no milk today

When I was a kid, I guess I drank a lot of milk. There was always milk in the refrigerator. It was usually a big gallon jug, as there were four people in my family, including two growing boys. My brother and I would have cereal nearly every morning and cereal required milk. Sometimes, after school or on a weekend afternoon, I'd pour a small glass of milk for myself, grab a few (or more than a few) Oreos from a package in the kitchen cupboard and have myself a quick, typically kid-friendly snack. However, if I think about it, most of the milk in our house was consumed by my father.

My father was a creature of habit. Once he did something, he would always have to do it. I suppose that started back in World War II, when, as a young seaman in the US Navy, he tried his first cigarette — and he never looked back. Cigarettes became a part of his daily routine right up until the day he died. He also always put his shoes and socks on first when he got dressed and then struggled to get his pant legs over his fully-clad feet. I don't know why he dressed in this order, but he did. He always did. My father also had a giant glass of chocolate milk and a Tastykake Chocolate Junior every night before he went to bed. It was as though he could not get to sleep without those two components. My father insisted that our kitchen was always stocked with milk, Hershey's Instant chocolate milk powder and a box of Tastykake Chocolate Juniors. The Tastykakes were usually hidden by my father so they would always be available for him and him alone. If, by chance, my brother or I would eat one, it had better not be the last one or we would suffer the wrath of one Harold Pincus deprived of his daily, late-night, pre-bedtime ritual. We were permitted to mix a spoonful of Hershey's Instant into our milk as long as enough remained for my father's milk, but if there were no Tastykake Chocolate Juniors around when my dad was ready to hit the sack — well, let's just say there better have been at least one. We seemed to go through a lot of Hershey's Instant in the Pincus house. Between my father, my brother and me, a one pound can never seemed to last very long. I remember the lid of the metal container had to be removed with the help of a crowbar, but a metal spoon handle would often suffice. The recommended two "heaping" teaspoons never delivered enough chocolate flavor for my liking and I would usually add a little bit more to my milk. I think I caught my father dropping up to three spoons worth of Hershey's Instant into his milk. His rationale being "I'm paying for the goddamn stuff. I'll use however much I goddamn please." My mom, who was in charge of keeping our kitchen's food inventory maintained, never allowed the Pincus house to be without Hershey's Instant.

As I got older, I did not follow in my father's footsteps. My taste for milk did not carry over into my teen or adult years. I have never poured myself a glass of milk to drink anywhere past the age of ten. I still eat cereal every morning, but I pour a  minimal amount over my Honey Nut Cheerios A few years ago, my son asked if I am still drinking cow's milk. He went on to explain that I should cut down on my dairy intake and suggested that I switch to almond milk for my cereal. At first, I balked. Then —  very much unlike my father —  I took my son's advice. I bought a carton of almond milk. I tasted no difference between almond milk and cow's milk. I've been buying almond milk ever since.

My wife told her father about my switch and he said he'd like to try almond milk. My father-in-law is not the most flexible or receptive-to-change person I have ever met. He (much like my own father) is very much set in his ways. My wife bought a carton of almond milk for my father-in-law. Allegedly, his highly sophisticated taste buds detected a "taste" in the complex flavor profile of almond milk and he rejected this little non-dairy, "I don't like anything new" experiment. The remainder of the carton was sent to our house. (This has happened several more times since as he half-expected to like almond milk on subsequent samplings. He did not.) While I do not fancy myself a food connoisseur in any respect, I cannot detect the remotest "almond" flavor in almond milk.

I still have no desire to pour and drink a glass of milk. As a matter of fact, the thought of it is a little nauseating. I'll happily drink the few drops left at the bottom of my empty cereal bowl, but that's it. No big glasses of milk for me.

I will, however, eat a Tastykake Chocolate Junior if one is available. You know.... in honor of my dad. Yeah... that's it.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

razor's edge

I hate to shave. I. Hate. To. Shave. Hate it. Hate. It. I think I have made it pretty clear how I feel about shaving.... and that is..... I hate it.

