me and the boys

Way back in the early 2000s, I worked in the marketing department of Pep Boys, the national chain of after-market auto supplies. In the nearly four years that I worked in the company's main headquarters in Philadelphia, I set foot in an actual Pep Boys retail location at total of  two times. Once was to buy a set of Pep Boys bobble head characters. The second time was to fix a flat tire on a rental car while on vacation in Southern California. Aside from that, I had no reason to avail myself of Pep Boys' services. I had a local mechanic that I brought my car to for regular service. I had also heard my share of  "horror stories" regarding the level of care (or lack of) provided by Pep Boys mechanics. Customers described a wide range of experiences frm "stellar" and "excellent" to "awful," "unprofessional" and even "criminal." I was privy to a story summitted by a very unsatisfied customer who told of a routine stop to fix a flat tire. When the service was completed and her car war returned to her, she noticed that one of the car's windshield wipers was broken. She went on to question how this could have possibly happened, seeing as how the wipers are no where near the tires. I also heard a tale of how a customer's car was knocked off of the hydraulic lift in the service garage. I even saw full-color photographs to corroborate this customer's complaint. I will say that my personal experience in a Fullerton, California Pep Boys was short and sweet.

I owned my last car — a 2004 Toyota RAV4 — for twenty years. In that time, I recall getting a flat tire once. That dreaded little light popped up on my dashboard and, after consulting the owner's manual to determine the meaning of that little glowing pictogram, I drove my car over to my local mechanic and got a new tire. The end. That was the first and last time I had to deal with anything of that nature. In Spring 2023 I bought a brand new Subaru Crosstrek. In the 17 months that I have owned and driven my new car, the "flat tire" warning has lit up on my dashboard three times. Each time, after first cursing profusely, I drove my car over to the service department of the Subaru dealer from which I purchased my car. The first time, they were able to plug the damaged tire for a nominal fee. The second time required me to buy a new tire. Just two weeks after dropping two hours and two hundred bucks on a new tire, the light ticked on again while I was on my way to work. After unleashing a spontaneous barrage of carefully chosen expletives, I considered my options of how to quickly and efficiently remedy my situation. I wouldn't be able to get to the Subaru dealer until the weekend. It would be risky driving around with the threat of a full-blown flat tire looming over me. My tires seemed to be okay, but that damn light on my dashboard told me otherwise. I decided to take my car to one of the many service garages I pass on my way to work. I remembered there was a Pep Boys not too far away. I settled on making that a stop on my way home from work... providing my tire would hold out until the end of the day.

After work that day, I checked my car's tires. They all seemed fine — fine enough to get me to the Pep Boys just down Route 130 from my place of employment. I drove the short distance and pulled my car into Pep Boys parking lot. I parked, got out and headed to the front door. I half expected Rod Serling to step out from behind a stack of tires — a cigarette smoldering between his fingers — and announce that I had just entered The Twilight Zone.

This particular Pep Boys was different than any that I had seen before (all two of them). There was no retail section. No shelves with merchandise of any kind.. It was jus a big empty space, poorly concealed with a series of large posters advertising the various services that Pep Boys offers. Off to one side were large metal racks with dozens and dozens of tires. Along the back wall were piles of cardboard boxes. Just ahead was a reception counter, behind which stood two fellows in Pep Boys branded work shirts. They both looked liked characters that had just escaped from prison seen in countless television police dramas. As I approached the counter, neither man said a word, but they did not break the laser-like stare they had fixed on me. It was obvious that I was going to have to initiate this conversation. I cleared my throat and spoke up. I explained the light on my dashboard and the fact that my tires seemed to be okay. The one man finally asked for my key fob and handed me a clipboard to fill out a brief informational form. I asked if this would be taken care of while I waited. He didn't answer, but I believe I detected an ever-so-slight nod. I took that as a "yes."

So I waited. And waited. And waited.

After twenty-five minutes, I saw my car pulling into the otherwise empty service area. Through a large window, I saw a mechanic raise my car up on the hydraulic lift. I suddenly had flashbacks to those photos I saw twenty years earlier, but everything appeared to be okay. The other silent guy from the front desk joined the mechanic, but I couldn't tell exactly what they were doing. The first man, the one who asked for my key fob, stood silently at the desk and stared off into space. He did not appear to be anxious to entertain any of my potential questions or concerns, so I reconsidered asking about the timetable of my car's repair. I said nothing. I just continued to crane my neck to get a better view of the activity surrounding my car. I could see the lead mechanic wipe the sweat from his forehead and cheeks often by grabbing the front of his t-shirt and enveloping his face with it, exposing his large, hairy belly in the process. He also appeared to be moving in slow motion. His actions were jerky, as though illuminated by a strobe light. He walked to and from my car, sometimes wielding some sort of tool, sometimes not.

 

Finally, with just a few minutes remaining before the store's posted closing time, I was beckoned silently to the reception desk. The first man waved my key fob in my direction and motioned for me to present myself front and center. 

"We plugged it," he said, uttering the most consecutive words since I had arrived. 

"So, I don't need a new tire?," I asked. 

"No.," he replied, returning to his monosyllabic speech pattern.

He handed me a bill for $20 and change and I swiped my credit card in the terminal. The man handed me six pages that he had plucked from the tray of the printer behind the counter. He passed me my key fob.

"Where is my car?," I asked. He pointed towards the door and said nothing. I didn't press my line of questioning. I figured I could find my car on my own. Once out in the parking lot, I spotted my car the same space in which I had originally parked. I got in and started the engine. After driving a few feet, the flat tire light on my dashboard dimmed. It has not come back on since.

Although, I did find a large, greasy handprint on the hood of my car — the Pep Boys Seal of Quality.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

moneygrabber

There's an old joke. A guy calls a plumber to fix a small leak in a pipe. The plumber arrives and he's led down the basement steps to view the leak. The plumber examines the pipe from all angles, assessing the situation. Finally, he says to the homeowner, "This looks like a 'Miami job.'" The homeowner asks, "You mean you saw a similar type of leak on a job in Miami?" "No," the plumber clarifies, "I mean with the money I get from you for this repair, I'll be able to spend a month in Miami."

Before I purchased a new car this past May, I drove my trusty Toyota RAV-4 for nearly twenty years. Over the course of two decades — as you can imagine — my car required its fair share of maintenance and repairs, as well as yearly safety inspections required by the state of Pennsylvania. When my car needed service, I took it to a mechanic named Dewey whose shop is in my neighborhood. Dewey is a nice guy, I guess. He would sometimes pick my car up at my house and drop it off when the work was completed. He has a genial demeanor, often limiting the technical jargon when he was explaining the repair that my car would need after I told of the abnormalities I thought my car was experiencing. 

