that I cannot confirm has ever been previously applied to the 27-year old outfielder.

The Philles kicked off their half of the ninth inning with a promising flurry of hits and runs, although they came up a dozen runs too short. However, our yelling friend made up for it in spades. For the duration of the bottom of the ninth, the yelling guy's voice cracked repeatedly as he hurled insult after repeated insult at Isaac Collins. Collins, however, appeared unfettered — a reaction that only angered the yelling guy more. His voice grew hoarse, but his mission remained strong. The yelling guy's commentary noted every move Collins made — every shift of his weight, every scratch of his ass, every adjustment of his cap and of his cup, every tug on the laces of his glove. Nothing was spared. The yelling guy yelled and he wouldn't be done yelling until Isaac Collins was out of the Brewers' line-up and on a bus headed back to Maple Grove, Minnesota (population 70,000), never to darken the doors of a Major League Baseball dugout for the rest of the yelling guy's alcohol-sotted life.

With the disappointing final score displayed on multiple scoreboards around the perimeter of the ballpark, fans began gathering their belongings with plans to head for the exits. The yelling guy offered up an open palm for a celebratory "high five," which I uncharacteristically — and reluctantly — completed. As far as "celebratory," may I remind you that the Phillies lost by an embarrassing ten runs.

I never heard of Issac Collins before this game. Granted, have not been familiar with the Milwaukee Brewers roster since the days of Paul Molitor and Robin Yount. A little research showed that Issac Collins was drafted by the Colorado Rockies in 2019. He played in several levels of the Rockies' farm system. He spent the 2023 season in the Brewers' minor leagues, landing there in a Rule 5 draft (look it up, it's kind of complicated), eventually making the big league roster at the end of the 2024 season. From the look of his stats, he just an average back-up fielder and an average hitter at the plate. It seems his biggest accomplishment is raising the ire of a drunken fan on an overcast Saturday in Philadelphia.

And he probably doesn't even know he achieved that.

www.joshpicusiscrying.com

lessons learned

You know all those times when I write something about an incident involving Mrs. Pincus and her eBay business and I always add a disclaimer noting that she will not sell your stuff on eBay......? Well, here's why.

A little while ago, Mrs. P acquired a children's play table from one of her many sources. She has an uncanny knack for spotting things that she knows are desirable and will sell quickly. Granted, there are a number of items in her vast inventory that were obtained during the Clinton administration that are still waiting for their chance to be "re-homed," as they say. But, for the most part, Mrs. P will acquire an item and sell it within a reasonable amount of time.

Once a particular item is sold, it has to be packed securely and shipped to its new owner. Most of the items that Mrs. P sells are small enough to fit in a standard square or rectangular box. These are things like books, toys, jewelry and small kitchen gadgets. On the occasion that an item is large and awkward and oddly-shaped — like a children's play table — well, that's when things get a little more involved.  See, Mrs. Pincus acquired this table fully assembled. She knew, when the time came, it would have to be disassembled. Because the table did not come with its original box, a new box would have to be imaginatively created from the stockpile of other boxes that Mrs. P has collected. 

But, first, the disassembly portion...

I am not what you would call a "handyman." I can draw a handyman, but I can barely change a lightbulb or hang a picture. Our household toolbox consists of six or seven screwdrivers in assorted sizes, a hex key set that I think I used once and a couple of hammers — including a small lightweight example that is painted pink. Oh, and the "toolbox" itself is actually a small plastic beach bucket. It may even have Thomas the Tank Engine emblazoned on it. Needless to say, I have no plans to add a deck on to the back of my house or change an air filter in my car by myself. So, when the task of taking apart this children's table arose, I grabbed three of my screwdrivers and excitedly set to work. (That's what we, in the trade, call "sarcasm.")