I used to watch my dad shave. That was a nightly ritual for him. Nightly! My dad shaved every night. Every goddamn night! I had one of those toy razors that hung in the supermarket on the same racks as jacks and those little green army men whose feet were fused to a little slab of plastic so they could stand up. My mom would buy me one of those kiddie shaving kits and I would stand in the bathroom alongside my dad while he shaved. He'd smear lather all over my face and I'd mimic the faces my dad would make as he guided his razor around his nose and chin and Adam's apple. I imitated the same actions with my little one-piece, bladeless, plastic razor. One summer, my mom won a hot lather dispenser on a wheel in Atlantic City, Of course, she gave it to my dad. This little gadget, once loaded with a standard can of shaving cream, would spit out steaming lather, just like at the barber shop — well, at least the barber shops you saw on TV. My dad would extract a dollop of hot shaving cream for me and then one for himself and we were shaving like the rich folks did — in their rich bathrooms with their rich hot lather dispensers that rich people had... I guess. After the initial can of shaving cream was used up, my dad went back to shaving with unheated cream straight from the can.

I started shaving with a real razor when I was about sixteen. I started off using my dad's electric razor. (He had dispensed with his hot lather dispenser.) After using an electric razor, it never quite felt like I had shaved. When I was a teenager, however, it was cool to try to grow a beard. But, when I got a job scooping ice cream at a place where facial hair was frowned upon (like working at Disneyland or playing for the New York Yankees), I had to shave regularly. The guy that owned the ice cream place didn't care for the quality of the shave I received from my dad's electric razor. That's when I was forced to master the fine art of shaving with a razor. I bought a disposable razor (a cheapo Bic) and that did the trick. I was able to get rid of the first bits of "beard" that had sprouted on my teenage face — along with a layer of skin.

I've had a beard and/or mustache on and off for many years. It's not because I like how I look with facial hair. It's because I hate to shave (Please see the first paragraph to remind yourself of how I feel about shaving.) When I have grown a full beard, I rarely — if ever — trimmed it, because I considered that to be shaving. Once, at a job, a coworker asked me my age. I had a full beard at the time, peppered with gray hairs mixed among my natural brown. I chuckled and dared him to guess my age. He looked me up and down and ventured a guess that was fifteen years over my actual age. The next day, I saved my beard off. And I kept it off for years.

When I started working in the marketing department of a large law firm, I got into the habit of shaving every day. I was going through those disposable razors like firewood during a particularly cold winter. I was required to offer a presentable and professional appearance as a reflection of the law firm. Sure, I was dyeing my hair bright orange at the time, but it was always properly groomed and my face was always clean shaven. It was brutal and I hated shaving even more.

I no longer work at that law firm. Now I work for a commercial printing company. The dregs of society work for commercial printers and nobody gives a shit how I look. I can shave (or not shave) as often as I wish. So, I choose to not shave for as longa as I can, until I decide to finally shave. Sometimes I catch a glance of myself in the mirror and I notice I bear a striking resemblance to the guy that Aladdin runs into in the dungeon that's actually the evil Jafar in disguise. (Except for the teeth. My teeth are in better shape and I have the dentist bills to prove it.) My beard — which now is fully white — is wild and unkept and badly in need of a trim. Better yet, I will determine upon closer inspection of my reflection, my beard should be cut off entirely. I always keep a stock of disposable razors on hand, but, Mrs. Pincus found a Gillette Fusion razor she had received as a trial sample someplace. She asked if I wanted to give it a try. I shrugged and said, "Sure. What the heck!"

The Gillette Company makes a lot of razors in a wide variety of prices and they all do pretty much the exact same thing. The Fusion razor, which employs a five-blade cartridge, runs around twenty-two bucks. The one Mrs. P gave me was free — a promotion used to get a potential customer to purchase refill blades in the future. I got one shave out of the non-brand name disposable razors I was using. By the time I got around to shaving, my coarse beard would render the blades unusably dull by the end of a shaving session. I took the new razor, my trusty electric beard trimmer and can of shaving cream and went into the bathroom to rid my face of several week's of beard growth. The Gillette Fusion was terrific! Without trying to sound like a commercial, it was the closest, smoothest shave I have ever had. I rinsed off the Gillette Fusion and stuck it in the medicine cabinet,  hoping it would provide another close shave the next time I decided to employ its service — whenever that would be.

