get out of here with that (boom * boom * boom)

As a twenty-plus year seller on eBay (Oh for crissakes! NO! She will not sell your stuff!), Mrs. Pincus joined a Facebook group called "eBay For Beginners." She joined to offer her years of experience on the commerce website to those who are just starting out as sellers and are overwhelmed by the whole thing. The membership is mostly comprised of novice sellers, hoping to cash in on the untold riches they've been told are available on eBay. On a daily — sometimes hourly — basis, folks posts questions and scenarios that are filled with a combination of wonder and wrong information. After reading responses to these questions, Mrs. P chimes in with a clear-headed solution, based on a previous experience with the issue at hand. After twenty-seven years, she has seen it all and has become somewhat of an expert on the ins and outs of the mighty online auction and "buy-it-now" website. She has fielded questions about shipping and the head-scratching policies of the United States Postal Service. She has deciphered eBay policies that can sometimes be very confusing to new sellers. She has offered tips and tricks to make for more visible and enticing listings. She has even identified mysterious items that someone discovered while digging through Grandma's attic in hopes of finding some priceless antique that will result in a huge monetary return.

Like this one...

An anonymous member in the group (as anonymously identified by the user name "Anonymous Member) posted multiple images of a particular item. The user asked for assistance in identifying this piece. The item in question — a double ceramic cup decorated with dainty flowers and a large handle joining the two vessels — was like nothing this particular user had ever seen. They came to the good, sometimes helpful, folks in the "eBay For Beginners" group for some help.

In addition to her years of eBay experience, Mrs. Pincus has many more years of experience attending assorted Jewish religious services and practices. Immediately, upon seeing the photos, Mrs. P knew exactly what she was looking at. She explained that this was a ritual handwashing cup that is used before a meal. A blessing is recited and a bit of water is poured from the cup onto each hand to cleanse before eating. The wording on the overarching handle reads "Al Nitilat Yadayim" in Hebrew. It translates to "taking up of the hands." She went on to explain that these cups are made from a variety of materials, including copper, silver, glass even carved wood and some come with a bowl to catch the excess water. Most often they are a single cup with two handles. Mrs. Pincus commented on the uniqueness of this one, adding that, although she had never seen on quite like it, it was most definitely a ritual hand-washing cup. (Curiously, it does not have a specific name, like "sure, that's a piece of clothing, but it's called a scarf" or  "yes, that's a part of a cow's muscular system, but it's called a hamburger.")

The anonymous user thanked Mrs. Pincus for the information. But, because it's the "never satisfied" internet, a few comments under Mrs. P's clear and concise explanation, was a comment from another member of the group who offered a contradictory take on the object, as though this was a game of  The Liar's Club. This person — one Janet Roberta Mahoney — asserted that, and I quote...

"I disagree that it's for handwashing as pouring from one side spills the other. Can't tell from the photo how big it is. Is the open part connected between the 2? If so, I'd say it was a vase."

I'm going out on a limb here, but I'd say that Mrs. Pincus has been to many more Passover seders than Ms. Mahoney. I would venture to guess that Mrs. Pincus has held as many ritual hand-washing cups as Ms. Mahoney has held shillelaghs. While I wouldn't question Ms. Mahoney's knowledge of leprechauns, the Blarney Stone or St. Patrick's secrets of ridding a country of snakes, I would like to know how many times she has sat through the full reading of the Magillah, how many times she kisses the mezzuzah affixed to her door jamb before she leaves the house or  how much cholent she has eaten in her lifetime. If the original post featured a photo of a thurible, I would trust Ms. Mahoney in her assessment and explanation of that piece and its function in the rituals of the Catholic Church. But, alas, it was a photo of a hand-washing cup adorned with Hebrew writing — something with which Mrs. Pincus is intimately familiar. This is a case of staying in your lane, Ms. Mahoney, even if that lane is on the left side of the road.

I have often said that Mrs. Pincus is the nicest person I know. I don't say that just because she is my wife. I genuinely believe she is the nicest person. However, after hanging around with ol' Josh Pincus for over forty years, some of that "Josh Pincus"-ness has unfortunately rubbed off on her. Every once in a while, a "Josh Pincus"-style remark slips through when a more "Mrs. Pincus" reply would be expected. Mrs. P read Ms. Mahoney's comment and replied: "You're wrong."

