if I can't have you

On Sunday, my wife and I took our son to one of his favorite stores - H Mart. We actually live equidistant from two H Marts, but he chose to go to the larger one. (Just as a side note, the smaller H Mart is the actual one that is referenced in Michelle Zauner's best-selling memoir Crying in H Mart.) Okay, maybe the larger H Mart is a bit further from our house than the one that traumatized the lead singer of Japanese Breakfast, but, nevertheless, we obliged my son and his shopping list and drove the extra mile.

This particular H Mart is at the end of a large, L-shaped shopping center. Closer to where we parked in the very busy, very congested parking lot is a Family Dollar store. When we got out of our car, my son made a beeline towards H Mart, while my wife announced that she was going to check out the Family Dollar store and we would meet up with him shortly. I had never been in a Family Dollar store, despite their having over 8000 locations nationwide. As a matter of fact, before their 2015 acquisition by rival Dollar Tree, Family Dollar was the second largest retailer — of its kind — in the country.... and neither Mrs. P nor I had ever been inside one. Well, that was about to change. As they say, you're never too old to do new things... although I suppose the proverbial "they" were referring to skydiving or learning a foreign language.

Excitedly, we breached the door of Family Dollar and — let me tell you — this place was a shithole of the highest level. I mean it put other shitholes to shame! If they gave awards for shitholes.... well, you get it. I'm not sure what I was expecting, but I should have been expecting the same strange amalgamation of mismatched, out-of-fashion, discontinued, brand name knock-off crap that I have seen in other dollar stores. Family Dollar was no different. Its aisles were alternately jammed and empty. Some were stocked with big bottles of laundry detergent whose alternative brand labels were faintly reminiscent of Tide or Cheer. Adjacent aisles sported empty shelves with just one or two items — a pair of generic sneakers and a few cookbooks by a TV chef whose show has not presented new episodes in years — and all sorts of other merchandise littering the floor. The toy department displayed boxes of things that looked like Lego alongside packaged superhero figures from a movie that made its big premiere in theaters for the lucrative Christmas season... the Christmas season of 2019.

Mrs. P, with her keen eye, spotted a small counter display box with PVC figures of characters from the film The Nightmare Before Christmas. These, she thought preemptively, could serve as small gifts for children (neighbors that Mrs. P undeservingly fawns over) or could eventually make it out to one of our world-famous (or neighborhood famous, at least) yard sales — if they were cheap enough. There was a small sticker on each figures' backing card that showed the price as $1.25. Mrs. P grabbed all of them (about eight or nine) and handed me the box to carry as we scouted the store for more "treasures." In the very next aisle, there were hooks of various hair accessories. "Ooh!," my wife said, "I should grab a couple of hair ties for my mom." Mrs. P — as we have already established — is the nicest person in world. She regularly checks in and tends to her parents who are of an advanced age and are not nearly as mobile as they once were. Especially, my mother-in-law. On a regular basis, Mrs. P washes and combs her mother's hair, often tying it back to keep it neat and out of the way. Being the nice person she is, my wife thought some new hair ties would be a sweet surprise for her mom. She selected two different styles and tossed them in the box with the Nightmare figures.

We made our way through the narrow aisles until we decided we had seen enough. (Actually, I had seen enough as soon as I walked through the doorway.) Anyway, we took our small purchases up to the checkout counter and laid them out. We were greeted by a friendly young man who picked up the first figure and waved it across the electric eye of the price scanner. It beeped and the LED readout on the cash register showed ".01." The cashier scrunched up his face at the price and turned to another young man who was by the doors straightening the small shopping carts. The other man craned his neck to see the lighted display. He explained to the cashier, "If something comes up 'just a penny,' that means you can't sell it. It's old merchandise and you just gotta throw it away."

I have been shopping in stores for many, many, many years. I have even worked in my share of retail stores, some on the large chain level and others of the "Mom & Pop" variety. Never — and I do mean never — have I ever been instructed to throw away a perfectly saleable item — in full view of a customer — because a "secret code" price popped up. But this guy stood firm. He was adamant about not letting the cashier sell these figures to us at any price. He stood by as the cashier gathered up the nine or so figures, walked them over to a nearby trash receptacle behind the counter and deposited them with an audible clunk. He returned sheepishly from carrying out his duty as a loyal and abiding employee of  Family Dollar and asked if we still wanted the hair ties. The man who was straightening the shopping carts stood defiantly with his arms crossed, a smirk on his face, silently exuding pride in his flagrant toeing of the corporate line.