The repairs that my car required — at any given visit to Dewey's shop — were extensive. Always. Even for annual inspections, at times when my car was running — in my opinion — just fine, Dewey would find something within the confines of my vehicle's body that would cost me a couple hundred dollars. Always. Once I needed a new headlight. While changing the headlight, Dewey told me that discovered that the intake valve of the deferential influx capacitor was not in tip-top working order. He innocently asked if I'd like it replaced and soon, a lousy new headlight was costing me four hundred bucks. State inspections  that should cost around fifty dollars, would always require some crucial engine component. Without a replacement, my car would not pass inspection and possible lead to a more serious issue. Of course, the new part would set me back a few hundred dollars. This went on for years. I don't think Dewey was an incompetent mechanic. I think he just went out of his way to find something wrong with my car every time I brought in. He wasn't going to let me take possession of my vehicle without a payment of at least a hundred bucks. I know nothing about the innerworkings of a car, so I was at the mercy of Dewey's perceived "expertise." So, I had him make any repair he suggested and I paid whatever he told me the bill was.

... until this year when I purchased a 2024 Subaru Crosstrek for the price of my 2004 Toyota RAV-4 and an undisclosed amount of cash. Because of the delicate computer system that is standard on new cars, I purchased an extended warranty on my new vehicle, thus eliminating any future dealing with Dewey. I would be taking my new car to the Subaru dealership for state inspections, any future maintenance and eventual repairs. My wife, who drives a 2018 Toyota takes her car to a Toyota dealer for maintenance, so, as far as I can see, Dewey is out of our lives. As a matter of fact, Mrs. P ran into Dewey at the supermarket and told him that I had purchased a new car. She said he appeared happy and wished me "good luck" with the car.

One day last week, Mrs. Pincus returned from running errands to discover that her car had a flat tire. After the involuntarily voicing of a few choice words, she called AAA and waited for someone to come and change the tire. Afterwards, we discussed her options for getting the flat tire repaired... and repaired quickly. First, we considered the Toyota dealer, but without an appointment for service, who knows how long the wait would be for a "walk-in" repair. The last thing Mrs. P — or anyone — wants to do is spend countless, non-productive hours in car dealership waiting room. The next option was rather obvious — Dewey.. We were fairly sure that Dewey, who operates a one-man repair shop, — would be only too happy to fix a quick flat tire for a member of the Pincus family. After all, we were loyal customers for over twenty years. (Yep, we took our cars before my Toyota to Dewey!) 

The next morning, Mrs. P took her "temporary spare tire equipped" car over to Dewey's shop. I, of course, had left for work a few hours earlier. That afternoon, I called my wife to see about the progress of — what I assumed — would be a fast repair. 

"How's your car?" my text to my wife read.

A few minutes later, I received this response...

She went to to explain that — according to Dewey's expert assessment — her car would need four new tires and rear brakes. 

Apparently, Dewey missed us.

Desperately.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

come to me for service

I bought a new car this past May. I am enjoying driving around in a car that isn't 20 years old, not worrying about that new strange noise that I didn't hear yesterday and how much it's going to cost to make that new strange noise stop. 

A week or so ago, I came home from work to find that I had received a Safety Recall Notice from Subaru Corporate Headquarters. This recall includes my five-month old Subaru Crosstrek. Receiving a recall notice is the equivalent of your car being selected for jury duty. First off, it's an inconvenience. A day off from work has to be scheduled. A day sitting in the waiting room at the service area of a car dealership isn't most folks idea of a productive day. Personally, I dread the thought as well as the actual experience. (Same goes for jury duty.)

Following the instructions in the recall notice, I called the dealership at which I purchased my car. Once connected with the service department, I explained about the notice and the fellow on the other end of the phone asked "The wire harness recall, right?"

"Is there another recall?" I thought. What the fuck? What kind of bomb-lemon-reject did Subaru sell me? Instead, I just replied in the affirmative. "Yes," I said, "the wire harness recall." I briefly scanned the recall notice before making the call to schedule a service appointment. It seemed that a manufacturing flaw was detected and a plastic wire harness that sits atop the steering column could melt, thus short-circuiting the car's electrical system. The text explained that an inspection of my car would alleviate the problem, if caught in time. If left unattended, it could involve an all-day repair. None of this, however would incur any cost to me.... except for my time. I scheduled an appointment for a Saturday morning and told the service tech that I would prefer to wait during the inspection. He assured me it would take approximately forty-five minutes. The anxiety that accompanies waiting at a car dealership began.

A few days before my service, my friend Consuelo posted an account of a very positive experience with a Subaru dealer. Consuelo has a Crosstrek a few years older than mine. There was an issue with one of the car's tires. She took it to a Subaru dealer, not the one from which she purchased the car. The mechanic sent a video record, showing the repair. She was treated with respect. The service was efficient. The whole experience reinforced the "family" reputation that made me want to purchase a Subaru in the first place. My nerves were put at ease and I no longer had that sense of trepidation about my upcoming appointment.

Saturday rolled around. I had an earlier appointment for a haircut, but would have plenty of time to make it to the Subaru dealership in time for my recall inspection. I had only been to this dealership three times - once to buy my car. Once to pick up my new car and take possession of it and once more to have a little orientation about the sophisticated on-onboard computer system that controlled everything in the car. I was not familiar with the process of showing up for car service. I pulled into the dealership parking lot and parked in the customer parking lot. I walked in to the building and was greeted by a smiling young lady at the reception desk. "Hi," she beamed, "Welcome to Subaru! How can I help you?" Her smile took up most of her face. This was encouraging. I explained about the recall notice and that I had never been here for service. She stood up from behind the desk and escorted me across the lobby to the service department. This was also encouraging. She pointed to a space near the service counter and told me someone would be with me shortly.

So, I waited. And waited. And waited. And waited. While I waited, I was ignored by every blue-topped, beige-pantsed employee that walked by. And there were a lot of them.

As I waited, I watched one young man behind the service counter tapping away at a keyboard as he conversed with a worried-looking woman. There were two other customers ahead of me, anxious to step up once the worried woman's issue was satisfied. The keyboard-tapping man left his post and returned several times, leaving the worried-looking woman to grow even more concerned. Once, he passed me and mumbled: "M'll bewithyoo mint." with I deciphered to mean "I'll be with you in a minute." He wasn't. My initial feeling of encouragement was waning.