Kinehora.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

silver threads and golden needles

It's coming up on a year since I left the vile, bubbling, hate-filled cesspool that Twitter has become. I was pretty active on Twitter for years, but after psycho melomaniac Elon Musk purchased the ubiquitous social media platform, things just took a nosedive. Twitter became rampant with heinous, venomous bullshit and I no longer wanted to be a part of it. Besides, I was already getting my fair share of bullshit on Facebook.

In July 2023, the folks who brought you Instagram and Facebook launched Threads, a near carbon copy of Twitter specifically created to unseat the mighty microblogging giant. In its first week, Threads signed on over 100 million — 100 million — new users. I was there at the beginning, watching the joy unfold, seeing familiar names greeting an abundance of potential followers with heartfelt greetings of "What's up Threads?" and "What's this all about?" By week number two, the excitement subsided and things evened out and I began to ignore Threads, focusing more on Instagram and Facebook, both of which I use daily. One morning, while posting on Instagram, I noticed that a "share to Threads" option had been added along with the similar Facebook option. This way, I post to Threads and Facebook without ever opening up the Threads app. Great! I was growing weary of Threads and the "Hey everybody" messaging that was prevalent over there.

There's a music guy in Toronto named Eric Alper. Not being Canadian, I was first made aware of Eric Alper on Twitter. Eric Alper's MO was to pose (mostly music-related) "conversation starters" and then not wait around for the conversation to start. He'd post things like: "What was the first concert you attended?" or "What was the first album you purchased with your own money?"  Soon, he was branching out beyond the music business. "Does mayonnaise belong on every type of sandwich?" or "Do you like summer or winter best?" Then, while the replies would pour in, Eric Alper would already be on to the next question, never checking back to review the answers from his faithful followers on the first question. He never commented or countered or even cared about how many followers were responding. I found this to be rude and frustrating and just adding to the overall attitude that was slowly turning me off from Twitter. Elon Musk was just the rancid icing on the stale cake.

Recently, I logged on to Threads — possibly out of boredom — to see how and if things had progressed. I found Threads to be chock full of Eric Alper wannabes. Threads was overrun with nonsensical questions and easily Google-able trivia. "Who's the most famous person you ever met?" and "What are the best vegetables to put in chicken soup?" and "Do you put on a sock and a sock and a shoe and a shoe or a sock and a shoe and a sock and a shoe?" and the often posed "Does pineapple belong on pizza?" Twenty or so minutes of scrolling will reveal dozens and dozens of these inane non-sequiturs, all posted with the intention of bringing the author untold internet fame and the proud title of "influencer." All of this prompted the inner Josh Pincus to unleash his redheaded ire. I decided to answer some of these questions in the most Josh Pincus way possible, keeping up my brand as the internet's most loveable smart-ass.

Someone asked: "What's one Mexican food that you will NOT eat?" I answered: "Chihuahua."

Someone asked: "What do you think of when you hear the word 'debunk?'" I answered: "De summer camp."

Someone asked:" Did you ever like something so much, you bought two of them?" I answered: "Yes. Shoes and gloves."

Feeling cocky, I mistakenly tread into an area of Threads occupied by a bunch of folks with absolutely no sense of humor — Beatles fans.

Someone posed the question: "Who is the best musical trio?" Among the responses of The Police and Rush and Cream, I replied "The Beatles." and I sat back and waited for someone to take the bait. Just a few minutes after my reply, a fellow named "Bakemaster420" with a profile picture that screamed "I am so stoned," corrected my answer in a very matter-of-fact manner. He said: "Trio," to which I quickly replied "I don't count Ringo," Understandably, not everyone is familiar with my long-standing "pseudo feud" with the Liverpudlian quartet's drummer. But, this, of course, was the response I wanted to complete the joke. I laughed to myself because I do this for my own amusement and I am, admittedly, my own best audience. A few hours later, "Mr 420" added: "Well, that's pretty fucking stupid." I laughed some more.