The table had somewhere between thirty and a million screws holding it together. The object was to get this big, square, three-dimensional table to be as flat as possible. That would involve unscrewing and removing each of those million screws. and stacking up the colorfully-painted slats that formed the table. The first couple of screws came out easily, giving me a false sense of accomplishment. "This will be a snap!," I thought to myself. After quickly removing four screws, the fifth one spun and spun and spun in its little screw hole. If it was capable, I'm sure it would have giggled at me and my efforts to extract it. For the next hour or so, I struggled with these tiny screws. Some came out relatively easily. Others — most of the others — took much more concentration and a fair amount of elbow grease. I kept switching from screw to embedded screw, leaving several partly extracted while I worked on one of its colleagues. Mrs. Pincus suggested borrowing an electric screwdriver from her brother. I haven't spoken to my brother-in-law in nearly ten years and I wouldn't borrow a pint of blood from him if it meant another few hours of my life. As an alternate, my wife suggested asking if my next-door neighbor had an electric screwdriver I could borrow. This is a guy with whom I exchange waves when I arrive home from work. That's hardly the type of relationship that includes the lending out of tools. I waved off both suggestions and — eventually — I got all of the screws removed. The task stretched across two weekends, but after a little sweat, a little resolve and a lot of cursing, success was mine. At least for the first part of the "let's ship this table" project. Now, the thing has to be packed up.

Mrs. P and I toted the table pieces over to her shipping and packing facility just a few blocks from our house. First, we wrapped each piece in plastic and bubble wrap. Then, we measured and stacked and rearranged and fitted those pieces into a double-thick cardboard box that was fashioned — Frankenstein-style — out of pieces of other cardboard boxes. Together, we secured the table pieces into a tight and sturdy package, all held in place with miles of clear packing tape. When we were satisfied that the whole thing was capable of making the trip to the far reaches of North Carolina and would not succumb to the angry and careless hands of the good folks within the Federal Express shipping lanes, the box was hoisted up on the office scale for a final check of weight. The digital display confirmed that our little (well, not so little) parcel was within the "safe" bracket and would not incur additional "oversize" charges. Then it was off to the nearest Fed Ex office.

A few days later, Mrs. P got an email from the happy buyer. The table had arrived safe and sound. She complimented Mrs. Pincus on the stellar packing, noting how each piece was carefully wrapped and secured inside the box. She went on to say how she and her husband were assembling the table where it would provide their young daughter with hours and hours of educational fun... or something like that.

However...

The email concluded with a slight criticism. She scolded Mrs. P for not properly wiping off visible dust and smudges on the table's surface. She noted that there was a slightly sticky residue on the one of the slats. Although it was not visible, she could feel its tackiness when she ran her finger over the particular spot. Before concluding her email, she reiterated her complaints and recommended that — in the future — items be cleaned before shipping. As Mrs. P responded in the most humble and apologetic way possible, I offered a passionate "fuck you" which did not make the final cut of Mrs. P's reply.

Once again, eBay is much more that listing an item for sale then kicking back while the money rolls in. There is a lot of work involved. A. Lot. Of. Work. So... for the last time.... no! Mrs. Pincus will not sell your stuff for you on eBay.

So, stop asking.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

first time

For those of you outside the Philadelphia area, Wawa is a chain of convenience stores that, more recently, have focused on their sandwich, coffee and take-out foods business. With very few exceptions, most Philadelphians love Wawa and visit them often.

There are at least nine thousand Wawas within five minutes of the place where I work. Several times a month, I will stop at one of them to pick up hoagies for Mrs. Pincus and myself. (That might be the most Philadelphia sentence I've ever written!) Last Monday was one of those times.