I watched as more and more people entered the service area through a set of automatic doors that separated the service desk from the actual area where cars were queued up for there various services. Each of the folks who came to the service area were greeted by an employee and asked to take a place at the counter. I stood and watched like an outsider. An invisible outsider. More men and women in Subaru-logoed clothing passed me, hurrying off to tend to a customer that wasn't me.

Finally, I left my assigned post and went to my car. I pulled it around to the service entrance, following posted instruction to "PULL FORWARD SLOWLY. DOOR WILL OPEN AUTOMATICALLY." Sure enough, the door rose and I navigated my car into the building, stopping behind a green Forrester with a decal from a Golden Retriever Club adhered to the rear window. The car's owner exited the driver's door. She opened the backdoor to release a large, rambunctious Golden Retriever from the confines of the backseat. The woman — of slight build and stature — looked as though she could be overpowered by this hulking canine at any moment. She lazily attached a flimsy leash to its collar and the dog paced quickly in circles around her. She followed a serviceman into the showroom.

And I waited. And waited. And waited.

Mohommed, Jugdish, Sidney and Clayton

Eventually, a young man (a different young man) with an iPad approached my car. "Are you here for an oil change?" he asked. I explained the reason for my visit. He directed me to leave my key fob in the car and take my place by the service desk where someone would be with me shortly. I walked back inside and stood where I had stood before - in my spot of being ignored. I was instantly reminded of a scene from National Lampoon's Animal House when smarmy Doug Neidermeyer is trying to ditch prospective pledges Larry Kroger and Kent Dorfman at a Fraternity Rush Party. I felt like Larry and Kent. I was slowly losing my patience and all signs of the "family feeling" reputation at Subaru was slipping away.

After a few more minutes, a man in a button-down Subaru dress shirt stopped and asked if I was being helped. He had passed me several times earlier and I supposed he grew concerned when he saw I had not changed position in nearly twenty minutes. Again, I explained about the recall and he led me to a spot at the service desk at the very end of the counter. He introduced himself as "John" and in an effort to redeem the good name of Subaru, speedily checked me in. He led me to the waiting area, pointing out an array of complimentary refreshments on the way. He aske me to have a seat, assuring me that the inspection should have me out of here by noon. A few minutes after I found a seat by the front window, my phone vibrated with a text message from John. He told me to contact him if he could be of further assistance while I waited.

No charge

True to his word, John returned to the waiting area and announced my name. He led me back to his computer terminal, saying that the inspection was complete, the repair was made and there, of course, would be no charge. He reminded me that a six-month oil change was approaching in November. No appointment was necessary and it was complementary, He led me out to my car, thanked me again for my patience and for choosing Subaru. He waved as I pulled out of the service area.

Although, they did wash my car, I'm not looking forward to that oil change.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

you and your cousins

My wife's cousin passed away unexpectedly this week, just ten days before her 66th birthday. Yesterday, we — along with many family members, friends, co-workers and other acquaintances — attended a memorial service in her honor.

I didn't know my wife's cousin very well. I had only seen her a handful of times in the 38 years I have known Mrs. Pincus. Our paths crossed mostly at large family gatherings — weddings, bar mitzvahs, funerals and those sorts of events. When I was still new to the family, I'm sure I was introduced and reintroduced to my wife's cousin a few times. I remember that our brief conversations were pleasant, although I cannot remember exactly what we spoke about.

The memorial service began around 11 AM on a Sunday morning, once the attending crowd was coaxed into their seats after a period of mingling and reminiscing. A rabbi spoke and then chanted a few prayers. Then, the rabbi introduced a number of my wife's cousin's family and friends to share their thoughts and memories of a loved one. One by one, a brother, a life-long friend, a neighbor, a nephew and another friend approached the lectern. Each one delivered a short, but heartfelt, tale of kindness, warmth, devotion, loyalty and love. Some of the related anecdotes evoked laughter from the attendees — and rightfully so. These were sweet and humorous glimpses into relationships that my wife's cousin shared with those with whom she was close. Her brother told of long talks at her house when he should have been working on a needed home repair. A friend talked about teaching my wife's cousin how to ski. A neighbor smiled as she spoke about my wife's cousin dropping off freshly baked cakes at her house for no reason at all. Another friend revealed a long tradition of gathering for each other's birthday — with this year's soiree having my wife's cousin's daughter taking her mother's place.

Although I did not know my wife's cousin very well, I was touched by the consistent emotion of each little speech. Everyone spoke of her kindness, her consideration, her ability to listen and comfort, her advocacy for other's ideas and plans. She was a genuinely nice person, something that is rare today. 

I have attended several funerals and memorial services — more than I would have liked. I am not a believer in "just because someone dies, all of their bad qualities are automatically erased." I understand that a funeral is not the time to bring up someone's terrible disposition when they were alive (although I have seen it happen). Eulogies are reserved for extolling the niceties someone exhibited during their time on Earth, not to rehash old grudges or to expose an all-around jerk for what they were. Sometimes, I have listened to a eulogy and wondered if I was at the right funeral. But hearing one story about my wife's cousin after another, made me realize that I had never — and I mean never — heard anyone utter a negative word about her. Never!

It is probably unlikely, but that is the way we would all like to be remembered.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

but these stories don't mean anything

 My dad was a character. He was a hard worker. He smoked a lot of cigarettes. He ate a lot of meat and potatoes. And he made up a lot of stories.

My dad passed away in 1993, long before a quick Google search could expose his stories for the lies that they were. I debunked his long-standing tale of witnessing a Phillies no-hitter in his youth, but the truth was revealed a few years after his death. My mother, however, confronted him regarding the incorrect and misleading information (okay.... lies) he'd given colleagues at his job about my mother's true line of work.

Lies or not, some of my father's stories were pretty entertaining... and funny. I was very young when I first heard them and they were often repeated, usually with more embellishment in each retelling. Here's one that he told often. It's a funny story, but I cannot vouch for its authenticity.

In 1944, my father signed up to join the US Navy. It was the midst of World War II and every red-blooded American boy was convinced that it was his patriotic duty to defend his country against the so-called "Axis" powers. So rather than waiting for his number to come up, my dad happily joined the Navy. (He later told my brother and me that in the Navy, you were guaranteed a bed to sleep in, as opposed to the Army where one's nightly accommodations may be in muddy foxhole with bullets whizzing over your head.)

The butter wouldn't melt,
so I put it in the pie.