Not content with ruffling some feathers in the staid Beatles camp, I wended my way over to an even less humorless group of musical faithful — Bruce Springsteen fans. Springsteen fans — the current ones, anyway — are an odd bunch. Way back in high school, I numbered myself among the loyal legion of Asbury Park's guitar-slinging pride-and-joy. Over the years, however, my love for The Boss has waned and I find his current persona as the raspy-voiced elder statesman of Americana rock & roll to be grating, tedious and downright irritating. Unfortunately, you take your life in your hands if you mention this to a Springsteen fan. Most Springsteen fans are in my age group (late 50s to early 70s) and spend their surplus free time trying to convince the younger generation that not only is Bruce Springsteen the greatest singer-songwriter-performer of all time, but that any other music by any other artist (save for Springsteen-adjacent acts like Southside Johnny) aren't worth listening to and one should be ashamed and even berated for doing so. Knowing full well of the consequences ahead of me, I decided to — in  RFK Jr. terms — "poke the bear."

Someone innocently asked, with the hope of becoming an internet celebrity: "What celebrity did you used to be a fan of but aren't anymore - and why?" I answered: "Bruce Springsteen. I think it's pretty obvious." The bear had officially been poked and the angry retirees lifted themselves out of their golf carts to come to the rescue of their beloved New Jersey crooner (that isn't Frank Sinatra). The first salvo came from a guy that asked "It is? What are you referencing?" I replied with a link to a blog post I wrote in 2014 in which I first confessed my love of all things Bruce but went on to explain how my admiration dissipated as Bruce's music — in my opinion — became less heartfelt and more of an exercise in corporate branding. I thought I did a good job of explaining my disillusion. (To date, that post got 585 views. You can read it HERE, if you really want to.) Well, this particular Springsteen fan couldn't bear to have someone — especially snotty little Josh Pincus — not like Bruce Springsteen. So, he tried to convince me in the most eloquent way possible. He told me "Your writing is fucking atrocious." Several more of Bruce's disciples chimed in. They attacked my writing, my opinion and my musical tastes. I am fairly certain that if I gave undying praise to Springsteen, my writing would have been compared to Hemingway. But maybe that's just wishful thinking. Oh, and each angry response was punctuated by "Dude" either at the beginning or at the end of their statements/threats. I ignored all of the replies and just watched as the palpable frustration grew and grew until they all just gave up... or I just stopped reading them.

For the time being, I have decided to lay off mocking the musical opinions of the ultra-defensive, ultra-fragile "Classic Rock" devotees. I certainly wouldn't want to keep them from cashing their pension check or taking their afternoon nap. So, I'll stick to telling everyone that "Fiona" is my favorite kind of apple and that kitty litter doesn't belong on pizza.

But pineapple does.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

that's what keeps us going on and on and on and on

Today is the fifth consecutive day that I have been working from home. My office closed last Friday, along with thousands of other businesses, due to concerns regarding the unprecedented spread of the virus known as COVID-19. Just a few days prior, every staff member was warned of a possible — no, pending — closure. On Thursday, every one received an email informing us that the office would be closing indefinitely as of Friday morning.

So, here I am. Working from home for the first time in 30+ years of being a part of the work force. After I check in with my supervisor around 8:30 in the morning, I have had, pretty much, nothing to do. To maintain a sense of normalcy, I have been waking up at my usual "get ready to go to work" time. I posted my usual celebrity death anniversaries on Facebook. I drew some pictures. I watched a lot of television. I further wound my way around the internet, including posting a more-than-normal group of pictures on Instagram — both freeze-frames from television shows and screenshots from things I found on various websites.

