stupid boy

When I'm not drawing pictures of dead people or wandering through a cemetery or watching a fifty year-old rerun of That Girl, I go to an actual job where someone actually pays me (albeit poorly) for my modicum amount of expertise in the very objective field of graphic design.

I work for a large commercial printing company that prints hundreds of thousands of advertisements for retail businesses, mostly supermarkets. One of the customers that has been assigned to me is a small chain of supermarkets that is part of a larger, nationwide franchisor. The four, independently-owned stores are operated by a family. I know this because I see the same last name on a majority of the emails I receive from them. I deal exclusively with the son of the owner. He, apparently, has been put in charge of the advertising for the stores. After dealing with this guy — on a weekly basis — for nearly four years, I have come to the conclusion that he is Fredo Corleone from The Godfather. Remember when Fredo was sent to Las Vegas so he wouldn't get under the feet of Sonny and the rest of the family while they plied their "business?" They made sure he was well out of the way, so his tendency to screw things up was now Moe Green's problem. Well, that's this guy. This guy is a total moron. He so desperately wants to be part of the "cool supermarket business," but he is a dope. Dad passed the advertising end of the business on to "Fredo" to keep him out of the way of day-to-day operations You see, the weekly ad is supplied by the corporate franchisor. The individual stores are free to substitute items or change prices, but the layout and design are predetermined. However, "Fredo" loves to use industry lingo, like "merch" and "chub" (that's the name for pre-packaged ground beef... a term no one really uses). But, as I said, "Fredo" is an idiot, so, while he's trying to be cool and use cool lingo, he often fails to include pertinent information like.... oh, I don't know.... PACKAGE SIZES, ITEM NAMES AND PRICES! 

Not a week goes by where I don't have to ask — three or four times! — for prices on at least five items in an ad. He also has a propensity for adding eight or nine additional items after the ad has been composed. Sometimes he will make additions after having seen three proofs of an ad. I regularly explain that the ad only has a limited amount of space and adding items — especially that many items — will greatly reduce the size of the existing items in the ad. This is a weekly conversation. The concept of "limited ad space" has yet to sink in to his empty head.

In the past, I have also created two-sided store hand-outs with a unique design that differs greatly from the designs distributed by the corporate office. These hand-outs are, by no means, anything I am proud of. They are gaudy, garish pieces with giant prices and big logos and stars and balloons and lots of other bullshit. But, the customer loves them and that is what's most important. This week, I received the weekly ad layout with these additional instructions: "We like the weekly hand-out design, but we also like the way the corporate ad is laid out. Can you combine the two?"

These two designs could not be more different. They share no design elements except for the company logo. I explained this to the sales rep (he is a co-worker at the printing company and serves as sort-of a liaison between me and the customer... when he actually does his job). I told the sales rep: "I'd like to go to this guy's store and tell him I really like his deli case, but I also like his parking lot. Can he combine the two?" The sales rep — who is also an idiot — didn't get it.

Perhaps, now you understand why I enjoy wandering through cemeteries. Nobody speaks to me.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

if I can't have you

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I am never going to Family Dollar again.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

dreamin' is free

You know what you can add to the long list of things I hate? Dreams.

I look forward to going to sleep at night. I look forward to a restful night of sleep, but, it is usually disrupted by fleeting scenes of nonsensical, imagined narrative over which I have no control. I don't like that. Dreams are stupid and non-productive and frustrating and, lately, distressing. 

Over the past few months, I have had some fairly distressing dreams. Now, I'm not going to bore you with lengthy tales, detailing the disjointed and stupid scenarios of my dreams. I don't like to hear about other people's dreams, so I'm sure sure you don't want to hear about mine. Hell, I don't even want to hear about mine. Let's just say, my recent dreams have featured people I haven't thought about in years, and a series of frustrating situations that make no sense.

I hate when people start of a conversation by saying "I had a really weird dream last night" and then proceed to relate the made-up events that unfolded in their sleep-induced subconscious as though they were delivering an important news report..... and as though I care. I am not interested in hearing a fairy tale that has no resolution. Actual writers — those that make their living from telling stories — throw away stories like the ones I have heard from people who kicked things off with those eight dreaded words at the beginning of this paragraph. And I certainty am not interested in the meaningless analysis or interpretation of dreams. I don't know what they mean and neither do you,.