My father often treated his family to anecdotes about his two-year stint in military service. He was assigned as a radar signal relayer aboard the USS South Dakota, a battleship that was deployed (for a time) in the South Pacific. A radar signal relayer, according to Seaman First Class Pincus, repeated directional coordinates — that were heard in his headset — to the guy who was aiming the giant turrets towards their determined targets. (This may or may not be true. I don't even know if there was such a position as "radar signal relayer.")

My father claimed that Admiral Halsey, Commander of the Navy's Third Fleet, was aboard his ship for several months, during which the high-ranking officer was spotted by my father only once from a great distance. I marveled at this information, being that my only knowledge of Admiral Halsey was, as per Paul McCartney, he "had to have a berth or he couldn't get to sea." Based on the accuracy of most of my father's stories, it is unlikely that Admiral Halsey was ever on the USS South Dakota. Paul McCartney's claim is also undetermined.

I never meant to cause
you any trouble...

Allegedly, the USS South Dakota was struck twice by enemy fire and my father was hit by shrapnel. The supposed source of the shrapnel was two kamikaze strikes twenty minutes apart. Often, my father would roll up his pant leg and display his bony shin to the delight of my brother and me, pointing out a small, raised length of reddish tissue that he insisted was a scar. There was definitely something on my father's leg. If it was the result of a kamikaze is unconfirmed... as is my dad's claim that the Purple Heart medal that he allegedly received was lost my by grandmother.

My father eventually received an honorable discharge from the US Navy at the end of his twenty-four month stretch. He alerted his parents that he would be returning to their West Philadelphia home soon. And soon he did.

Put another nickel in...

There was a chain of restaurants in the Philadelphia area called Horn & Hardart. Horn & Hardart was unique in its format, introducing the "automat" concept to the United States in the early years of the 20th century. An automat offered simple, "home cooked" fare to hungry customers for a nickel or multiples thereof. Once the correct amount of nickels was deposited in the slot, a glass door could be opened through which food was delivered from the kitchen on other side. (The Horn & Hardart automat is featured prominently in the Doris Day/Cary Grant comedy That Touch of Mink.) It was a novel way to eat and it proved to be very popular. At the height of its popularity, Horn & Hardart was serving an estimated 500,000 customers per day across 157 outlets in Philadelphia and New York. My father numbered himself among those customers. He made sure it was his first stop after arriving home from the Navy.

As my father told it, he went to the Horn & Hardart automat windows with a pocketful of nickels. He made his selections, opening each little window, removing each item and placing them on his tray — meatloaf, mashed potatoes, green beans and a slice of pie. (Sometimes, with each telling and retelling, the meal components changed.) My dad looked around the crowded dining room for an available seat. He found one and placed his laden tray on the table. He realized he had forgotten to get a cup of Horn & Hardart's famous coffee, so headed over to the wall of coffee urns, sifting through his pocket change for another nickel. He drew himself a cup of coffee and returned to his waiting civilian meal. However, when he returned to his table, there was a disheveled woman in ragged clothing busily munching away at my father's dinner. My father was dumbfounded. He stood — frozen — watching this woman shovel forkfuls of meatloaf and potatoes — his meatloaf and potatoes — into her maw. His mind scrambled. What could he do? If he chased her away, he certainly wasn't going to eat the picked-over scraps that was now his dinner. So, he did the only thing he could do. He went back to the automat windows and repurchased a duplicate meal. This time, he stopped to get coffee before finding a table.

My father loved this story and he told it a lot. It is a funny story. I just don't know if it really happened.

But, honestly.....who cares? That was my dad.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

she said she said

You know what really annoys me?

Wait a second. Let me start again....

You know what really annoys me this week?

Once again, Mrs. Pincus has fallen into the good graces of the folks in the marketing department of Harrah's Hotel and Casino in Atlantic City. My wife's relationship with Harrah's has been one of ups and downs. After nearly a decade of free meals, free hotel rooms, free show tickets, free cruises and a number of prize give-aways, Harrah's algorithms cut Mrs. P off without an explanation. More than a year passed and, suddenly, Mrs. P was once again receiving promotional solicitations in the mail. Sure, the free slot play amount had dipped dramatically, but the offers of small appliances, watches and gift cards were hard to pass up. Just a quick, weekly drive to Atlantic City and the stuff was just handed over. Hey — free is free.

Recently, Mrs. P received a gift card from Harrah's entitling her to $40 worth of merchandise from the "TJ Maxx/Marshall's" family of stores. So, one evening after dinner, we drove over to a Home Goods at a nearly mall. We dragged ourselves up and down the aisles. We perused the displays of useless crap that nobody needs. We saw large distressed wooden things with hanging brackets attached to the back. I surmised that these things were supposed to hung on a wall in one's home. We also saw several white porcelain animals (a pig and perhaps a cow) that I supposed were made to occupy a place of prominence, also in one's home..... possibly the same home with the wooden thing on the wall.

Mrs. Pincus reluctantly gathered up some items, but by the time we made it to the check-out counter, she said, "I could do without this stuff." She put her selections down and we left. 

We strolled down to another section of the mall and entered a Marshall's, determined this time, to use the $40 gift card. Mrs. P picked up some stuff — a set of Mickey and Minnie Mouse pot holders, a mini mandolin vegetable slicer and a small electric waffle iron. (Actually, she picked up a few of each of these items to make it to forty dollars.)

I carried some of the items and Mrs. Pincus carried some and we approached the check-out counter.

Let me interrupt this post for a moment...

When I was in high school and college, I worked many jobs in the service industry. I was a cashier in a department store and in a women's' clothing store. I worked as a soda vendor at a stadium in Philadelphia. I worked at my cousin's heath food cafeteria. As expected, I also encountered numerous folks in the service industry as well. I was taught that service workers were essentially "non-people." They served a purpose and that was to be helpful and courteous while doing their job and dealing with customers. I was told not to be pushy and not to interfere in a customer's personal business. Lately, however, there has been a growing trend and a severe and unwelcome crossing of that line. I remember the time a waitress sat down — actually grabbed a chair and sat down at our table! —  at a TGI Friday's. I was appalled! Surprisingly, it was not the last time this happened. Wait staff are not the customer's friend and they should never think they are. Cashiers don't need to comment on a customer's purchase. The sale has already been made. You don't have to continue to make the sale.

... and now, back to our story.

We plopped our selections on the counter. The cashier — a young lady with a cockeyed smile and a passing resemblance to Alanis Morissette circa 1996 — picked up each item to scan the bar code. But, prior to each scan, she made a comment. On every single item. Even multiples of the same item.