This morning, I came across a story about former (or current... depending on how you look at it) Queen guitarist Brian May. As a longtime fan of the theatrical British rockers, I have had an on-going beef with May, ever since he began opening his previously-closed mouth in the days, weeks and years since the passing of iconic lead singer Freddie Mercury. I loved — and I mean loved — Queen. After a brief hiatus in the wake of Mercury's death, May, along with drummer Roger Taylor, assembled a few different incarnations of Queen. He took these cobbled together bands on the road, first with former Bad Company vocalist Paul Rodgers and more recently, American Idol eighth season runner-up Adam Lambert. (Former Queen bassist John Deacon retired from the music business, citing the death of band mate and close friend Mercury as the reason.) I do not begrudge Brian May or Roger Taylor for their desire to make music. Their contemporaries have continued, even as their advancing age brings them ever closer to irrelevance. I don't care that they continue to perform Queen songs, despite being only fifty percent of the band. (I cite The Who, ELO and even Paul McCartney as other examples.) What I do object to, is Brian May's self-appointed position as Freddie Mercury's mouthpiece, as well as official band historian. On many occasions, May has been quote as saying "Freddie would have liked this." or "This is what Freddie would have wanted." Referencing online apps testing your vocal range versus Freddie Mercury's vocal range, May puffed "Freddie would have loved this." May asserted Freddie Mercury's approval for licensing Queen songs in commercials for dog food and potato chips. Brian had final say over script and production of Bohemian Rhapsody, the Oscar-winning bio pic of the origins of Queen. While I will happily praise the performance of Rami Malek for his uncanny portrayal of Mercury, the rest of the film was a total fabrication, fraught with inaccuracies, anachronisms and plain old made up stuff. In promotional interviews, May admitted to the falsehoods in the film, but brushed them off as "poetic license." This is my gripe with Brian May.

So, today, I found a story explaining that Brian May fears that the current incarnation of his Queen will no longer be able to tour in the uncertain aftermath of the coronavirus. I screenshot the headline and posted on Instagram with the caption: "Coronavirus may stop Brian May's efforts to shit all over Freddie Mercury's legacy." This, I would soon find out, would not sit well with some other folks who were killing time on the internet while they, too, were working from home. Soon after this post (which I simultaneously posted to my Twitter account), I received a response from  one "❤️Anna 15 days until 🎂❤️" — yes, that's the name. My comment apparently offended Miss Heart Birthday Cake Heart, and she let me know just how much.

I guess she saw an earlier post of mine, berating Brian May for arrogantly referring to himself as "your friendly neighbourhood rock star."  Nevertheless, this began a vicious back and forth between Anna and her emojis and ol' JPiC.

I replied: "I'll stop when he stops"

❤️Anna 15 days until 🎂❤️: "And how exactly is Brain May shitting on Freddie's legacy?"

I sent her a link to one of several blog posts (on this blog, as a matter of fact) in which I expressed my feelings about Mr. (oops, I mean Doctor) May's behavior. She was not convinced. Or perhaps she just didn't fully read my post. Or maybe "comprehension" just isn't her thing.

❤️Anna 15 days until 🎂❤️: "But they are not shitting on Freddie’s legacy. They are just keeping Queen’s music alive. There is nothing wrong with that. They are still Queen no matter what." I'm thinking that she didn't read my post. I don't blame her. I do have a tendency to get long-winded when making a point. Look at the size of this post, for goodness sake!

Not one to give up so easily, I replied: "They are not Queen. They are Brian May and Roger Taylor and a singer from American Idol. I have no problem with them continuing to make music. I don't like Brian May becoming the self-appointed spokesperson for Freddie Mercury and whitewashing Queen's history. My opinion."

Anna came back hard and fast... and insulting. ❤️Anna 15 days until 🎂❤️: "Bit of a dumb opinion if I do say so myself."

JPiC:"You are not the first person to call me dumb. Not even today. I'm sure I'm not the first person to call you narrow-minded."

❤️Anna 15 days until 🎂❤️: "Actually, you are the first person to call me Narrow minded today"

JPiC: "It's early."

Anna's final response was priceless.

I love the internet and this "working from home" deal is starting to grow on me.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

bigmouth strikes again

God bless Al Gore, because I love the internet. Although a lot of things have made the claim over the years, the internet truly is the greatest thing since sliced bread (providing that sliced bread is the barometer by which all great things are measured).

For someone like me, to whom being a smart-ass comes as naturally as taking air into my lungs, the internet is a very useful outlet. No longer is my sarcasm limited to those lucky few who come into personal contact with me. No, no, no! With forums like Twitter, Facebook, Instagram and blogs like this one (and this one), the entire world is at my disposal.... and my mercy. And, because I am who I am, no one is exempt and nothing – nothing! – is sacred. I have a gift and I seek to share that gift with everyone.