When I got around to shaving again (probably six or seven weeks later), I grabbed my Gillette Fusion and, once again, it delivered an equally close shave. No cuts, No nicks. Just a clean close shave. Jeez! I really am starting to sound like a commercial, but, I swear, I am not being sponsored by nor am I receiving any sort of compensation from the Gillette company. Again. I rinse any shaving cream residue and stray whiskers from my razor and stored it until needed.

This has been going on for months. I keep getting a great, close, clean shave from the same five blades attached to the Gillette Fusion handle. Months, I tell you! The blades are just as sharp, just as accurate as the day Mrs. P asked if I wanted to give it a try. Just to be safe, I bought a replacement pack of blades for fifteen bucks. I haven't touched those supplement blades yet, as the original set is just fine. The original blades have provided the greatest shaves I have had in nearly a half century of shaving.

I shaved just this morning (after catching a fleeting glimpse of what I thought was Santa Claus in a mirror). My ol' reliable Gillette Fusion is still showing no signs of dulling. I still hate shaving, but now... now.... it has become a test. A test of endurance. 

So far, Gillette is winning.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

why's everybody always pickin' on me

People compose yourselves. This is a bris. We are performing a bris here, not a burlesque show. This is not a school play! This is not a baggy pants farce! This is a bris. An ancient, sacred ceremony, symbolizing the covenant between God and Abraham... or something.

— "The Bris" Seinfeld, 1993

Remember that episode of Seinfeld? It was just one of a number of storylines on the long running comedy that poked fun at Jewish tradition. Show creators Jerry Seinfeld and Larry David were not especially observant as Jews growing up in Brooklyn, but they were keenly aware of the many rituals and foibles that "their people" displayed. Anti-Semitism was addressed in the episode where Jerry was labeled an "anti-dentite" based on his attitude towards his dentist. Hitler was hilariously mocked by Elaine's boss Mr. Pitt (as played to deadpan perfection by the late Ian Abercrombie) when he delivered a speech about Poland Springs water. The whole setting of Del Boca Vista, the fictitious, but all-too-real, Florida retirement community where Jerry's parents resided, could only have been imagined by someone with intimate insight into the real thing.

The episode "The Bris," first broadcast in October 1993, was unusual in its subject matter. The self-proclaimed "show about nothing" was actually about something. While Seinfeld sporadically included a smattering of Jewish references throughout its nine-season run, "The Bris" presented a scenario that most non-Jews would never get the opportunity to witness. The segment was replete with terms unfamiliar to most gentiles, like "mohel" and the word "bris" itself. Of course, its main goal was to be funny, but it managed to weave some of the actual parts of the ceremony into the narrative. Series co-star Jason Alexander later lamented that he didn't care for the child-hating aspect of the mohel character, but you gotta do what you can to be funny.

Well, I am very familiar with the liturgy of brit milah (ritual circumcision), having witnessed many, including one that was performed right in my own dining room, (and by "witnessed," I mean "turned away at the crucial moment, along with every other male in the room," with the exception of the mohel... I assume.) Every bris is nearly identical — a lot of explanation to the uninitiated, a lot of chanting and recitation in Hebrew, a certain amount of screaming and crying (some of it even from the baby), followed by the ever-present bagels-and-such spread, which is prevalent at most Jewish home-based ceremonies. Now, in these days of social distancing, a gathering such as a bris is subject to a different set of protocol. Yesterday, my wife and I attended one such bris using the modern miracle of the Zoom meeting. And this one had all the makings of a Seinfeld episode, circa 2021... but not for the reasons you might think.

The rabbi's wife at my brother-in-law's shul (a Yiddish word meaning "synagogue" that Jews like to use to make them feel more like Jews) had a baby last week and, as per tradition, he was to have a circumcision on the eighth day after his birth. A link to join a Zoom bris was sent out to members of his congregation, as well as friends and relatives across the country and those who made a small contribution in honor of the blessed event (that's where we fit in). Mrs. Pincus and I huddled around my computer screen about fifteen minutes prior to the appointed time, just to make sure all systems were working properly. Several other folks had the same idea. Soon little blocks were slowly populating my computer monitor, some with silent faces adjusting camera positions or some just staring blankly at us, waiting for this thing to begin and be over. Everyone's audio was automatically muted, as predetermined by the admin, in this case — the rabbi and new proud father. Mrs. P and I watched in amusement as folks got up from their desks and wandered out of the room. Others squinted, waiting for something to happen, as they ate from a plate placed just out of view of the camera. One little window displayed two curious little girls — one wearing glittery cat ears perched atop her head — peering into the camera as though they were observing some poor fellow who had fallen down a well.