"Oh, I have these potholders. They're great. I use them all the time. I like the small size." She picked up and examined the potholders, turning them over several times.

"These waffle irons are so cool. And you're getting so many. Are there any left? I might want to get one." She picked up and examined the waffle irons, turning them over several times.

"I got one of these slicers. It's so convenient. I use it a lot." She picked up and examined the slicers, turning them over several times.

After she commented on every item, she commented on the gift card.

"Oh! A gift card! Wow! Forty dollars......" blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah. She went on and on and on. Mrs. Pincus politely smiled and offered single syllables of agreement, when she could get a word in. I wandered off, trying to get out of earshot. Finally the transaction was completed and the items were finally bagged. I grabbed extensively-discussed purchases from the cashier's hands and headed for the door.

With the gift cards completely spent, guess where we never have to go again.

So.... what will annoy me next week?

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

all hail caesar

One evening this week, Mrs. Pincus and I went to pick up a pizza for dinner, something we do quite often. It may come as a surprise to you, but we regularly go to a Little Caesars location not far from our house. Unlike most people, we don't really have a single location pizza place that we swear by. We are not connoisseurs or "pizza snobs." We happen to like cheap, crappy, chain-store pizza. We just do.

My wife pulled into the parking lot of the strip center where the Little Caesars occupies the end storefront. I hopped out of the car, like I had done countless times before, and walked up to the front door and entered. The place rarely, if ever, has a welcoming vibe. Through the wire racks of stacked pizza boxes at the rear of the narrow service counter area, I could see several workers — all decked out in branded Little Caesars regalia (hats, shirts, aprons) — busily preparing pizzas at a large work table. Behind them, another fellow was monitoring the business-end of the large oven, extracting finished pizzas by gripping their pans with a pliers-like device and deftly shaking them into a waiting, pre-assembled box. They all appeared to be working in a predetermined rhythm, like the proverbial "well-oiled machine."

However, the young lady at the front counter, the "face" of the "Little Caesar's experience" for this particular location, did not exactly fit in with the rest of the apparent work ethic practiced by those in the nerve center of the establishment.

When I entered the store, to my right, was a man — in a Little Caesars hat and apron — stocking single-serving bottles of soda in a tall refrigerated display case. A few customers (maybe two, actually) were scattered about the open area, obviously waiting for their individual order to be served. Behind the counter, seated on a low object (perhaps a small carton?), was a young lady — I would guess still in her teens — with her back to the wall adjoining the business next store, paying extremely close attention to her cellphone. As I approached the counter, she slowly rose — though not exactly tearing her attention away from whatever was dancing across the small screen in her hand. She was wearing a sweatshirt emblazoned with the named of a local high school. No where on her person did the name or logo of Little Caesars appear. Nowhere. She finally turned her attention to me and asked, "Mmmnnnmmnnmmm."

At least, I think it was a question. Only because the inflection of her utterance went up in tone, slightly, at the end. I honestly has no idea what she said, but I can assume it was along the lines of "Can I take your order?" I asked for a pizza and an order of bread sticks and passed over my credit card to her her limp, waiting hand. She swiped it through the slot on the credit card reader, removed the receipt, handed me back my card and said, "Mmmnnnmm." Then, she promptly returned to her original perch, concentrating, once again on her electronic device and blotting the customers out.

A fellow from the back of the store placed a stack of pizza boxes on the wire rack from behind. The young lady rose slowly, grabbed the boxes and announced "Mmmnnnmm" in the general direction of a woman with short dreadlocks in a dark blue coat who was waiting, patiently, with her arms folded across her chest. The woman accepted the boxes and no more words were exchanged by either party. The young lady repeated this same procedure with the other customer who was waiting for an order to be filled.

Offer not valid where invalid.

After about eight minutes (the "Hot & Ready" promotion as presented in a series of Little Caesars commercials and in-store signage seems to be invalid at this location or in this realm), the young lady muttered her signature, unintelligible grunt at me and offered me a pizza box with a bag of bread sticks resting atop of it. I took it from her hands, thanked her and wished her a good evening. I really did. I headed towards the door, which was held open for me by a new, incoming customer — who would, no doubt, be subjected to the "Little Caesars welcome" that is standard operating procedure at this location.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

simply the best

In 1996, Wilco released their second album, Being There. On my lunch break from my job at a suburban Philadelphia legal publisher, I drove around the corner to a nearby Best Buy to purchase a copy of the album, as I had seen it advertised in their circular that came in Sunday's newspaper. Despite the poor reception their debut effort was afforded, I was a fan of Jeff Tweedy's new project. However, at the time, Wilco was nowhere close to the respected elder statesmen of alt-rock that they are today. They were a little band made up of the remnants of a dispute between Tweedy and band mate Jay Farrar in another little band called Uncle Tupleo. Nevertheless, I wanted to hear what Tweedy, an obviously talented and visionary songwriter, had up his sleeve for a sophomore release.

What's the World Got in Store

I parked and entered the cavernous Best Buy, headed for the sprawling CD department. I scanned the "W" section, flipping past dividers separating albums by the likes of The Who, Wham!, Stevie Wonder and Whitesnake. There was nothing by Wilco. I looked again — nothing. Now, I looked around the store, trying to locate a salesperson. It seemed as though I was the solitary person — employee or customer — in the building. I finally spotted a tall, lanky fellow in a signature blue Best Buy polo shirt and flagged him down. He slowly made his way to the aisle in which I was standing... and stood there, waiting for me to state my reason for needing his attention. "I was looking for the new Wilco album.," I asked. He tilted his head to one side. "Is that a band?," he asked. I frowned. "Yes. Their new album was in your Sunday ad circular.," I explained. "I never heard of 'em.," he replied dismissively. "So that means they don't exist?," I countered. He offered no reaction. Instead, he pointed to the racks of CDs. "Did you look under 'W'?," he asked, as though he solved my dilemma with his breakthrough suggestion. "Yes, of course," I said. "Then, I guess we don't have it.," he concluded, turned on his heels and lumbered away into the depths of the store.

And that's it. This happened over two decades ago and it's still my impression of Best Buy. Although I have bought items at Best Buy, I dread going there. Sure, over the years I have made sporadic purchases there. I bought a washer and dryer, a microwave, two computers and dozens of computer accessories and, of course, numerous CDs (when I was still buying CDs). The experiences were all very similar. I had to know exactly what I wanted to buy because the staff was less than informed about the products they stocked and even less than happy to share their limited knowledge. That is, of course, if you can find a member of their staff. Sure, they're there, but they all seem to be off somewhere just out of customer earshot.