While I do have a presence on Facebook, I really use it only as sort of a clearing house for my other social media platforms. My Facebook page is not a personal page, but rather a "fan" page. I can post things I want to share and you can comment on them, but I cannot see photos of your kittens or your kid's first loose tooth or that beautiful sandwich you are about to eat. I can't see nor comment on the fact that you're tired or you have a headache or you just ran a 10K. I just post. You just look. And that's just the way I like it.

I like Twitter a lot. I suppose that's fairly obvious, because, as of this writing, my tweets number 28,000 plus. I guess I just have a lot to say. Twitter has put a new spin on watching television, especially if you are watching a particularly bad show, like a Phillies game or a lengthy awards broadcast. "Live tweeting," as it has come to be known, while using pre-determined "hashtags" (or funny, made-up ones) is like watching and commenting with six billion of your closest friends. My philosophy is: "If you can't say something nice, then say it on Twitter."

A good portion of my tweets are responses to other tweets. I regularly offer snide, yet playful, retorts to mostly earnest posts from followers and their re-tweets. (If you don't understand some of this lingo, you should either start tweeting or stop reading right now.) I have "smart-assed" everyone from public officials and local newscasters to celebrities and even the spouses of celebrities. It's all in fun. It's not malicious. It's just me being funny... or at least giving it the old college try.

Last week, someone felt I crossed the line.

I got a DM (direct message for those of you non-Tweeters) from a Twitter follower, my friend Calluna, a former co-worker. Calluna works at an ad agency and I follow her tweets, as well as the agency's. It seems I made a comment on one of her co-worker's blogs, one that I discovered via the agency's Twitter account. My comment, evidently, made her co-worker pretty upset. She asked if I would remove it.

As a self-proclaimed and proud smart-ass, I make a lot of comments that have the potential to make people upset. The internet (especially Twitter) is a cruel, cruel place. It's a lot like high school in its viciousness and its "clique-iness." For the most part, the comments, the judgments and the insults are superficial and soon forgotten. But, you gotta grow some thick skin if you want to play with the Twitter kids.

I had to ask Calluna to direct me to the comment I had made because, as I explained, I make a lot of comments on a lot of blogs. However, after a little retracing of my electronic footsteps, I found the "offending" remark on my own and deleted it. I usually would never do something like that, but I made an exception to my normal "no apologies" policy because 1.) the comment, after re-reading it, wasn't all that funny (I've posted funnier) and 2.) I like Calluna a lot. Besides, I'm sure I made many more smart-ass comments later the same day.

So, there, Internet. Your pal Josh Pincus isn't always an asshole. I have my reasonable, "ol' softie" side.

  You can take your chances and follow me on Twitter or just "like" me on Facebook if you wanna keep your distance. You have been warned.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

signed, sealed, delivered... I'm yours

Once again, Mrs. Pincus and I found ourselves shopping. This time, we were in Sam's Club, the bulk goods/members-only arm of the Walmart conglomerate. We shop there infrequently and usually end up purchasing more than we came for. This trip was no different.

With a large cart full of foil baking pans and antibacterial wipes (don't ask!), Mrs. P maneuvered down the bakery aisle. She parallel parked the cart alongside a large display of prepackaged, bakery-style cookies. You know, those desert-dry, powdered-sugar and sprinkle-dusted pastries that are served after dinner at your grandmother's house. These are not remotely in the same "cookie" category as Oreos. They are somewhat palatable with a cup of coffee or a big glass of milk. And I mean a really big glass of milk.

And my wife loves them.

Approved for your convenience.

Because we observe the age-old laws of kashrut (keeping kosher), we only purchase food that has been certified by one of any number of overseeing bodies whose job it is to enforce the precautions and restrictions of the ancient Jewish mandates. Products are conveniently marked with a symbol identifying the item as "kosher," as well as the organization offering the certification. These symbols, which can be found on countless products on every supermarket shelf, are as meaningless as a production code number or UPC symbol to the average consumer. But to the discerning kosher-keeping shopper, these symbols are a big "a-okay" and an assurance that the particular fare has been prepared under the auspices of a respected mashgiach (kosher supervisor). For those who keep kosher, it's a pretty big deal.