I usually choose the Wawa at Route 73 and Remington Avenue, just down the street from Pennsauken High School (home of the still politically-incorrect "Indians"). A few years ago, Wawa introduced a convenient touchscreen system to make ordering sandwiches, salads and other prepared foods a breeze. The system is great. It's fast, accurate and requires little-to-no interaction with any other human being. Each step in the ordering process is given its own screen from which a hungry customer can select the type of sandwich, the type of bread, the type of ingredients, the type of toppings and even the amount of said toppings. (Although, the choice of "a little bit of mayonnaise" is still totally subjectable, leaving the customer at the mercy of a hair-netted, name-tagged, minimum-wage earner.) When the order process is completed, a little box spits out a barcoded receipt. The customer takes the receipt to the cashier to scan. The customer pays and returns to the order area to pick up the tightly wrapped sandwich, usually ready and waiting. Regular customers of Wawa are used to the whole procedure and engage in it often. I know I do.

The whole touchscreen system is very intuitive, even for the most technology-fearing customer. This past Monday, while I punched out my selection for two hoagies, I overheard a guy at another touchscreen terminal. Actually, everybody in the place overheard this guy. He was screaming. 

I have noticed that people who insist on talking on their phones everywhere they go, love to scream. They have no issues with discussing personal issues — at top volume — while casually walking down the street, sitting on a bus, standing in a checkout line at Target or just about any public place. Well, this guy in Wawa was screaming into his phone. As the conversation unfolded, it became clear that he was ordering hoagies for someone who had never eaten a hoagie before. It was not clear (but it was a distinct possibility) if the person on the other end of the conversation had ever seen a hoagie. Perhaps these two — the guy at Wawa and his unseen conversation partner — were new to the area. Perhaps they just moved here and were unfamiliar with the local delicacy known as "the hoagie" and how Philadelphians place it in the same esteem as soft pretzels, "wooder oice" and — yes! — Benjamin Franklin and the "Liverty Bell." I would have given this pair the benefit of the doubt — except the guy was sporting a Phillies cap and an Eagles "Super Bowl Champions" t-shirt.

The conversation went a little like this...

GUY IN WAWA: What size hoagie do you want?

VOICE ON PHONE: Size? What do you mean "size?"

GIW: Size! Six inch? Ten inch?

VOP: Well, how big is the ten inch?

GIW(rolls his eyes and stares at the phone): TEN INCHES! Y'KNOW... LIKE TEN INCHES LONG! Y'KNOW BIG!

VOP: Um, then, six inches, I guess.

GIW: What kind of hoagie do you want?

VOP: Well, what kinds do they have? Do they have chicken salad?

GIW: They have the regular kind that everybody has.

VOP: Do they have Italian? Can I get an Italian, but with chicken salad?

GIW: What? No, they don't have chicken salad! You just want an Italian hoagie, then?

VOP: Well, what's on an Italian hoagie?

GIW: I don't know! I guess the regular stuff that's on an Italian hoagie anywhere!

VOP: Do they have cheese? Can I get cheese? Do they have Swiss cheese? Can I get Swiss cheese on my Italian hoagie? You say they don't have chicken salad? I really wanted an Italian chicken salad hoagie.

At this point, the GIW walks — no! stomps! — away from the touchscreen area and ducks down one of the merchandise aisles. After a minute or so, he emerges, still speaking into his phone at the very top of his voice.

GIW: ... you can can get lettuce, if you want. Yes, and tomatoes. What? No, they don't have chicken salad.

The number on my receipt was called and my hoagies were ready. I picked them up and left.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

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

my wife

I remember my first job in the corporate world. After years of working for small, "mom & pop" businesses, I started working in the production department of a large legal publisher. Initially, it was great. It was very structured and very regimented. There were procedures to follow and meetings to attend and a corporate hierarchy to adhere to. Within my department, it was more relaxed. But outside the doors of our small office, there was a specific, though unwritten, protocol that dictated behavior. I enjoyed it... until I didn't.

A few jobs after that, I worked in the main office of a large retailer. I sat in a cubicle in a room filled with a dozen other graphic artists. On a daily basis, we cranked out newspaper advertisements like machines. Here, too, there were meetings and procedures and protocol. Again, I enjoyed it... until I didn't.