Just last week, Mrs. P got an unsolicited email offer from our friends at Best Buy. The offer touted a  guaranteed gift certificate with a value between five dollars and five thousand dollars. We drove over to our nearest Best Buy and entered the store, the printed email clutched tightly in Mrs. Pincus's hand. As my wife had a cashier scan the bar code on the email to determine the dollar amount, I optimistically headed toward the colorful 75" flat-screen smart TVs. However, I was halted in my tracks when the scan revealed an award of five bucks.

We wandered up and down each aisle of Best Buy, trying to pick out something for five dollars, realizing, of course, the choices were slim. Suddenly two smiling employees approached with the obligatory opening line, "How're you folks doing tonight?," like a couple of textbook used car salesmen. We returned a forced "We're just fine" to the pair and tried our best not to engage them in conversation. One of the sales associates asked if we'd ever been to Best Buy before — my favorite question from retail employees, as though we were just dropped from a passing space craft as emissaries from a distant civilization sorely lacking in the "big box electronic store" department. Without waiting for our reply, he continued. "Well, Best Buy has changed a lot," he boasted, "The cool stuff is located in the center of the store and the..."

I interrupted. "Are you implying that the items around the perimeter of the store are not cool?"

He laughed nervously. "No," he stammered, "of course not. I mean the TVs and computers are in the center of the store and the..."

I interrupted again. "The washers and microwaves are over where the non-cool stuff is. Look, we bought a pretty cool microwave here a few months ago." The other salesman giggled.

Smart.

Realizing he was getting nowhere, he changed the subject. He extracted a phone from his pocket. "You want to see a really cool app?," he asked, then inquired, "Do you folks have smartphones?" He asked his question the way you'd ask your great-grandmother if she has seen the remote control for the television. My wife and I frowned and displayed our phones for the salesman. I added, "Is this smart enough for you?," as I waved my Samsung Galaxy in the air like a Fourth of July sparkler.

He laughed nervously again, and continued. "Here's the app — watch!," he said. He tapped his phone a few times before announcing, "I just opened and closed my garage door." A smug smile spread across his face.

I shook my head disapprovingly. "If you want to really impress me, show me an app that can open and close your neighbor's garage door. That would be something!"

There was that nervous laugh again. Again, he changed back to his original topic of explaining how Best Buy has changed. He said if there was anything we needed, we should let him know. He smiled and wandered away with his silent colleague in tow.

Mrs. P and I exchanged confirming looks. Best Buy hadn't changed at all.

www.joshpincusiscring.com

one more time

"I wish I knew how to quit you." — Jack Twist, Brokeback Mountain

Some people just don't know when to give up. I suppose my wife and I fall into that category, because Sunday night we found ourselves, once again, at Movie Tavern.

You remember our first encounter at Movie Tavern, the innovative, long-overdue concept theater that offers full restaurant service while you watch a first-run movie. Our initial experience was stellar and we anxiously anticipated our our next visit. Things went so smoothly, so flawlessly, that we could not imagine going to the movies any where else. 

That is, until our second visit. A few weeks after our phenomenal experience, Mrs. Pincus and I ventured back to Movie Tavern. This time, we were exposed to the real Movie Tavern, an unorganized, understaffed, chaotic system of mismanaged perpetual trainees. That evening ran like a textbook example of Murphy's law. Our dessert came out first. We got multiple entrees and appetizers that we did not order and, to cap things off, we were overcharged. A subsequent visit revealed that this was the norm and our first experience was the fluke.

We purposely steered clear of Movie Tavern for nearly a year. But, just this week, Mrs. P received a free pass from Movie Tavern for her May birthday. So, we went. Begrudgingly, but we went.

When I'm calling you...

With the entire movie-going population rushing to see the highly-anticipated sequel to Guardians of the Galaxy (a film I did not care for), my spouse and I opted instead for the live-action musical Beauty and the Beast. We purchased a single admission and surrendered Movie Tavern's birthday voucher for the other. Once ticketed, we entered the theater. A server greeted us almost immediately, although I could not understand a single word he said. He smiled, however, he mumbled his entire "welcome" spiel. We chose the "2 for $30" special that includes an appetizer, two entrees from a selected menu and two cookies for dessert. My wife and I follow the laws of kashrut and our house is strictly kosher. Out in the world, we eat as vegetarians. Actually, I am a vegetarian (a fish-eating pescetarian, if you want to get technical), but my still-carnivorous "better half" will not consume meat in restaurants. We selected the delicious-sounding deep-fried artichoke hearts. (Coincidentally, we just had these at another restaurant last weekend and, indeed, they were delicious.) Our entree choices were limited to only two that were vegetarian-friendly. We decided on portobello mushroom sandwiches, but were quickly informed by our server that they were not available this evening. Mrs. P expressed her disappointment. The server mumbled and pointed to the menu. I deciphered "pizza" from his muttering. We resigned to the flatbread pizza and again, we were told they, too, were unavailable. The server kept pushing the regular pizza, but we resisted. Losing patience, I decided to forgo the "special" and just get fish and chips. Surprise! Fish and chips were not available either. Our non-meat options were narrowing at the same pace as my patience. We settled on side salads and an order of meatless nachos to split. At this point, our server had disappeared. I pressed the convenient "call button" with which each seat is outfitted. The blue lights gleamed to tell me that my request for a server had been sent. We waited. And waited. And waited. And waited some more. Soon, a different member of the waitstaff arrived and apologized, cryptically, saying that our server was "otherwise occupied." Was he watching another movie? Was he getting a lesson in diction? Was he ever coming back? Our back-up server took our salad-and-nachos order and explained that the reason so many items were unavailable was they are transitioning to a new menu and would no longer be carrying some current offerings. Wow! Someone took the time for a little customer service.

Our food arrived after the theater had darkened and the coming attractions had already commenced. Eating a salad in the dark was an unexpected challenge. I was forced to consume some components that I would normally relegate to the far side of my plate. But, eating by the light of a flickering screen twenty feet away from me, I'm sure I swallowed a few otherwise shunned tomato wedges. Nachos are another story. I would not recommend eating nachos in the dark. Nachos, when shared with someone with whom you are close, are usually a "finger food." But, without being able to see what you're reaching for, nachos become a sloppy, gooey heap of unidentifiable individual ingredients. While gingerly reaching for the triangular silhouette of a corn chip, I stuck my thumb into a wet mixture of refried beans and shredded lettuce. As I navigated the morsel towards my mouth, I could feel rivulets of pico de gallo running down my chin. We had to wait until a daylight scene (of which there are few) or brightly-lit segment (like the famous "ballroom" scene, which in this version, is not especially luminous) in order to see how close we were to emptying our plate.