Mrs. P. picked up a plastic, hinged-lid container of cookies and began examining the label for a sign of kosher certification. The symbol isn't always front-and-center and it isn't always in the most conspicuous spot. She lifted the container high above her head to read the label on its underside and not upset or break the cookies within. After a minute or so of keen perusal, Mrs. P. turned to me and said, "Hmm.... they're not certified." a phrase I have heard for years, usually referring to some marshmallow-fortified cereal or an off-brand of ice cream*.

Just as my wife said this to me, another shopper walked past us. She seemed to be very interested in our conversation, despite the fact that we weren't talking to her and it did not concern her in the least.

"What do you mean 'they're not certified'," she asked, totally butting into our exchange.

My wife smiled and, in her best deadpan sarcastic tone, replied, "They have to be certified as 'cookies', otherwise you can't be sure what they are."

The woman returned a confused expression as Mrs. P continued.

"If they're aren't 'certified cookies', you don't know what you're getting. They could be...," she paused dramatically and gulped, "... brownies!"

The woman cocked her head to one side and shuffled slowly away from us, pushing her cart on down the aisle. We, however, snickered like five-year olds.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

*These products usually contain some form of gelatin, a solidifying agent made from boiling animal bones. Since kosher observance forbids the mixing of meat and dairy products, plus the origin of said bones being undetermined, these items could not receive kosher certification... and that's only the beginning.

chain chain chain... chain of fools

LinkedIn.com has confused me ever since my friend (and one-time supervisor) Diane introduced me to it several years ago. I'm not sure what it wants to be. Does it want to be a networking tool for professionals? Does it want to muscle in on the social aspects of Facebook? Who knows? I don't think even LinkedIn is sure. What I do know is: when I asked my 25 year-old son if he has joined LinkedIn, now that he has officially entered the working world with his first real-live, full-time job, he said, "LinkedIn? LinkedIn is for old people." Out of the mouths of babes.

This past Thursday, as it turns out, was deemed "Josh Pincus LinkedIn Day." I had sent a message to one of my "connections" (as LinkedIn likes to have members call other members, much the same way that Disney insists on calling paying customers "guests") hoping to meet him for lunch. Based on his LinkedIn profile, I was under the impression that he worked not too far from where I worked. I found out that he does not, in fact, work near me, but would like to meet for lunch just the same. Thursday afternoon (actually into the evening) was spent in a rabid email frenzy, finally achieving success in our plans around 11 pm.

My Thursday correspondences for luncheon plans were interspersed with a few endorsements from another LinkedIn "connection" (if you were paying attention, you already know what a "connection" is in LinkedIn lingo). In its early days, LinkedIn allowed members to write recommendations for their connections. A member could sing the praises of a current or former business colleague in a few brief sentences. Now, it seems, that writing takes too much thought and time for the typical LinkedIn user. So, LinkedIn has introduced a system of easily clickable recommendations that take the place of that cumbersome, time-sucking, thought-powered writing! Want to tell the world about a connection's skills in... in.... shit! who knows what they are capable of?!? And what difference does it make anyway? Just click on areas of expertise as they pop up (it's sort of like a business shooting gallery!), whether your connection is qualified or not. No prospective employer is reading this crap anyway. My endorsement was in the area of "concept development," and it came from a guy I worked with for about six months at a job I had seven years ago. He was a real nice guy and we even attended the same art school, although I graduated when he was four years old. I sent him an email to express my appreciation for the kind endorsement:

I don't know what the fuck "Concept Development" is, but if you think I'm an expert in it, that's good enough for me.

JP

He replied with:

Nice to hear from you too ass hole. Ok maybe concept development was a stretch, but there was no button to endorse you for "crazy off the wall sketchbook art".

I informed him that "asshole" was one word.

The highlight of my LinkedIn interactions came first thing on Thursday morning. I received a message through their system from Joe, an art school classmate of mine. Aside from an informal reunion six years ago, I haven't seen this guy in nearly 30 years. Despite being in a very small class, I wasn't very friendly with this guy. I knew him, but I wouldn't say we were close friends. Joe was an excellent caricature artist whose style was reminiscent of the great Mort Drucker of Mad Magazine fame. However, Joe's typography skills were another story. When I was in art school in the early 1980s (before computers), there was a thing called "prestype." Prestype was a system of lettering used to achieve a professional look in the creation of ad mock-ups (Ask an artist. I'm sure you know one). Prestype came on a translucent plastic sheet and, by means of vigorous rubbing*, the letters were transferred to your piece of art (like those PrestoMagix we had when we were kids... well, if you were a kid in the 70s and 80s). Prestype was an artist's dream, except Joe never had that dream. Everything that he did with type used his own shitty handwriting. He didn't even try to hide it or make it better. He would do a layout for advertising class and merely scrawl the headline across his page in the same black marker with which he sketched the image.