"Yes, please," replied Mrs. Pincus and the cashier continued to ring up our remaining item, in this case, just the hair ties. A woman, in some managerial capacity, stood behind the cashier and slowly shook her head in soundless disagreement. Once the now-abbreviated transaction was completed, we left the store. Mrs. P politely held the door for someone who followed us out. It was the manager woman, whose shift for the day had just ended. We all walked out to the parking lot together. The manager woman was still shaking her head, adding a few "tsk tsks" under her breath. Mrs. P chuckled. The woman smiled and said, "I would have sold them to you or just given them to you... if he wasn't there." The "he" was obviously the shopping cart straightener whose job — it appeared — also included loss prevention, inventory control, corporate policy and telling the teacher it was five minutes before three o'clock and homework had not yet been assigned.

We took our purchases — our two purchases — to our car and tossed them in the back among a collection of shopping bags, a few empty boxes and  assorted other items that have accumulated in Mrs. P's vehicle. We went to meet our son in H Mart.

A few days later, Mrs. P asked if the hair ties she bought for her mother ever made it into our house. I said I didn't bring them in and I wasn't sure where they were. She called our son to see if he inadvertently picked them up along with the stuff he bought at H Mart. He had not. Mrs. P looked in the back seat of her car. She looked in the surplus bags. She looked in the boxes. She even checked with her mother's belongings to see if she brought them in to her parents' house and simply forgot. Nope. Nothing.

I am never going to Family Dollar again.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

i can't go for that

I am a rule follower and a direction follower. I just am. It's just in my nature. I am irritated by people who see posted rules or understood societal policy and think to themselves: "Well, that doesn't mean me, of course. That means everyone else." I have known plenty of people who have blatantly ignored rules or instruction. One guy I know drove the wrong way down a one way street, while saying with a smile "It's okay." I have had a constant battle with people parking their cars several feet into my driveway (sometime even fully across my driveway). I often wonder, do they get out of their car, assess how they are parked and think: "Yeah. This is okay." ? I suppose they do, because I have witnessed the evidence regularly for almost forty years.

Rules are not a bad thing. They are what separates us from lower forms of life on this planet. We, as humans, have the ability to understand and follow rules. The animal kingdom has more primitive rules. If a lion doesn't like what another animal is doing, he just bites his head off. Humans, I think, are more reasonable than that.... but not by much.

It makes me crazy when people don't follow directions. Even simple ones. I don't know if it's because they don't read directions or they don't understand directions or they just don't feel the directions apply to them. (Hang on.... I'll make my point shortly.) Social media is the biggest forum for direction ignorers, Facebook specifically. Facebook is filled with folks who just look at the pictures, disregard simple directions and ask questions that could easily be answered if they would just go back and read instead of commenting first. You know, open your ears and shut your mouth.

(Okay.... here comes my point.)

Yesterday, I posted my annual JPiC Death Pool list. For those of you who have known me for some time, you are aware of my somewhat ghoulish fascination with celebrities, especially dead celebrities. I draw them. I visit their graves. I read about them and I report when a live celebrity becomes a dead celebrity. This actually began as a little race among a few friends to see who could report on a celebrity death the quickest. Since then, I have become a "grim reaper" of sorts, sometimes accused of having an inside connection with the Pale Rider himself. But — I swear — that's not true.

For many years now, I have compiled a list at the end of the year enumerating a select group of celebrities that I think will pass on in the coming year. It is not a "wish list." It is not a "hit list." It is not a "death wish." It is none of those things. It is merely an extension of my interest in all things celebrity.  When I first started doing this, I just shared it with friends, family and those who I thought might be interested. Since the advent of social media, my list sharing has become more widespread. I began posting my year-end list on Twitter and Instagram and — ugh! — Facebook, the armpit of the internet.

Facebook is the great equalizer. Everyone with access to a computer, smartphone and an opinion has the same voice as you on Facebook. And rules? Unless the mysterious watchdogs that quietly monitor subversive Facebook activity deem your particular post "offensive" and throw you in "Facebook jail," pretty much anything goes. There is limited reading on Facebook. People like to look at pictures and will read maybe the first five words of a post.... then begin to comment. They have already formed their opinion based on a picture, a headline or four or five words. So, when I started posting my Death Pool list, I accompanied my post with a bit of information that, foolishly, I thought will be informative. Invariably, it is ignored. 

For the past couple years, my Death Pool introduction has included this wording:

As I have said in previous years, this is in NO WAY a "wish list." THAT would look totally different. This is not a vendetta. This is merely a prediction with no insight or merit of any kind. Once again, please don't question my choices.

• Please don't tell me to add a name.

• Please don't ask me to remove a name.

• Please don't comment with an "OH NO!"

This is MY list. If you don't like my choices, I encourage you to make your OWN list.

And for the past couple of years — including this year — the comments have included people telling me who to add, people questioning why I included a particular name as well as several "OH NO"s. Right off the fucking bat! Doesn't anybody read? Doesn't anybody follow direction? 