Midway through the film and our meal, our server stealthily slunk by and dropped off our check. When the movie ended, I had to track him down to pay. And then, he vanished with my credit card. A few other servers, who were clearing dishes and gathering trash, asked if we needed help. I said I was waiting for my credit card to be returned. They all offered the same reply: "Oh sorry. No problem." Each one echoed the same apologetic sentiment like a chorus of confessors. Finally, our server returned to the theater and handed me my credit card, repeating the "Oh sorry. No Problem." refrain. I got the feeling that the staff at Movie Tavern get a lot of practice apologizing, as they do it quite often.

As my wife and I walked to our car, I imagined this would be the last time we would make this trip. But, Mrs. P told me that earlier in the evening she tweeted "Why do we continue to subject ourselves to Movie Tavern?" and tagged @MovieTavern.

Yesterday, they responded with a private message offering their patented apology and complementary admission and thirty dollars in food vouchers for a return visit. Hopefully, I won't get another blog post out of it,

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

one more for my baby and one more for the road

This will be my last post ever about Movie Tavern. I hope.

Mrs. Pincus and I, once again, subjected ourselves to the ordeal that is Movie Tavern. Boy, this is quite a change in feeling from our first visit to the movie/restaurant combo chain. We loved our first experience at Movie Tavern so much that we couldn't imagine ever going to another theater. It was that good.

Until our second visit.

The second time we went to Movie Tavern, we were anxious and excited to return. We, of course, were expecting the same impeccable, finely-tuned, precision service that made our first trip so pleasurable. Instead, we were subjected to confused waitstaff, crossed signals, multiple incorrect orders, an inaccurate check and unconcerned management. After a written complaint to the corporate office, we were enticed with free passes to give Movie Tavern another chance. It turns out that our first experience at Movie Tavern was the exception and mediocrity was the norm.

It's funny, after not going to the movies for years, Mrs. P and I have attended a half dozen first-run films this year. It's very uncharacteristic for us. Movie Tavern had a lot to do with that. We loved it the first time, but subsequent visits have been to use free passes, obtained either from birthday promotions or to make up for crappy service. We used our final complementary admission this past Saturday. After our server walked past us several times without saying anything.... After we never got the requested lemon slices for our water.... After our appetizer came well after we received our main course.... After our server picked up the check portfolio before I had a chance to total it up, Mrs. P asked me, "Do we ever have to come back here again?" She begged me not to complain about the service this time, lest we get more free passes and have to suffer though this again.

Earlier in the week, we took my in-laws to a regular movie theater. It was a pleasure. We bought tickets. We sat in comfortable seats. We enjoyed a regular experience at the movies, one that we had enjoyed many, many times before. And afterwards, we went to a diner and had something to eat. Like normal people. While we once admired the concept of combining the movie-watching experience with the dining experience, we decided the two should really be kept separate. Why are we in such a rush to kill two birds with one stone? Especially two things that are supposed to be enjoyed leisurely. We have such limited amounts of free time in our lives, why do we want to consolidate our free time activities?

Well, we won't anymore.

Goodbye, Movie Tavern. It's your final curtain call. Check, please.

working at the car wash

I never wash my car. Never. I know, as a responsible car owner, you're supposed to, but I never do. And here's why...

Because I take the train to work, my car is parked in front of my house all day, five days a week. (Sometimes more, if I don't drive anywhere on weekends.) Day after day, my car rests comfortably by the curb — silent, undisturbed — obediently waiting for my Saturday trip to pick up my dry cleaning and perhaps a stop at the supermarket. 

A couple of weeks ago, as I descended my front porch steps on my way to the train station, I noticed a number of long, dark strips of something all over the passenger's side of my car. As I moved closer, I saw that the sidewalk was dotted with a similar discoloration. I looked around. Any overhanging tree branches were too far back to drip any sap (or whatever trees drip) on my car. The spots were too numerous, too spread out and not the right color to be bird droppings. I lightly touched and rubbed my finger on one of the many dried streaks that, upon closer inspection, ran the full length of my car. I didn't know what it was... but, if I stood there any longer, I would miss my train. I decided to continue my investigation when I got home from work. When I got home from work, I completely forgot about the stuff all over my car.

Of course, I saw it again the next morning. "Dammit!," I thought, "I better do something about that." In typical fashion, I let it go a few more days. Then, I remembered and I started checking Google for a self-serve car wash near my house. I figured that, when the weekend rolled around, I'd go to one of those places that offer the general public access to a high-powered hose, thus saving me some money. Then, I realized I'd have to buy a sponge and some sort of car-washing detergent, prompting a subsequent visit to an auto supply store. Then I'd have to find some rags. Shit! This was turning into a project. And I hate projects that don't result in some sort of Disneyland vacation at the end.

I changed my Google search to regular car washes and found one that I pass regularly when I go to my local Target store. I figured that paying someone to get that shit off my car was better that wasting my time (read: I'm lazy.) doing it myself.

So, this morning, I drove down to the nearby car wash and swung my car into the driveway, past an active crew of guys drying off a shiny car that had just emerged from the equipment-filled building. I pulled around to the entrance and slowly drove up to the massive car wash "menu." The prices ranged from "The Basic" for $13 all the way up to thirty-five bucks for something called "The Ultimate," that boasted an enhanced list of services, most of which I could not readily identify. A guy sporting a backwards baseball cap approached my car and I told him I'd be going for "The Basic." He typed something into a small terminal, presented me with a voucher and directed me "inside" to pay. Catching a glimpse of two more guys, with backwards baseball caps, prepping my car for entry into the soap-and-automated-brush tunnel. I walked down the narrow hall alongside the actual car wash. The wall to my right was outfitted with huge viewing windows, allowing car owners to keep tabs on their vehicles during every step of the cleaning process — sort of like the windows in a hospital nursery. At the end of the hall, a guy took my voucher and swiped my credit card. I signed the receipt and stepped outside to wait for my freshly-cleaned car.