My wife has a friend who regularly makes online posts filled with multiple paragraphs expounding intricacies of a dream as though it was chapter of an autobiography. These stories are told in earnest, like they are accounts of real events, rather than ones that took place in her head the evening before. As Ebenezer Scrooge told the ghost of Jacob Marley: "You may be an undigested bit of beef, a blot of mustard, a crumb of cheese, a fragment of underdone potato." That's about all dreams are worth, in my opinion.

I recently watched a 2023 film called Dream Scenario starring Nicolas Cage at his Nicolas Cage-iest. The movie presented an interesting premise — a boring college professor is suddenly (and unwelcomely) thrust into the public eye when he begins to show up in people's dreams. The movie was good... until it wasn't. It took a decidedly poor turn in the third act. Any solid and clever storytelling up to this point began to slowly unravel until it just became a disjointed, ridiculous mess.

Hmmm.... maybe it was a good movie, after all. Because, now that I think about it, doesn't that pretty much sum up dreams?

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

stop right there, I gotta know right now

Ever since I unceremoniously lost my job in Philadelphia, I have worked in New Jersey. It is not unusual for people from Philadelphia (and its immediate surrounding area) to work in New Jersey. As a matter of fact, Philadelphians consider New Jersey to be a suburb of Philadelphia. 

My commute to work is about forty minutes and, understandably, I have to cross a toll bridge. Actually, I have my choice of two bridges that span the Delaware River. My preference is the Tacony-Palmyra Bridge, a nearly 100-year old drawbridge that, at any given moment, halts traffic to open up and allow passage of a ship. This operation can interrupt my morning and/or evening drive by up to a full hour. My alternative is the Betsy Ross Bridge, a more modern but less traveled truss structure built high enough that it doesn't need to open. Ships just scoot right under it and so far no ship has been too tall for passage. The Betsy Ross Bridge, however, is difficult to get to and out of my way. It also sports a toll of five dollars as opposed to the Tacony-Palmyra's EZ-Pass-discounted three bucks. Most mornings, I take the Tacony-Palmyra Bridge. I subscribe to a texting alert system that lets me know when the Tacony-Palmyra Bridge is scheduled to open. If I get that message before I leave for work, I change my route and head, reluctantly, towards the Betsy Ross Bridge. If I get that text en route, well.... then I'm fucked.

Once I cross one of those bridges, I navigate towards Route 130 and soon I find myself at work. Route 130 is an 83-mile stretch of busy Interstate thruway of which I only employ a small portion. One day, while driving along the route I drive every morning, I saw the flashing light of a local police vehicle in my rearview mirror. I obligingly slowed down and pulled to the curb to allow the officer to pass. But he didn't pass. He pulled right up behind me. Panicked, I steered my car into the parking lot of one of the many businesses on Route 130 and shut off the engine. The police car came in right behind me and parked. The officer stayed in his car for a few minutes before approaching my car. In those minutes, I tried to think of what I could have possibly done to warrant a traffic stop. I wasn't speeding. It's kind of hard to speed on Route 130 that early in the morning. As far as I knew my brake lights were in working order. The officer appeared beside my car and I lowered my window.

"Hello, officer.," I said

"Good morning," he replied and he asked for my driver's license and car registration. He walked around to the front of my car and leaned down a bit. Then he returned to my driver's side door. "You don't have a front license plate." he said.

"Yes," I explained, "They are not required in Pennsylvania, where I live." He nodded. I went on to say that I worked in nearby Pennsauken, New Jersey and I was on my way to my job.

The police officer squinted at me and said, in his best "Sergeant Joe Friday" voice, "I ran your license and there is a New Jersey plate with the same number that was reported stolen." I didn't know how to reply. Obviously my license plate — a blue, yellow and white plate with "PENNSYLVANIA" printed across the top — is not now, nor has it ever been a New Jersey license plate. It does not look like, nor could it be mistaken for a New Jersey license plate. I decided on the best response... and that response was "Oh."