I have a friend who owns a business. In his business, he has had to hire employees and he uses a custom job application. The nature of his business requires understanding and comprehension of sometimes intricate and complicated, multi-step procedures that have to be read. The job application (that he designed) is fairly lengthy, with lots of long questions and many, many lines on which applicants can write a detailed answer. However, at the very top of the application is a paragraph of instruction. The last line of the paragraph reads: "Please ignore all of the previous instructions. Just write your name on the first line and leave the rest of this application blank."

Guess how many qualified applications he has received?

Please follow directions. Thank you.

Oh, and in case you are interested, here's my 2023 Death Pool list. Happy New Year.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

sea change

Before everything went to shit due to the global COVID-19 pandemic, Mrs. Pincus and I had a cruise booked for the final week of October 2020. I had scheduled for the time off from work (a new job I had started full-time in February). At the end of the work day on March 13, my employer informed everyone to take home their desk computers and instructions on how to log on to the company network were distributed via email. After six weeks of "working from home," my entire department (as well as others) was dissolved and every employee — save for a skeleton crew — was let go. 

Industries across the country were shutting down, having employees work from home where applicable. Businesses that operated with patrons in close proximity — amusement parks, movie theaters, concert and sports venues — were shuttered. And all cruise lines discontinued all scheduled cruises for a few months. Our October cruise was nearly paid-in-full. With no regular income — except for my meager unemployment insurance payment — the price of a cruise is money that we could use for other, more essential needs. The problem is, if we canceled the trip, we would be penalized. We would stand to lose a portion of our deposit that we could not afford to lose. So, we would have to wait.... patiently. When you are stuck in your house for eleventy thousand weeks with no job, patience is not very easy to come by.

As the weeks of quarantine turned into months of quarantine, cruise lines were regularly assessing the safety and logistics of re-starting business. Mrs. Pincus and I closely followed the proposed scenarios and alternate procedures being suggested by cruise lines. We weren't too pleased with the solutions and how temporary or permanent they'd need to be.

Well, in a cavalcade of mixed feelings, our October cruise was canceled by Carnival. We, of course, were disappointed that we would not be going on a cruise. We were relieved, however, that we would not have to make what could possibly be a life-or-death decision about taking a cruise. Carnival made that decision for us. And we were offered a full refund of everything we had paid to date... which was, indeed, everything.

My wife and I began to assess the future of cruising. Since our first cruise seven years ago, my wife and I have become very enthusiastic about going on cruises. We like what we like about cruising. I assume that everyone who takes a cruise likes it for specific activities, even if they are different from the ones we like. We have a great time, which, based on my feelings before my first cruise, is very surprising to me. Sure, nearly every cruise we have taken was identical, but that's the experience we enjoy. We like to play trivia games. We like to go to the buffet. (I really like to go to the buffet!) We like the kitschy entertainment. We like meeting new people that we probably will never see again — but, thanks to the magic of the internet, can maintain a friendship as though they lived right next door. But, under the current circumstances as defined by the malevolent coronavirus, all the things we love about cruising will have to change. And that's the part we are wrestling with. Do we really want to take a cruise that is a completely different experience than our previous cruises? 

Well, the buffets would have to be eliminated to cut down on so many different people handling plates and serving utensils... not to mention those travelers who just handle the actual food with their hands.

Showrooms would have to reconfigure seating to allow for social distancing. Heck, the entire ship would have difficulty maintaining social distancing, from the narrow corridors, to the cramped, but mandatory muster drills, to the closeness of seating in the main dining rooms, sometimes with total strangers.

Our beloved trivia games would need to keep participants six feet apart, leading to players taking up huge areas of lounges and forcing the activity's host to speak even louder, repeating questions and stretching play time way past the time allotted for the event. Multiply that by every on-board activity for the entire week and I see a lot of disappointed passengers. Plus, there is the intimacy of bars and discos and swimming and water slides and sports.... ecchhh! it's a mess. Then there's the issue of other people not following the rules. And people on cruises love to not follow the rules. I don't think I want to spend the money for a cruise and not get the cruise I am used to. Until I am sure the cruise industry will go back to the way it was — the way I'm used to — Mrs. Pincus and I will have to pass, albeit reluctantly.

When this is all over (when ever that is), will we define our life timeline as BC (Before COVID-19) and AC (After COVID-19)? 

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

behind the mask

I am writing this in the middle of my fifth week of "working from home" as a result of precautions being taken to "flatten the curve"* of the effects of the COVID-19 pandemic. Unfortunately, due to the hands-on nature of my job, there is not a lot of work for me to do at home. I have been on "stand-by" for five weeks. Two weeks ago, I did a reworking of a layout that took me all of an hour. Otherwise I have wandered around the confines of my home during most of this time, going downstairs to the kitchen. Upstairs to the den. Over to the bedroom. Back to the den. Back down to the kitchen. I'm starting to realize that my house isn't as big as I thought it was.