A blue Honda was parked outside, dripping wet. A few guys, all with backwards baseball caps perched on their heads, wiped off the excess water. The car's owner got up off the waiting bench, folded up her newspaper, and headed over to her car. A minute later, my car emerged. A swarm of workers, backwards baseball caps firmly fitted on their heads, attacked my Toyota with the fervor of a pack of hyenas pouncing on a helpless zebra. My car was briefly obscured by a blur of hands and chamois. During the advertised "hand towel drying" process, I noticed one of the workers hesitantly touching an oily streak on the back window of my car. He then gingerly scratched the smear with his fingernail. Then he quickly buffed the spot with his towel and moved on to the plastic cover on my spare tire. 

A worker cocked his thumb at me, indicating that the car washing process was now completed. I hopped into the driver's seat, readjusted it to my liking and sped off to my next stop — the supermarket. When I arrived, I got out and grabbed a shopping cart from a nearby corral and saw the passenger side of my car was still covered with those grimy streaks, now even more noticeable with the untouched car finish gleaming around them.

After my grocery shopping, I angrily drove home. I raided my basement closet for paper towels and any spray bottle marked "extra-strength" or "grease-cutting formula." I also grabbed a razor blade scraper and couple of cloths that our twice-a-month cleaning lady uses to dust (or whatever she does with them).

I went outside to my car. I scraped and sprayed and wiped and polished until every last bit of that crap was off my car. The car wash had removed none of it. The only reason I went to the car wash was to have those streaks removed... and I had to remove them myself. 

And I did it without a backwards baseball cap.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

treat me right

In the middle of last week, the signal from my wireless home network kept dropping out. Everyday, I would restart the modem and then restart the router and service would be restored. After several consecutive days of this procedure, I rendered my own diagnosis and exchanged the modem at my local Comcast office. I, like most Comcast customers, would try anything rather than calling their notoriously inept tech support. 

When I received my new modem, I was given the instruction to connect it in the same manner as the  previous one and then — dum dum DUM! — call a Comcast toll-free number for activation. Shit! I couldn't get around a phone call to Comcast! I arrived home, connected the new modem in a matter of seconds and then, filled with dread, I punched Comcast's number into my phone. A friendly, automated female voice answered. She identified the number from which I was calling and asked me to select my reason for calling. I pressed "2," indicating I needed activation for a new modem. The robotic voice assured me this could be handled quickly, but suddenly, I was told to hold while my call was transferred to a live technician. Immediately, a stream of bland "hold" music began to play. After a few minutes, the violins and bass were interrupted by a  disinterested monotone voice who rattled of a series of sentences, none of which I understood. 

"I'd like my new modem activated, please.," I said, hoping that the question of 'How can I help you' was buried somewhere in the technician's opening monologue.

"I can help you with that, but first, I  will need some information. May I have your address, please?," the tech asked.

I recited my address, my name and the last four digits of my Social Security number as requested. After a lengthy series of apologies and assuring me that service and satisfaction was her highest priority, the tech told me that my modem was now activated.

And so it was... for approximately two hours. The signal dropped out again. So, reluctantly, I called Comcast back.

The automated voice asked for my phone number and then directed me to tech support. Technician Number 2 also asked for my phone number, as well as the nature of my call. I explained that I exchanged an old modem for a new modem, called for activation and, although I was told it was activated, I was still experiencing a loss of signal. Technician Number 2 asked if I got a new modem and if I called to activate it. I pulled the phone away from my ear and looked at it. I had just finished explaining the issue. I repeated the situation, again in detail. Technician Number 2 asked if I was trying to connect wirelessly. Again, I stared at the phone. After more frustration and a little voice-raising on my part, I was elevated to the next tier of support. The next, higher-level tech (Technician Number 3) had me up-and-running in a matter of minutes, He offered a "ticket number," in case the problem persists and I need to call back. This way, everything will be documented and I won't need to explain it to a new technician unfamiliar with the problem.

I lost my internet signal the next morning.

With my patience waning, I called Comcast back. I offered up my ticket number and Technician Number 4 asked me to explain the entire scenario again. Technician Number 4 told me that I should restart the modem and router if I would like internet service. I told Technician Number 4 how I have restarted my modem and router every day for the past three days. Technician Number 4, phrasing her scripted response differently, told me if I want to receive internet service, I would have to restart the router and modem every day.

I pulled the phone away from my ear and stared at it.

"Are you telling me that I have to restart the router and modem every day if I want to get online?," I questioned.

"Yes, if you want to receive internet service." repeated Technician Number 4

"Are you telling me that I pay Comcast $200 per month and, after being a customer for twenty-five years and never restarting my modem that I now would need to restart the modem and router every day if I want internet service?," I repeated, increasing the volume of my voice as I finished my question.

"Yes, if you want to receive internet service." repeated Technician Number 4.

I was livid. I demanded to speak to a supervisor. I was put on hold for twenty minutes. Technician Number 4 returned four times during my "hold" time to assure me that satisfaction was her top priority and that her supervisor would be with me in a moment. One more time, she announced that the supervisor would be the next voice I hear.

And then my call was disconnected.

I called back immediately, angrier than I was on the first call. I rehashed the situation to Technician Number 5, who, first, needed some more information. I ran down the usual info, only this time, I was told the at the last four digits of my Social Security number didn't match the account... even though they matched on the four previous calls, I was grilled for my actual account number, which I recited once I located my current cable bill. When Technician Number 5 was satisfied that I was who I said I was, I asked to speak to a supervisor. It took some additional convincing and some additional "hold" time, but I was ultimately connected to a supervisor. 

The supervisor (now the sixth tech person I have spoken with) was receptive to my complaint, assuring me that it is not the policy of Comcast to have customers restart their modems on a daily basis. He apologized repeatedly and referred to me as "Mr. Josh," as though I was a Southern plantation owner and he was the downstairs butler. He explained that he would retrain the technician who gave me the incorrect information, and when he asked for her name, I asked, "Isn't her name on my account information log?" He replied, "Yes. Yes it is." and he apologized again.

My service was restored and, two days later, it seems to be working fine. Comcast's customer service still sucks, but it could be worse. I could be a Verizon customer.

* * * UPDATE * * *

click to enlarge

This is a screenshot from Comcast's website. It shows instructions for programming a Comcast Universal remote control without any assistance from Comcast technical support. Everything is okay until you get to Step 4, where it tells you to "type in the 5-digit code" and just below, they have selected the most likely code for your model of television. All four digits of it. The last step says "if the code doesn't work, look for another," but offers no additional source for that code. At the bottom of the screen, there is a button that reads "I'm done." 

Oh, I'm done alright.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com