And then Gary appeared.

As proclaimed by his on-screen name, Gary chose to view the upcoming bris via the technology afforded him by his iPad. From the angle in which we saw Gary, his iPad must have been laying flat on a desk or table and he appeared to be hovering above it. Instead of a familiar backdrop of a bookcase or a shelving unit filled with Judaica-heavy knick-knacks, Gary had only a blank ceiling behind him. Every so often, when he would consciously move the unit or accidentally bump the table, and we would catch a glimpse of a clock hanging on the wall. This would appear in the bottom portion of the screen because of the unnatural angle at which the iPad was situated. In addition to a splendid view of Gary's ceiling, we were also treated to a medical examination-quality perspective of Gary's nasal cavity. 

As the time clicked closer to the beginning of the bris, the rabbi popped in to say that the baby's fussing will cause an unavoidable delay. He promised to be back as soon as the "guest of honor" had calmed down. As consolation, those who logged in early were subjected to a lengthy display of Gary picking his nose. Extensively. In full view of the camera and a virtual roomful of eager — now disgusted — "guests." Gary showed no sign of slowing down. He dug and prodded and scratched and drilled. He poked and jabbed and excavated and plowed. I could not overt my eyes. I was rivetted, as though I was driving slowly past a a multi-car pile-up on the Expressway, hoping not to see any carnage, but secretly wishing the opposite. Except I had zero desire to see anything that Gary extracted from his nostrils.

Finally, the actual ceremony began. The rabbi offered a heartfelt "welcome" to all who joined, mentioning select few by name. He introduced the tradition of "the bris" by saying "you all know the story" — then he proceeded to tell the story. His wife briefly entered the frame and waved, then a committee of bearded, tallis-swathed men hijacked the action, chanting quickly in Hebrew and rocking their bodies in complementary rhythm. It didn't matter that the actual act of circumcision was performed off-screen, Gary was otherwise preoccupied

I could not tear myself away from Gary. And Gary could tear himself away from his nose. Gary was diligent, not letting some little bris interrupt him from the task at hand. A few times, Gary's screen upended — probably from an errant bump. For a fleeting moment, his little allotted rectangle resembled a hand-held camera scene from a late-era Friday the 13th sequel with blurred body parts being tossed about in dim lighting. Almost as quick, Gary righted his device and was back to "cleaning house" with nary a breather. Gary stood out among the sea of smiling faces across my monitor. But I could only focus on Gary. Could I be the only one who could see this?

Somewhere along the line, while my attention was, unfortunately, elsewhere, the ceremony ended in a hail of "mazal tov"s. The rabbi and his wife were beaming in their little cube at the center of the screen. Guests were merely gesturing applause since everyone was still muted. The rabbi thanked everyone for their attendance and promptly clicked his "Exit Meeting" button. His square disappeared. Gary stuck around for some further probiscal maintenance. Mrs. Pincus and I did not.

This, too, was not a school play! This, too, was not a baggy pants farce! I'm just not sure it was indeed a bris.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

all things must pass

Passover begins this weekend. You know when you watch Charlton Heston in The Ten Commandments and you think it's somehow connected to Easter, because — after all — ABC shows it every year around Easter time? Well, it's actually about Passover.

Passover is a time for renewal, as in an "out with the old, in with the new" sort-of fashion. As the tradition goes, all of the food you currently have in your house has to be consumed or disposed of prior to the start of Passover. Then, new food that is certified as "Kosher for Passover" is purchased and eaten during the eight days of the holiday. (They tell me it lasts eight days, but I'm convinced it rages on longer than that.) On the night before Passover begins, families stage a ritual "search for chametz" in their homes. Chametz is any food that is not deemed Kosher for Passover. As part of the tradition, a small amounts of chametz are placed around various rooms in the home. Then, a "search" is conducted using a pre-assembled "chametz kit," which includes:

• a candle to light the way during the search (as it is performed with the lights out — oooh! spooky!)
• a feather to "sweep" the chametz once it is located
• a wooden spoon, which acts as a dustpan to catch the chametz once swept
• a paper bag, to contain the chametz... sort of like a primitive version of the trap from Ghostbusters.