My only respite from "workday" boredom is an afternoon walk with my wife. Mrs. Pincus normally works from home, maintaining her eBay business from a home office on the third floor of our house. (Yeah, I go up there, too... sometimes.) Every afternoon, we set out for a stroll around the block for a little fresh air and exercise. We have been doing this for over a year. My previous job allowed me to be home by 4:30 in the afternoon, but circumstances of my current job — which is an hour's commute — leaves Mrs. P to traverse the sidewalks of Elkins Park alone. I have only been able to join her on weekends — until the majority of the nation's workforce was sent home in the middle of March. Now, I accompany her daily and will do so for as long as this home quarantine lasts.

Rules, suggestions, guidelines and mandates have changed regularly throughout the course of this decidedly uncertain situation. The governor of Pennsylvania, who, like a select number of other state governors, has assumed a position of reassuring authority and calm out of necessity. Regular briefings on current state policy are broadcast on local television and on the state's website offering pertinent information to help and guide the residents of my state through this mess. As would be expected, things change. What was once accepted policy could do a complete one-eighty a day later. Just last week, it was strongly recommended that face masks be worn by all Pennsylvania residents when leaving the house, after initially being told the contrary. Instructions on how to fashion a suitable face mask out of a bandanna are readily available all over the internet. My wife, who has been self-designated as the liaison to the outside world, does the shopping, prescription pick-ups, banking and running of small errands for me and her parents. She is the sole representative of the extended Pincus clan that leaves the house to venture further than the perimeter blocks. Before each trip, she puts a colorful bandanna in place, secured with elastic hair ties encircling each ear. When she returns home, she carefully removes the cloth and drops it in a laundry basket in the basement (yeah, I walk those steps sometimes, too) for later cleaning. Then she proceeds to thoroughly was her hands, humming "Happy Birthday" or what lyrics she can remember from the theme to "The Nanny" as presented in a recent YouTube video featuring Fran Drescher. When we go out walking, I wear one, too.

Since this most recent mandate regarding the wearing of face masks, I am surprised by the amount of people we pass on our walks — from a socially acceptable distance of six feet — that are not wearing them. In reality, I see more people not wearing a mask or some sort of facial covering than those who are. I also see a lot of people not practicing "social distancing" (another of those phrases*), stopping to talk to a neighbor and standing close enough to grab an arm or touch a shoulder. We see folks walking dogs, passing other folks walking dogs, stopping to converse while their pets sniff each others asses — yep! their owners are that close. What is wrong with these people? Oh wait.... I know! We live in a time of "The rules don't apply to me." I know we all hear the same warnings, it's just some people think those warnings are for everyone else. Other people have to follow those rules. They can't possibly mean me! After all, I'm me! My wife tells me she sees the same thing in the supermarket. She has witnessed people closing up the temporary, but clearly-marked, six-foot delineations put on the floor. She has had people reach right across the bridge of her nose to get an item on a shelf. A guy even picked up a pair of sunglasses my wife had dropped, despite her loud pleas of "Please don't touch them," his ungloved hand continuing to wrap around the lenses. Oh, right!  Sorry! You can touch them! I didn't realize it was you!

Look, I don't know how long this pandemic will last and how long we will have to maintain this cautious existence. No one does. I just keep envisioning a post-apocalyptic world as depicted in so many movies. Sinewy hollow-faced men and women roaming the streets in ragged clothes with an appropriated rifle strapped to their backs, collecting scavenged scraps of survival from steaming, picked-over spoils, strewn across the decimated landscape. It's a worrisome image that I hope I never see.

But — goddammit! — those men and women better be wearing masks and keeping their distance.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

* If I may stray from my point for just a second (as I often do), there are certain words and phrases that I have come to loathe as specific hot-button topics trend in the news. Media outlets tend to stick these words and phrases into every report, no matter how applicable it is to the current hot story. Over the years, the constant repetition of words like "Iraqi" during the days of Operation: Desert Storm and "Lewinsky" during the infamous Clinton scandal drove me crazy! More recently, "quid pro quo" was quickly replaced by the current "flatten the curve" — a phrase that is slowly losing its meaning as it is repeated over and over again on a daily basis and repeated by people who just heard it repeated on a news broadcast. 

big boss man

I just caught the late 4:45 train for my evening commute home.

SEPTA's train service (Southeastern Pennsylvania Transportation Authority) has been running poorly all summer. In 2006, SEPTA purchased one hundred and twenty. brand-spanking-new new Silverliner V railcars for two-hundred and seventy-four million dollars. The cars were manufactured by the relatively-young Hyundai Rotem company of South Korea. SEPTA chose to purchase the cars based on Hyundai Rotem's undercutting all of the competition. The train cars experienced massive delays in production and delivery. But, better late than never, the cars were finally delivered and soon were gliding on the rails all over Philadelphia and its suburbs.

Until June.