After that job, I dove headfirst into the real corporate world. In 2007, I was hired to join the marketing department of a large law firm with offices up and down the East coast. I was the sole graphic designer in a department that consisted of fifteen colleagues. There were tech people and copywriters and event planners and a bunch of people who had the title of "manager" but had no actual staff. I was never quite sure who or what exactly they managed. Over the course of my dozen years at that job, there was a revolving door of perky young ladies who shared one brain among them. They smiled and carried little leatherette portfolios and had meetings with attorneys. I was not sure what they discussed at their meetings. I suppose it was some sort of marketing plan. When any one of them breached my office doorway to explain the sort of informational marketing piece I would need to produce as a result of a meeting, their explanation and instruction was offered to me with all of the articulation of Mushmouth. I could only imagine when these young ladies went out with their friends or attended a family gathering, when asked what they did for a living, they say "I work at a law firm." When further pressed for the nature of their actual job, they'd reply: "Y'know.... work with the lawyers."

There was a guy in my department who also was bestowed with the title of "manager." He may have even been a "senior manager." I wasn't exactly sure what he did either. He butted into everyone else's business. That is, when he wasn't in a meeting. And he was always in a meeting. He had meetings scheduled to cover his entire day. When one would end, he'd hurry down the hall to attend another meeting. Sometimes, he'd have to leave a meeting early so he could be on time for the next meeting on another floor. He had breakfast meetings and lunch meetings. He was always rushing down a hallway with his laptop in one hand and a half-eaten danish or sandwich (depending on the time of day) in the other.

On a monthly basis, our Marketing Department would have its own meeting. These hour-plus affairs were tedious. The standard procedure was to go around the big meeting table and, one-by-one, explain what we are currently working on. There was so much indecipherable corporate jargon tossed about, one would have thought it was an English as a Second Language class. Most of the time, I had absolutely no clue what was being discussed. The metaphors and symbolism where confusing. Phrases like "low-hanging fruit" and "vertical advertising" were bandied about like they were included in everyday conversation. One guy — the meeting guy — would even mix metaphors to make things even more obscure. He'd say things like "herding ducks" and "getting our cats in a row." And then he'd rush off to another meeting before what he said could sink in.

But even with all the corporate policies and structure and protocol, there was one thing I absolutely hated — hated! — about the corporate world.

The one and only.

I got married in 1984. This summer, my wife and I will celebrate our forty-first wedding anniversary. I love my wife. She is my companion. She is my best friend. She is the one person I can always count on for anything. We have been together for so long, one of us sometimes speaks what the other one is thinking. Like Anna and Hans (before he was revealed to be a jerk), we finish each others sandwiches. We're like Lois Lane and Clark Kent. Like Rufus T. Firefly and Mrs. Teasdale. Like Catherine and Heathcliff (if they end up together at the end of that book. I actually never read it.) We're like Calvin Coolidge. Put together! We have so much in common. I'll say it again, she is my wife. My only wife.

There is a term within the corporate world that angers me. It infuriates me. It makes be cringe. I don't find it funny or cute or endearing. As a matter of fact, I find it stupid and demeaning and insulting. The term I am referring to is "work wife." Eeechhh! Just typing it makes my blood both boil and run cold. I don't know who coined that disgusting phrase, but I curse them! 

Over the course of several jobs in the corporate world, I have had a few female colleagues to whom the term "work wife" was applied. These were women with whom I had a close working relationship. There were a couple with whom I could commiserate over a lame decision made by a superior or some dumb new corporate policy. Others were fellow artists who could help with a new perspective on a difficult task or offer a different way to tackle a problem. I would sometimes go out for lunch with these female co-workers and think nothing of it. It would be no different than going out for a bite with a male co-worker. But, there are folks within the corporate world who can't keep their fucking mouths shut and who feel the need to stir the fucking pot, creating "controversy" where none exists. 