So, at 7 in the morning, Joe sends me this message:

hows bizzz?? hope all is good....if ya need an illustrator, let me know!

best

joe

Bizzz with three "z"s? That was Joe. I replied to Joe, reminding him that I, too, am an illustrator and that we know each other from art school.

I guess my son was right. LinkedIn is for old people. Maybe one day, they'll even figure that out.

*sounds dirty, huh?

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

step in time

How did you spend your day? I spent mine in a very heated Twitter dialogue with Dick Van Dyke's wife. Yeah, you heard me.

It all started in 1964 when my Aunt Clara took me to see Mary Poppins at the Orleans Theater in northeast Philadelphia. I was totally captivated by the on-screen antics of Dick Van Dyke as the comical, rubber-legged Bert — horrible Cockney accent and all.

Perhaps I've gone back a little too far.

I have been active on Twitter for nearly five years, ever since my friend @Kasten asked me, "Are you on Twitter?" I didn't know what that was, but I was determined to find out. Once I signed up for an account, I couldn't keep my 140-character mouth shut. You think I had a big, opinionated mouth before... sit me in front a keyboard and I spew on about anything and everything. TV, baseball, music, religion — nothing is safe and nothing is sacred.

In addition to friends, I follow several celebrities (comedians @AlbertBrooks and @ConanOBrien; author @RebeccaSkloot; actor @TomHanks). I recently discovered that Dick Van Dyke (@iammrvandy) started tweeting. How cool! I immediately started following. I enjoyed his autobiography this past summer and his self-titled sitcom was always a favorite, so how could it be bad?

It could. It was awful.

Now, I know that Mr. Van Dyke is an innovator in computer animation. He is credited with the creation of 3D-rendered effects used on his TV drama Diagnosis: Murder. So, he is familiar with operating computers. But he is also 87 years old. And his tweets reflected that. At first, there was a lot of "I'm just getting used to this." and "Trying to get the hang of this Twitter thing." Then it progressed to a long string of retweets of fans offering praise to the venerable Mr. Van Dyke. Then, when he was awarded the Screen Actors Guild Lifetime Achievement Award, he retweeted the praise all over again.

I had enough.

Yesterday, while riding the train home from work, I innocently tweeted this, from my phone:

and I thought nothing of it. Several minutes later, my friend Matt weighed in with a typical smart-ass comment:

The Internet can't resist a good "dick" joke. I laughed to myself and replied:

and I thought that was the end of it. I was wrong, because I soon received this message directed to me and my tweet:

It was from one Arlene Van Dyke, Mr. Van Dyke's bride of just under a year. And, obviously, she doesn't care for talk like that about her husband. Just the same, nobody smart-asses Josh Pincus. I wasn't about to let this one drop without a fight. (Many years ago, my father-in-law said he never met anyone who held a grudge like I did.) So, I gave it right back to Mrs. Van D. :

I hit "send" and immediately "unfollowed" her husband. I got this reply:

And, again, I thought that was it. Until I got this tweet from someone using the name "Lucille Ball Tribute," a follower of  both Dick Van Dyke and Arlene Van Dyke:

I replied to all parties involved:

I really was. Or at least I planned to. I actually fell asleep during the episode, but I do watch the reruns almost nightly.  The next morning, I turned on my phone and was greeted by this:

Holy crap! Dick's wife is as relentless as I am! So, if she was game, so was I. I kicked off what turned into a lengthy dialogue.

Then, a change of heart....

So, it looks like me and Mrs. Van Dyke are cool. I think I may give Dick Van Dyke another chance. Now, let's Twizzle!