A routine inspection discovered numerous fatigue cracks on the support trucks of every single Silverliner V in SEPTA's system. The beautiful new trains were immediately pulled from service and SEPTA began a frantic scramble. Timetables were altered, trains were borrowed from neighboring cities and delays were insufferable. All summer long, daily commuters have experienced nightmares in travel time and over-crowded train cars. SEPTA employees have been extra surly and belligerent. Another bonus to make the experience even more pleasurable.

If you follow my Instagram account, you know that it is chock full of pictures of people taking up more than their fair share of allotted space by placing their bags, backpacks, briefcases, food or any number of other items on the empty seat next to the single seat that their fare permits them to occupy. SEPTA has introduced the "Dude, It's Rude" initiative, reminding riders that one fare entitles them to one seat. Most people ignore the rules. Some even get testy when asked to move their stuff to accommodate another passenger. The policy is not remotely enforced by SEPTA on-board employees.

Now, with over-crowded trains, seats are at a premium. Yet, I still see many commuters spread out across two, or sometimes three, seats with their personal effects.

Today, on my ride home, I was joined by a man in the seat facing mine. With my messenger bag perched squarely on my lap, I silently read my book until the train pulled up into my station. This gentleman, my seatmate, sported a SEPTA employee badge dangling from a SEPTA lanyard around his neck. He wore a dark dress shirt and an expensive looking tie. This let me know that he was not a rank-and-file "train guy." This guy was a "main office executive" type. No sooner did this guy plop himself down in the seat opposite me, his knees bumping into mine, did he drop his bulky backpack on the empty seat to his left. He absentmindedly draped his beefy arm across the bag, blocking any access for another commuter to take a load off. He pulled a cellphone from his pocket and squinted as he thumbed the screen.

A representative of SEPTA blatantly breaking the rules that his company introduced. Average commuters are expected to follow the rules. SEPTA employees, especially the upper echelon, should lead by example, especially with limited seating available. I looked around and noticed there were people standing in several places throughout the train, gripping handrails and seat backs to steady themselves.

Disgusted, I rose from my seat as the train approached my stop. I grunted an "excuse me" and the guy swiveled his knees to make an exit path for me.

I stepped on his foot on my way out.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

I like mine with lettuce and tomato, Heinz 57 and french fried potatoes

No! No ketchup for you!

I recently read an article about a trendy restaurant in the Gulf Coast resort town of Fort Myers, Florida that has banned ketchup. The eatery, Mad Fresh Bistro, unapologetically declares on their website that they "reserve the right to refuse the service of ketchup to anyone over the age of 10." On another page, they clarify their stance in an even more arrogant fashion, stating — in so many words — the customer should "trust us" to serve your food the way we want to serve it, because "we know what we're doing." It seems that chef/co-owner Xavier Duclos ("KNOWN FOR HIS CULINARY HOMERUNS," as the website proudly describes), knows more about what you like eat than to you do. Well, I'll give him this much: he sure knows how to overcharge for a hamburger. Look, Mr. Duclos, if I'm paying fourteen bucks for a hamburger in your pretentious little strip-mall bistro, then I'm going to slather it with porcupine piss, if I so choose. You're still gonna get paid and your customer is gonna be satisfied. After all, isn't that the ultimate goal? Egos aside, of course.

"We don't have any hot dogs. We have Superdogs®"

This story brought to mind a piece I saw a year or two ago on one of my favorite cable channels, The Food Network. They featured a segment about hot dog stands around the country and stopped off at Superdawg®, a Chicago institution since the 1940s. The charming little drive-in (one of the few remaining in the United States) whose roof is crowned with two giant, anthropomorphic wieners, still boasts carhop service, thick milkshakes made with real hand-scooped ice cream and, of course, the gem of the menu, the Superdawg®. The owners, a quirky (and thoroughly irritating) couple named Maurie and Flaurie Berman, greet each customer with a friendly (and trademarked) "Hiya! Thanks for stopping!," but it's all downhill after that. If you ask for a "hot dog," these two relics will smugly reply "We don't have hot dogs." A confused customer will glance at the enormous twin frankfurters on the roof of the building in bewilderment. Not giving a crap about the potential of losing a customer, the elderly proprietors offer a cocky, pompous smile and, shaking their heads, inform the patron that they call their main fare a "Superdawg®." Sometimes they don't volunteer that information and let the customer walk. I guess it's worth it to them to lose a paying customer than to compromise the name that they — and only they — call hot dogs. In addition to standing firm as to how their hot dogs are referred and alienating customers, the Bermans are staunch anti-ketchup-ites. In a video on their website, they explain (using the most roundabout, convoluted, old-people logic) that they never thought ketchup belonged on a hot dog, so, based solely on that, no one should be permitted to have ketchup. They are like pro-lifers for condiments. These two altacockers even go so far as to call ketchup "an abomination." Actually, my wiener-hawking friends, female genital mutilation, as practiced in Yemen and Iraqi Kurdistan, is an abomination. Smearing some ketchup on a fucking hot dog is a matter of harmless culinary preference. A victimless crime, if you will.