The term "work wife" is supposed to be cute and and little dangerous in a playful sort of way. I find it dangerous in a dangerous sort of way. I am not one of those people who hides things from my wife. I don't sneak anything behind my wife's back. I don't say things like: "Oh don't tell my wife!" or "I hope my wife doesn't find out." My marriage is not a sit-com. I am not Ralph Kramden trying to keep another hare-brained scheme from Alice. But there are certain people in the corporate world who think that scenario is funny. But, it is only funny on TV. They like to hint at more than just a friendship... which, of course, was ludicrous (as well as nobody's goddamn business anyway). But, that's how the rumor mill grinds in the corporate world.

I have actually had co-workers refer to a female co-worker as my "work wife" right to my face... even after I have expressed my feelings towards the term. To all of my female former co-workers who have been labeled my "work wife," please understand that it was not me doing the labeling. While I enjoyed our friendship and our relationship as working colleagues, I have just one wife. Just one. And she's probably checking this blog post for typos right now.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

listen to the countdown, they're playing our song again

At the end of last year, my favorite radio station, Philadelphia's WXPN, interrupted their regular programming to present the "885 Greatest Songs of the 21st Century." Culled from an online poll of loyal listeners, the countdown (played back in reverse order) offered a wide variety of songs from a wide variety of artists. The content was comprised mostly of WXPN's so-called "core artists," the ones who receive regular play on the station and are beloved by listeners for their musical output, their longevity, and because WXPN says they are beloved or some combination of  the above. So, of course the countdown featured 18 songs by Radiohead (a band I do not care for), 11 songs by Hozier (a singer I am indifferent towards), 9 songs by Bruce Springsteen (a singer I am sick of hearing, especially his 21st century releases) and slew of non-descript singer/songwriters who — honestly — all seem to blend together. The countdown included 8 songs by Kendrick Lamar, rapper and recent Super Bowl halftime showman. WXPN rarely plays Kendrick Lamar in their day-to-day playlist. As a matter of fact, the station receives a number of complaints from its predominantly white, predominantly older audience when ever a rap artist interrupts their Dawes and The War on Drugs listening time. (Yes, WXPN is my favorite radio station. Imagine what I would say if it wasn't my favorite!)

People love to rank things. They love to make lists of pretty much everything in their lives in the order of how much they are loved. They love to tell other people how they have ranked things and try to convince those people to rank these things in the same order, often leading to heated arguments, insults and animosity. That's just human nature, I suppose. In 2020, I reiterated how much I dislike... no, make that hate countdowns. Countdowns and lists and rankings are based on opinions. And — boy! — do people have opinions. Opinions are meaningless in the big scheme of things. If you insist on things being ranked and rated, it should be based on measurable facts, not on how much you like or don't like something. Everyone has different likes and dislikes, yet people want everyone to share their opinion. And they get very, very defensive when their opinions are not shared. Very defensive.

Every year, the Oscars, the Emmys, The Grammys, the Tonys and countless other awards are given out based on the opinions of a specific group of people. Record sales, box office receipts and other factual, measurable criteria are tossed aside in favor of arbitrary opinions based on likability, personalities and politically motivated feeling. That's why Glenn Close or Alfred Hitchcock never received an Oscar. That's why Paul Newman was finally given an Oscar for a 1987 performance in a less-than-stellar sequel to the movie for which he should have won an Oscar. Paul Newman skipped that Oscar ceremony in 1987, later stating: "It's like chasing a beautiful woman for 80 years." Paul knew bullshit when he saw it. 

The same goes for various Halls of Fame. The Baseball Hall of Fame is chock full of statistics, but, when it comes to selection for induction into the coveted Hall, players are chosen based on the opinions of a committee. They know what statistics are and what they represent, yet they choose to ignore statistics when it really counts. Induction into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame has been a "bone in the throat" for a lot of die-hard rock and roll fans. Each year, when nominees are announced (by the same opiniated group that will eventually vote on who gets in), tempers flare and voices raise in protest. "Why hasn't (insert your favorite snubbed rock & roller here) gotten in?" is the frequent gripe. The word "deserves" is brought up a lot, mostly by people who don't fully understand what "deserves" means. Non-rock and rollers like Dolly Parton have been given the honor of induction, while Bad Company, Boston, Warren Zevon and Iron Maiden look on from the sidelines. Again, record sales, concert receipts and radio (and now streaming) airplay are not considered for induction. Only opinion. According to the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame's website, "the Nominating Committee's selections are based on a number of criteria, including the impact and influence of the artist on music history, as well as their popularity, longevity, and musical innovations." That just another, more complicated way of saying "opinion."