The officer examined my driver's license and registration for a moment or two before handing them back to me. He said, "Okay. Have a good day, sir." He turned on his heels and walked back to his car. He got in, fired up the ignition and sped away, no doubt on his way to break up a murderous and desperate crime ring in the Greater Pennsauken area. I started my car once he was out of sight. As I continued on my drive to work, I played the whole incident over in my head. My explanation of the lack of a front license plate to an officer of the law in a neighboring state just stuck with me. That is until I re-thought about his nonsensical reason for stopping me in the first place. Look up there. There is a side-by-side comparison of the current Pennsylvania  and New Jersey license plates. Can you tell the difference? If you can, perhaps a career in New Jersey law enforcement is not right for you.

Ever wonder why New Jersey is the butt of so many jokes? Wonder no more.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

it's obvious

Twelve years ago, I was working in the marketing department in the main office of a national chain of an after-market auto parts supplier. I worked in a large room with a dozen other graphic designers, pumping out full-color newspaper circulars. It was a grueling process. We had to keep up with the various price changes and product switches from category leaders, along with the whims and fancies of several vice-presidents in charge of  "something or other." These guys would wander through the department and peer over the shoulders of my colleagues and me as we worked diligently on our computers, moving and adjusting our circulars, as per instructions determined in a weekly marketing meeting. In an effort to justify their jobs, a VP would — on the spot — instruct a particular artist to "change that block from red to yellow" ...only switch it back to red an hour later. This would occur on a daily, sometimes hourly, basis, forcing an artist to make a pointless change and carry said change across a dozen different demographic-specific versions. Things like changing the width of a dotted line around a coupon or flipping the positions of adjacent items in an ad were regular and anticipated changes... often made as the print deadline loomed closer. They were changes for the sake of change, mainly to reinforce the ego and control of upper management.

One day, one of my coworkers brought in a microwaveable meal for consuming in the noon hour. In the meantime, the package sat on his desk. It was a quick-serve bowl of pasta that had newly been introduced to the market. As artists often do, some of us assessed the package design and surmised a scenario for how it was created. The first thing that was noticed was a large out-of-place block on the otherwise well-designed package front that read "GREAT FOR LUNCH" in big, gaudy yellow type. The rest of the package featured a nicely-placed logo, a "beauty shot" of the fully-cooked product and a few small pictures of other available varieties of the same line. As a group, familiar with the modus operandi of a controlling VP — one who perceives himself as a "marketing genius," we figured that the design department at this particular company had just finished the final version of the packaging. Then, one of these VPs came by and insisted on the inclusion of the "GREAT FOR LUNCH" callout, reasoning that how else would anyone know it could be eaten for lunch. The designers had to scramble to change the design, staying late at the office to redo the design of every package in the line. Meanwhile, the VP went home at a normal hour and told his family: "I did marketing today!"

A dozen years later, I came across a similar scenario, leading me to believe...  nay, confirm... that some things never change and people "in charge" like to be in charge and like to let everyone know they are in charge. I ordered a box of foil wrapped, pre-moistened wipes to clean my glasses. After a few days, the package arrived. The box featured a clean, white design with the essential information presented plainly and pleasingly across the front of the box. The logo, the name of the product, how many wipes the box contained and a small row of icons indicating the various items on which the wipes could be used, besides eyeglasses. However, in capital letters in a spot of white space, were the words "IT REALLY CLEANS!" This was obviously the last-minute work of some corporate stooge who felt compelled to exercise his superior position over the lowly designers in the company's marketing department. "How will anyone know that this cleaning product really cleans unless we put it on the box?," he thought and, channeling Pharaoh in The Ten Commandments, he proclaimed "So let it be  written and so let it be done." Once again, a group of designers had to stay late at the office to implement ridiculous changes made by someone who has no business in the field of marketing.

Look, I don't claim to be an expert in marketing. I have, however, been exposed to bad marketing for over forty years. (To be fair, I've seen good marketing, too.) But, it seems that bad marketing is more wide spread. Hell, I worked in a marketing department for ten years under someone who didn't know shit from shit, yet she kept her job when I got let go.