Beavis says, "No ketchup, dude!"

Another establishment where poor ketchup garners no love is a little mainstay in the seaside resort of Rehoboth Beach, Delaware called Thrasher's. With three locations in the First State's seasonal vacation spot, the popular Thrasher's has been serving up giant tubs of hand-cut, fresh fried spuds for the beach-going crowd for eighty-five summers. But, once again, they are resolute about their contempt for ketchup. Thrasher's will cheerfully offer vinegar and salt. However, when it comes to ketchup, there is no misunderstanding. The sentiment is posted prominently on their limited menu. The counter-help display the message defiantly on custom-airbrushed trucker hats. Jesus! Look at the attitude on that smug little asshole! Don't you just want to push his smirking puss right into the goddamn deep fryer! Hey, you minimum-wage-earning motherfucker, if I'm forking over nearly ten bucks for French fries - one: they better be the best fries I have ever eaten in my life and two: if I want to drown them in ketchup, you are not going to impede upon my "freedom of tomato-based condiment right," as granted by the Constitution of the United States (38th amendment, I believe.).

"Ketchup? Catsup?"

What the heck is wrong with ketchup and why do some people have such a problem with it? For goodness sake, it's been around since the 17th century and came to this country from halfway around the globe! It's the second most popular condiment in the United States (after mayonnaise, because America's desire for oil and fat will never be satisfied). Why on earth should anybody be embarrassed by their use (or love) of this steadfast condiment*? The H. J. Heinz Company, who introduced the tomato-based, all-purpose food enhancement in 1876, produces and distributes over 650 million bottles annually... so, somebody must be using and enjoying it. The aforementioned establishments wouldn't need to put up such signs or make such brazen stipulations if someone wasn't asking for ketchup in the first place. Jeez! No wonder poor Mr. Burns is so perplexed.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

*With the possible exception of my brother-in-law, whose barbaric overuse of ketchup borders on obscene.

do this, don't do that, can't you read the sign?

I am a rule follower. Actually, I am a fanatical and militant rule follower. If a policy is explained and implemented, I'll adhere to it. I wait in lines. I follow procedure. I come to a full stop at stop signs. I may not agree with a particular rule, but if it is posted or communicated in a clear and obvious fashion, I will honor it. And I expect everyone else to do the same. If someone decides to ignore a rule and do what they wish, it really pisses me off. (Well, to be honest, a lot of things piss me off, but breaking rules is high on the list.)

I am particularly annoyed by people who feel that rules do not apply to them. You know who I mean. Those who go into a building through a door marked "DO NOT ENTER." Those who park where it is clearly posted "NO PARKING" or where there is obviously not enough room for a car (like the curb next to my driveway). Those who skirt a long line and walk right up to the counter, even if someone is in mid-conversation with a service representative. "Oh, I just want to ask a quick question," they'll say and that "quick question" turns into six or seven questions and a full inquiry of a store's inventory. These are people who think: "Rules? The rules don't apply to me! Rules are for you assholes." 

I used to work for a guy who was very wealthy and drove a Porsche. He was a nice, generous guy, but no rule applied to him. One day, he took me out to lunch. We drove around a congested neighborhood with particularly narrow streets looking for a place to park. Suddenly, he noticed a spot in which his car would fit perfectly. As he spun the wheel in the direction of the cross street, I pointed out that he was headed the wrong way down a one-way street. "That's okay." he said, waving off my warning and not making an attempt to touch the brake pedal. He defiantly turned down the street, did a three-point turnaround and backed into the parking space. Why is there never a cop around when you need one?

The gallery of offenders.

I regularly ride the train to and from work. I carry a messenger bag daily. When I board the train, I choose a seat, remove the book I am currently reading from my bag and place my bag on my lap. I often see other passengers place their various briefcases, purses, backpacks, suitcases and other assorted parcels on the empty seat next to them. There are others that purposely spread their belongings — file folders, notebooks, iPads, laptops, clipboards — across an entire seat meant to accommodate three commuters. When the train is crowded, and seating is scare, some passengers still insist on using the seat as their own personal mobile workstation or an extension of their home. One rainy morning, when seats were at a premium, I saw an aisle seat that appeared empty from my vantage point. As I approached, I saw that the occupant — a sharply-dressed, executive-type woman — had a large, expanding file folder stretched across the seat as she made extensive notes on a legal pad balanced on her knee. I stopped alongside the seat, cleared my throat, and in the most polite tone I could muster, said, "May I please sit here?" She frowned and let out a long, exaggerated, annoyed sigh. Then, she slowly — I mean at a goddamn snail's pace — began gathering her belongings. She even stopped to do some filing and rearranging of documents, making sure they were in the proper order within her portable filing system. I stood by the seat, as patient as I could be, and the train already made it to the next scheduled stop before she had cleared a space to allow me to sit. Angered, I spoke up. "Sorry," I began, "I didn't realize I was riding on your train!" I moved on and took a seat next to a gentleman who respectfully had his briefcase stowed on the rack above his seat and his jacket folded neatly in his lap. I actually got some snickers and a small smattering of applause from my fellow, exasperated passengers.