So, because I do not like countdowns and I do not subscribe to the importance that is placed on countdowns and ratings and rankings, I avoided the "885 Greatest Songs of the 21st Century." I listened to the radio before the countdown began, but I was already at my desk at work by the time it started and each subsequent day when it picked up where it left off the previous day. I avoided it for its entire ten day (or so) run. When it was all over, I casually glanced at the results that were posted on the WXPN website — just out of curiosity.

And there was a glaring omission.

Sparks 21st Century albums

The parameters for inclusion in this countdown was songs released between January 1, 2000 and right up until the day the countdown voting closed. That encompasses 25 years. The list of 885 songs was totally devoid of a single entry by Ron and Russel Mael, the brothers who have been performing for the past 54 years (in one capacity or another) under the name Sparks. Since their debut in 1971, Sparks has flown just under the mainstream radar of the music industry. As a band, they are hard to define. They have dabbled in many musical genres including pop, rock, new wave, dance and electronica. Along the way, they have poked playful fun at they genres they so expertly mimicked. Although their humor is quite prevalent in their songs, they are not a novelty act, like Weird Al Yankovic (who, by the way, has five Grammys). Sparks are a legitimate band. Yes, they have popped their heads up here and there, scoring with a few minor hits in the 80s, but mostly they are one of the cultiest of cult bands. They get very little airplay despite their musical output of 41 albums (including 2 soundtrack albums, a live album and 12 compilation albums) and 79 singles. They have appeared and performed on network television (including briefly on an episode of Gilmore Girls). They were featured in the 1977 thriller Rollercoaster and more recently, they were the subject of and acclaimed documentary by edgy filmmaker Edgar Wright.

Sparks met the criteria for inclusion in the "885 Greatest Songs of the 21st Century." Beginning in 2000, Sparks released 11 albums. Eleven! including the two soundtracks and a collaboration with Scottish band Franz Ferdinand (whose "Take Me Out" ranked at Number 93 according to someone's opinion). Within the past 25 years, several Sparks songs were played on WXPN for a brief period of time, mostly just after a new album release or when the documentary came out. After that, the new Sparks songs disappeared from the airwaves and 1983's "Cool Places" would pop up on the station's 80's themed specialty show.

However, not a single Sparks song made it to the "885 Greatest Songs of the 21st Century." Not a one. The alt-metal band Incubus had a song come in at Number 859. Pop punkers Jimmy Eat World were included at Number 689. Even Taylor Swift took the 133 spot with "Shake It Off" — a song that is rarely if ever played on WXPN. But no Sparks.

Is the  "885 Greatest Songs of the 21st Century" really an accurate assessment of the "885 Greatest Songs of the 21st Century?" Before you answer, understand that it's just your opinion.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

Footnote: I went an entire post about music without a single shot at Ringo or The Dave Matthews Band.

a cover is not the book

I love to read. Unfortunately, I don't have nearly enough time to do so anymore. Years ago, when I used to take the train to work, I read a lot. An awful lot. I used to go through several books a month. I read so much, that I tried to have several books lined up, so when I finished the current book I was reading, I could start right in on the next one uninterrupted.