I think that all of these so-called, self-proclaimed "marketing geniuses" should all meet for dinner at this place to discuss their various strategies.

After all, they must have the best food in town. The sign says so! Otherwise, how would people know?

Genius!

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

don't waste my time

I bought a new car this week. 

After serving me well for nearly 20 years, my trusty 2004 Toyota RAV4 flashed its "CHECK ENGINE" light at me for the last time. With squealing brakes and the need for who-knows-what-else, the time had come. I actually wanted to replace my RAV4 a few years ago, but supply chains were interrupted by the worldwide COVID-19 pandemic, leaving car dealerships with empty lots and salesmen with nothing to do. With the pandemic beginning to wane and cars slowly becoming more available, I convinced my wife to take a ride up to a nearby Subaru dealer to take a look around. This particular dealership was located just a few blocks from our house for over 30 years. When I finally expressed an interest in purchasing a Subaru, they moved to a larger facility about ten miles away.

Prior to visiting the Subaru dealership, I did a little online snooping and settled on the new Crosstrek, which is comparable in size to the RAV4. I didn't want anything too big. I was very used to the size and handling of my RAV4 and the Crosstrek seemed to fit the bill. At the dealership, I was shown the only available Crosstrek on the lot. I was offered a test drive and, after a couple of loops around the large parking lot, I was ready to fill out paperwork. The whole process went very smoothly. I made arrangements to pick my new car up on Saturday.

The next day (Friday), I called my insurance company to arrange for transfer of coverage from my old vehicle to my new one. 

When my wife and I got married, we got apartment renter's insurance from an agent in the Philadelphia suburbs. I had never gotten insurance for anything before, so I went to the insurance office where Ronald, the agent, spelled everything out for me. This was the only time I ever met my insurance agent. As the years went on, we added homeowners insurance when we bought a house, car insurance when be bought a second vehicle, life insurance as our family expanded. Unfortunately, we have had several claims over the years. Car accidents, weather-related damage to our home — all handled by our agent's assistant. She was pleasant, helpful and most of all, professional. Recently, our agent (who, again, I met one time) announced his retirement. He would be passing his clients along to another agent. Our new agent's assistant called to introduce the new office — and it was instant dislike. I don't know exactly what I didn't like about her, but I didn't like her. She was brash and overly friendly on the first phone call. She was also pushy, bringing up things like discussing rates and additional coverage. In almost 40 years, I never heard a peep form my insurance agent until I wanted something... and that was just the way I liked it.

So, on Friday afternoon, I called our new insurance agent.

"Hi," I began, "This is Josh Pincus. We have several insurance policies with your office. I will be picking up a new car tomorrow. It will be replacing the 2004 Toyota RAV 4 that is currently on my policy. What information do you need from me in order to get coverage for the new car?" Pretty straightforward, huh? After all, I had to get back to work. 

"Pincus?," she questioned, "Oh right." She paused. "Is this an additional car or are you replacing one of your cars?"

Was she even listening to me? I repeated, "This will be replacing the 2004 RAV 4. Now, my wife has a 2018 RAV4. We are keeping that one."

"So not the 2018... right?" she said. Oh dear lord! Is she preoccupied with something else?

"Yes, that is correct. What information do you need from me?"

"I'll need the VIN number, the make, model and year. Oh and the sticker price."

"Well," I explained, "I won't have some of that information until Saturday when I pick the car up."

Suddenly, she sounded panicked. "Hmmm... if you could call the dealership now, they would have that information."

"I will get the car tomorrow. I can call you then."

She raised her voice a bit, sounded a tad annoyed. "We are not in the office on Saturday. It can just wait until Monday! Besides, you have two weeks to change the insurance over. You're insured in the meantime." She changed her desperate tone to one of calm in a matter of seconds. I  said I'd call back on Monday.

I picked up my new car on Saturday and gathered all of the proper information, readying it for my Monday morning phone call with my new insurance agent's assistant.

On Monday, between two projects I was working on, I called the insurance office for an exchange of information that I couldn't imagine taking more that a few minutes. The phone was answered by the same woman I previously spoke to and I identified myself again, reminding her who I was and what we discussed on Friday.