SEPTA (the Southeastern Pennsylvania Transportation Authority, the company that provides public transportation to Philadelphia and surrounding suburbs) often makes announcements for bags to be put on the overhead luggage racks or on the floor under the seat. They have even taken to social media, repeatedly reinforcing the "Dude, it's Rude" campaign, with "tweets" making riders aware of the "bags off the seats" rule. Just last week, the campaign became more aggressive, as blunt signage began popping up at various places on train platforms and trains themselves. The two-color placards are unapologetic in their message. "Unless YOUR BAG Paid - MOVE IT!" the signs proclaim. There's no time for "please." You were warned. You had your chance. The gauntlet has been thrown down.

So, this morning, I boarded the train and sat in a seat next to a guy's bag. He was seated next to the window, headphones jammed into his ears, his head tilted down with full attention on his phone. I took the available aisle seat. We were separated by his leather overnight bag, upon which was draped his necktie. It being a Friday in summer, the train was relatively empty and there were many unoccupied seats. However, because I am a rule follower, my bag rested on my lap, as usual. I could feel the fellow's bag just scant centimeters from my elbow as I turned the pages of my book. As the train pulled into my destination stop, my expanded seatmate readied himself to exit as well. In my peripheral vision, I could see him remove his earbuds and stuff them into a pocket in his bag. Then, he lifted a travel coffee mug and swirled it a bit, in an effort to check its contents. He popped the lid of the mug and — I shit you not! — poured the remaining few drops on the floor. Yes! Right on the floor! I leaned forward a little to check if there was a concealed sink or even a drain that I hadn't previously noticed — knowing full well that there wasn't. Satisfied that his cup was empty, he packed it away in another pocket of the bag. He carefully folded his tie and, as the train slowed to a hissing halt, stood up, grabbed his bag and followed me down the aisle and out to the platform, even passing me on his way to the exit stairs.

I had found another one to whom the rules did not apply. As a mater of fact, this guy was making up his own rules.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

smokin' in the boys' room

The rules of public men's rooms are like the rules of Fight Club. The first rule is: "You don't talk about Public Men's Rooms." The second rule is: "You don't talk about Public Men's Rooms." In the interest of setting the record straight once and for all and to enlighten those who have been otherwise misinformed or have strayed from the accepted procedure, I will momentarily break the first two rules — if only for the greater good. I will reveal the unwritten rules of public men's rooms for those who have never entered the inner sanctum and for those who need a refresher course (no pun intended).

Rule 1. No talking. No fucking talking! Do I make myself clear? NO TALKING! Don't talk to me. Don't talk to yourself. Don't talk to anyone. If you must acknowledge my presence, then grunt. You know what I mean - the guttural male "hmrrmm." No actual, recognizable words. Don't tell me anything. Don't try to engage me in a conversation. I can guarantee you that there is nothing — absolutely nothing — that is so important that you need to tell me that can't wait until I'm on the other side of the entrance door. Nothing. I don't care if my goddamn head is on fire. Believe me, it can wait. I don't care if we are under alien attack and they are evacuating the building. It can wait. I swear, I'll be through in a minute. And, under those circumstances, another minute isn't going to make one bit of difference.

Rule 1a. (specific for sports and concert facilities) I don't care how drunk you are, how well your team is doing or how rocking the band is — the rules still apply.

Rule 2. Eyes forward. And keep 'em forward. No looking around. You came in there for a reason and one reason only. So did everyone else. And it ain't a fucking spectator sport.

Rule 3. Leave a buffer. Here's the basic etiquette: There are three urinals on the wall (we'll call them, from left to right, 1, 2 and 3). If you are alone, take position 1. If someone comes in while you are there, they should take 3, leaving 2 as a buffer. If you come in and, due to circumstances of previous poor time gauging, number 2 is taken, take the one closest to a wall. If there is only one available, obviously you have no choice. But, please, abide closely to Rules 1 and 2. I can't stress this enough. Do not make smart-ass comments of "Oh, full house today." Do not make comments of any kind.

If you are lucky enough to visit a men's room with more than three urinals, buffer rules still apply. Occupation of the far extreme right or left is preferred (leaving at least one buffer, as space permits).

Rule 4. Wash your hands. I hate to sound like your mother, but come on! I don't care what kind of pig you are at home, but this is a public bathroom and the public is watching. And if you ain't washing your hands, the public is talking about you. Three drops of liquid soap and a quick rinse under the faucet isn't going to kill you. It may even prove beneficial. Later, you can go back to your usual disgusting (or non-existent) hygiene habits when you're in the comfort of that shit hole you call "home."