I was always looking for books to read. I began by reading classics — books I was supposed to read in high school but just never got around to it. I remember when I read The Catcher in the Rye — a favorite of serial killers —  nobody would ever sit next to me on the train, a rarity in the busy, early-morning rush hour. I read I, The Jury — my first exposure to the 1950s hard-boiled detective genre. I enjoyed the book, but couldn't help but feeling that I was reading a MAD magazine parody. I honestly couldn't get through The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, but I loved The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll. I was surprised by how much descriptive story and suspense was built up, despite its abbreviated length. I felt the same about the many novels I read by Edgar Allan Poe.

There was one book that was regularly recommend to me by my wife's cousin Jerzy. He often gushed about one book in particular, extolling its satirical wit, its off-the-wall humor and its biting social commentary. Jerzy would bring this book up almost every time I saw him. So, after years of prodding, I purchased a second-hand copy of Jerzy's favorite book — John Kennedy Toole's A Confederacy of Dunces — to read on the train.

John Kennedy Toole

New Orleans native John Kennedy Toole taught English Literature at Columbia University after his graduation from Tulane, which he attended on a scholarship. He was drafted into the army in 1963 where he taught English to Spanish-speaking recruits in Puerto Rico. That's where be began writing A Confederacy of Dunces. He would finish the novel in his parents' home after his discharge. Upon its completion, Toole shopped the novel to various publishers. It was rejected by each one, including two different editors at Simon & Shuster, when it was deemed "pointless." Depressed and paranoid, Toole took his own life in 1969 at the age of 31. While going through his personal belongings, Toole's mother Thelma, with whom he had a close but tumultuous relationship and who served as the inspiration of the main character's overbearing mother in the novel, found her son's manuscript (in carbon copy form, no less!). Thelma was determined to have her son's book published. She literally pestered author Walker Percy to read the manuscript. He relented and loved it. In 1980, seventeen years after Toole typed the final words and over a decade after he committed suicide, A Confederacy of Dunces was published by LSU Press. Amid high praise, it won the Pulitzer Prize the following year.

Ignatius J. Reilly

Early one morning, I boarded the train to work, found a seat and cracked open my brand-new used copy of A Confederacy of Dunces. Almost immediately I was introduced to the likes of Ignatius J. Reilly, the slovenly, lazy, delusional, idealistic anti-protagonist of the story. Ignatius is educated but without ambitions. He has contempt for the world around him and the people who inhabit it. He perceives himself as a superior member of society. He is at odds with his mother, his reluctant girlfriend, the local police officer and his employers at several positions he is forced to take. He's a glutton, a pervert who points out the perverse actions of others, and a ne'er-do-well who blames his long run of bad luck solely on the work of an ancient deity — not his own decisions (or lack of). Ignatius's improbable interactions with the book's supporting characters were only somewhat amusing. To me, however, they were downright infuriating and eerily familiar.

As I continued to read A Confederacy of Dunces, I was nagged by an underlying feeling. I felt I had heard — even witnessed — the adventures of  Ignatius J. Reilly before. But, this was a silly thought. Ignatius J. Reilly was a fictional character. After a few more days and a few more chapters... it hit me. It hit me as to why I was not enjoying this book. It occurred to me who exactly Ignatius J. Reilly was. His antics. His "blame the world for my troubles" attitude. His "I am above everyone" ego. His skewed, "know-it-all" view on reality. Ignatius J. Reilly was... was... a member of my family. A particular member of my family. A member of my family whose personality and demeanor mirrors that of Ignatius J. Reilly's to a T. A member of my family with whom I have had a contentious relationship for years. A relationship that has exponentially deteriorated with each new audacious action he exercises. He is lazy, like Ignatius J. Reilly. He's unambitious, like Ignatius J. Reilly. He's unrealistic, like Ignatius J. Reilly. He's a buffoonish elitist, like Ignatius J. Reilly. He's an asshole, like Ignatius J. Reilly

I cannot — and will not — elaborate. If you know me, you know to whom I am alluding. If you don't know me personally, just know that I was not able to fully enjoy A Confederacy of Dunces to the level that Jerzy did. It's just one more thing that this particular family member has ruined for me.

I should really start reading again. It's a distraction.

Usually.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com