Some sort of appropriate prayer is recited prior to the search and at the conclusion. The sealed bag of collected chametz is placed by the front door and, the next morning, is taken to some community location (a synagogue or such) for — get this — burning. Years ago, when our son was younger and when I was much, much more observant in my faith, we would actively and sincerely reenact this tradition every year. My son and I, with yarmulkes perched atop our heads, would methodically move from room to room in our house. As a representation of the chametz in our house, I would leave little piles of cereal or crackers strategically placed in the rooms where we most likely ate food over the course of the past year. I would lead the way, illuminating our path with the lit candle. My son would wield the spoon and feather, dutifully sweeping up each discovery of chametz and insuring that each morsel made it into the gaping mouth of the paper bag. When our search was completed, we would gather in the kitchen where Mrs. Pincus would intone the magical words of prayer as I wrapped a rubber band around the paper bag as a final secure seal.

The next morning, we'd head over to my in-law's house, where my father-in-law would set up "Chametz Central" and the final leg of the ritual would commence. He'd drag out an age worn metal garbage can lid — rusty and discolored from years of chametz burning. I'm fairly sure this was the actual vessel in which Moses and his family burned their chametz before they headed out through the desert with those hunks of unleavened bread. Each of our families' bags were deposited in the center of the inverted lid. My father-in-law would douse the bags with way too much lighter fluid and — like a seasoned arsonist — he'd casually flick a lit match into the dead center. Then he'd say some different magic words of prayer and we'd watch the flames grow and rise and die down. Then, we'd go to our respective jobs and schools.

Over the years, my interest in organized religion has waned considerably. I don't attend any type of religious services and I don't care to participate in anything remotely religion-related. With our son now living in his own house, I reluctantly, though obligingly, agree to searching for chametz (out of respect for Mrs. P). I quickly rush through the process, but I will not attend the burning portion at my in-law's house. However, this year, Mrs. Pincus — who has clearly been corrupted by nearly four decades of exposure to the subversive ways of Josh Pincus — suggested a different commodity be substituted for our usual chametz-representing Cheerios... you I know, to shake things up. She suggested unpopped popcorn kernels. I immediately lit up, envisioning the scenario that would occur the next morning when my unsuspecting father-in-law tossed that match onto the fuel-soaked bags and the fire got going. We actually giggled at the possibly of injecting a little noisy surprise into an otherwise solemn ritual — and maybe even briefly rattling my usually pious and traditional father-in-law.

So, we searched for unpopped popcorn kernels sprinkled throughout our house. My wife said her little prayers and I snickered as I wound a rubber band around the paper bag.

The next morning, we arrived for the final steps of the chametz-search. We dropped our bag alongside my father-in-law's bagged spoils from his search the evening before. He squeezed out a few drops of lighter fluid across the tops of the bags and, after some initial difficultly, ignited the bags on the fifth match-striking attempt. At this point, I would like to report that, after an eerie quiet, our bag erupted in a hail of violent, uncontrolled explosions — spewing popcorn shrapnel in all directions from the raging flames. I'd like to report that my poor startled father-in-law was immediately taken aback in horror and alarm, as my wife and I mischievously cackled in delight.

I'd like to say all that, but I can't.

The popcorn had been sitting in our kitchen cupboard for a few years. It had no doubt lost whatever it is that makes popcorn pop. So, as the flames grew and our anticipation grew more — a single kernel emitted a single, feeble, debilitated pop. Actually, it didn't even warrant the word "pop" as a valid description. My wife and I exchanged disappointed looks. By this time, my father-in-law had already lost interest.

Happy Passover everyone. Maybe next year.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

that thing you do

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I think this sums things up nicely.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

***** ***** ***** ***** *****

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

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

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