There's one more that's not really a rule as much as it's common courtesy. Please. Please! Don't confuse a public bathroom stall with a phone booth. I know we all have cellphones and we think we need to have a non-stop, constant connection with the world. But, for Christ's sake, nobody in the bathroom wants to hear your loud phone conversation. Nobody on the other end of the line wants to hear you in the bathroom and you are not that important that you can't take two minutes out of your busy schedule to clear out your intestines. No one is that important. NOfuckingONE!

Well, that's it. I'm sure that these rules have absolutely no application in women's public bathrooms, but, of course, I have no frame of reference.

Now, if you'll excuse me...

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

I am a patient boy, I wait, I wait, I wait

I follow rules. I abide by policy. I don't cut in line. I don't try to pass expired coupons. I don't ask to have exceptions made for me. And I believe I am in the minority.

I went to pick up a prescription at Walgreen's yesterday evening after work. I wandered to the back of the store towards the pharmacy. When I arrived at the pharmacy, the young pharmacist (he looked like a very recent graduate from pharmaceutical school... very recent) was helping a young lady with several prescriptions. I waited at a comfortable distance as to afford them their privacy. Their discussion lasted quite a while, including at least four trips to the stockroom by the pharmacist. There was one available pick-up window and they were obviously short-handed. But, I waited for my turn.

Suddenly, a man in his 70s marched right up to an unmanned portion of the counter and leaned forward, craning his neck around to get the attention of an employee busily filling prescriptions out of customer view.

"Hey!," he croaked, "You got that Mucinex? The one with Sudafed in it?"

From behind the frosted glass, I could see the auxiliary pharmacist look up. Startled, he asked, "Excuse me?"

The old man repeated, this time a bit more agitated, "Mucinex with Suafed in it! Where do you keep that?"

The second pharmacist walked over to a set of shelves displaying all sorts of Mucinex and generic equivalents behind the pharmacy counter — in full, illuminated sight of any customer in a ten-foot radius. "Right here, sir.," he said, exercising terrific restraint, "What size package would you like? 12 doses? 24? 36?"

"Give me the big one.," the old man barked as he fumbled for his wallet. At this point, another customer had queued up behind me. The young lady was still getting the lowdown on her potential purchases. The pharmacist removed a 36-dose package of Mucinex-D from the shelf and informed the old man that he had to pay for it at this counter.

"Why can I pay for it up at the front register?," he argued and he turned to me for a little fraternal concordance, "What difference does it make where I pay for it?"

"They must have their reasons, sir.," I said, still looking straight ahead. (By law, products containing pseudoephedrine must now be sold behind the pharmacy counter since The Combat Methamphetamine Epidemic Act of 2006 was passed to eliminate the use of pseudoephedrine in the illegal production of meth.)

Instead of taking his proper place in the queue line, the old man stood next to me, impatiently shifting his weight from one leg to the other and exhaling in an overly dramatic manner. He was still muttering about the obligation to pay at one specific cash register. Especially one with a long line.

"Hey, can I just pay for that Mucinex?, " he yelled, interrupting the lengthy consultation between Pharmacist Number One and "I Never Got A Prescription For Anything In My Life" Girl. Finally, the young lady paid for her many bags of medication and the old man pushed right ahead of me.

"Sir," began the young pharmacist, "I need to see your ID."

"My ID? What for?," and he handed over his driver's license before he got his answer. However, he refused to loosen his grip on the laminated card to allow the young pharmacist to examine it more closely.

As he wrestled unsuccessfully to free the license from the old man's clenched fingers, he announced "I need to scan it, sir."

"Scan it?," the old man protested, "No you don't! You're not scanning anything!"

I couldn't take this old man's shit anymore. First, he pushed his way forward to ask a question. Then, he butt in front of me in line. Now, he feels that federal law does not apply to him. "It's required by law, sir!, " I yelled from behind him, "You can't buy it unless they scan your license."

"Huh?," he said, "Oh. Okay."

The young pharmacist scanned the old man's license, explained five or six times where to put his electronic signature on the credit card terminal and the transaction was complete. He gathered up his purchase and stomped past me. He didn't even apologize for pushing ahead of me.

As I said earlier, this man was at least 70. Fifty years ago, he was in his 20s, a pretty vibrant time in anyone's life. That would mean he was in the prime of his life, the most vital time of his existence in the early 1960s — a time when technology was on the verge of exploding with space travel and organ transplants. It was the age of well-behaved and respectful suburban families (like the Cleavers and The Douglases on My Three Sons ). It was the era of civil rights and the ideals of freedom...and the airwaves were filled with the silly sounds of The Archies, the poppy sounds of The Beatles, and the psychedelic sounds of Vanilla Fudge.

So, where on earth did this guy pick up this behavior?

www.joshpincusiscrying.com