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

I'm your handyman

Last week, my wife discovered that a fair amount of water had collected in an area of our basement. Twenty years ago, the basement of our house was converted from a cement-floor-crumbling-wall storage area to a finished room with a tile floor and paneled walls. It is the current home to a Back to the Future pinball machine, an arcade-size Q*Bert video game and my dual collections of baseball memorabilia and autographed celebrity photos. So, the last thing I want near all that prized stuff is water. Mrs. P lugged out the ShopVac (one of the greatest purchases I ever made) and sucked the errant liquid up off the floor. After some repeated prompting (and ignoring), I got my lazy ass down to the basement to empty the water from the ShopVac's holding tank. I was just about to wheel the vacuum out to the adjacent laundry room, when I noticed that a new puddle of water had accumulated in the exact same spot on the floor. It hadn't rained for several days. I couldn't imagine where the water had come from. Silently, I surveyed the room. Then, I heard an unmistakable "drip-drip-drip" coming from a far wall. Upon closer inspection, I saw a crooked path of yellowish water was clinging to the wall, running from the ceiling to the floor and forming a small tributary that fed the larger pond that now occupied my basement floor.

"Shit!," I thought, with the same anger and helplessness that overcomes every homeowner at one time or another.

I vacuumed up the puddle, sopped up the stream on the wall and called to my wife to see if the general contractor who lives across the street was home. This guy is great and, to an inept, mechanically-challenged artist like myself, he is a godsend. He fixed and rescreened my antique wooden storm door. He built a beautiful front porch for my house to replace an ancient and dilapidated one. My wife has a long list of household repairs to keep him busy for months (maybe even years).

Within minutes, he was scanning our basement ceiling through narrowed eyes, pushing against the damp Sheetrock walls and toeing the baseboards.

"I'm sorry," he began, in his Israeli accent, "I have to break through the ceiling to find the leak. But, I promise, it will only be a small hole."

"What exactly is a small hole in a ceiling?," I thought, as he jammed the business end of a claw hammer into the smooth, white drywall. Debris rained down on to the floor, along with shreds of finishing tape, splashes of stray water and whatever other shit has accumulated within the walls over the past twenty years.

"Ahhh," my neighbor said, as he pointed to the source of our liquid troubles, "right there!" and he added, "Oh crap! What did this guy do?" That was an assessment of the quality of work completed by the contractor who had built our basement. We'd been told, by various workers and handymen over the years, that this guy had no idea what the fuck he was doing. Our neighbor showed me where a long, sharp screw had pierced a piece of copper pipe. Water was dribbling from the area of contact. Now, I know absolutely nothing about construction or remodeling or home repair. But, I do know that one does not drive a screw directly into a water pipe to hold it in place. They make brackets for that purpose and that's what professional contractors use... unless, of course, you are an idiot.

Our neighbor immediately began to take steps at solving our soggy dilemma. He placed a plastic container under the leak, mopped up the spilled water and set out for Home Depot to purchase a sturdy, puncture-proof piece of replacement pipe. As the day progressed, my wife and I were treated to a symphony of hammering and sawing and buzzing and gurgling as he fitted the new pipe in place and began preparations for repairing the giant hole in the ceiling. We felt the work was in capable hands. Our neighbor called it a day at around 7 PM, telling us he'd be back to finish in the morning. He said his goodbyes and crossed the street to his own home.

The next day, I left for work with the understanding that Mrs P would contact our neighbor to arrange for the completion of the work in the basement. When my day at work was finished, I hopped on the train and headed home, anxious to see the progress that was made during the day.

After exiting the train at my station, I walked down the block to my house. As I approached my front walk, I saw a huge stain of spilled white paint splashed across the incline of my driveway. Flecks of white dotted the small grassy area that calls itself my front yard. The paint splotch was about four feet across and glowed brightly under the streetlight that illuminates the space in front of my house. I walked across my front porch, taking note of a few paint-white footprints, and unlocked the front door. I could hear construction sounds coming from the direction of the basement door. I followed the noises down the steps and I found my neighbor busily dragging a paintbrush across the surface of fresh, unblemished drywall.

"How's it going?," I inquired.

"Good. Good.," he cheerfully replied, "Sheetrock is up and I'm painting. This is just the first coat, you know."

"Really?," I countered, "It looks to me like the first coat is on my driveway."

Lucky for me, he laughed.

www..joshpincusiscrying.com