"I don't remember what you told me.," she said. "Let me start my computer." She fell silent. Then, she began to give me a real-time play-by-play of her computer's start-up procedure, describing how slow it was and questioning rhetorically "What's it doing now?" Then she began to ask about my weekend, quickly switching to making commentary about the Philadelphia sports teams disappointing performances over the past two days. I have work to do, lady! I don't have time to make nonsensical small talk with you.

Trying to move things along, I spoke up. "I have the VIN number and the other information you requested."

"Oh okay.," she said, "This is replacing which car again?"

I was losing my patience. I told her — again — the new car was replacing the 2004 RAV 4. "Can I give you the VIN number, please?'

"Yes," she said, "and when you come to a letter, use a word that starts with that letter so I don't make any mistakes."

I began. "J as in Joe. N as in Nancy. 6. 4. 3..."

She interrupted me. "What did you say after 'Nancy?'" OH MY GOD!!!!! 

I repeated the number again. Slowly. Enunciating each letter and number until I finished. She asked the purchase price and haughtily clicked her tongue in an inappropriate act of editorializing when I told her. She clicked again when I told her that we did not contract a loan or take advantage of any sort of financing. Finally, she was satisfied with all of the information I had supplied. She said she'd call if she needed anything else and we ended our conversation.

An hour or so later, I received an email with my new temporary insurance card. An hour after that, I received a phone call from my agent's assistant, asking if I received the email. I told her I did and that I even replied to her email. She said she had not seen a reply. I hung up the phone as she was telling me to enjoy my new ca—. (I clicked "end call" before she finished.)

When I got home from work, my wife told me that she had received a series of phone calls from another representative from our new insurance agent's office. This person was asking similar questions about my new car until my wife explained to him that I was taking care of everything with a different assistant in the same office.

I hope Ronald is enjoying his retirement.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

i started a joke

I think I'm a pretty funny guy. It doesn't matter if you don't think I'm funny... as long as I think I'm funny, because my humor is purely for my own amusement. If you happen to think the things I say are funny, well, that's just a happy by-product of me amusing myself. As a matter of fact, when someone doesn't "get" my humor, that makes it all the more funny. And if they get angry at the "playing dumb" sarcasm, which is the tone of a lot of my humor, well.... it just gets funnier. For me, anyway... and that's what's most important.

Since I hopped on to Facebook, I have had a great time amusing myself by posting silly pictures with sillier captions or leaving slyly sarcastic comments on other people's legitimately earnest posts. I just sit back and marvel at how many people don't get that I am joking. I laugh at how many people will "mansplain" a topic of which I am clearly making light. Well, clearly to me, anyway, and, as we have already established, that is the goal. The people who have known me personally (IRL, as it were) usually know when I am joking... which is always. The folks who only know me through an internet connection should figure things out within a few posts. C'mon, did I really think that Dennis the Menace found Mr. Wilson dead on the sofa... no matter what the screenshot of my television depicts? Do I need someone to explain that George Reeves was not wearing his Superman suit under his Civil War-era garb in his brief appearance in Gone with the Wind? It's a joke! I'm joking! They're all jokes!

A few days ago, MeTV, the retro television network I spend an inordinate amount of time watching, posted a little quiz about the final episode of M*A*S*H in which the character of "Radar O'Reilly" appears. A brief intro was followed by a series of multiple choice questions aimed to test readers memories about details of the show. I discovered the post through a Facebook link under the headline: "How well do you remember the ''Good-bye Radar'' episode of M*A*S*H?" It was accompanied by a photo of actor Gary Burghoff in character as the naïve company clerk with suspect extrasensory powers. At this point, there were just a few comments from readers, mostly affirming their sentimentality towards the series and that  episode in particular. This was the perfect — perfect! — scenario for a little of that patented Josh Pincus "smart-ass" humor that I've come to know and love (I cannot speak for you.) 

I have been a fan of M*A*S*H for years. I watched it in first-run and have watched reruns dozens — possibly hundreds — of times over the past forty years. (That's right, M*A*S*H had its final original episode broadcast forty years ago.) I like some episodes, I dislike some episodes. I like some characters. I dislike some characters. Overall, It's a show I will watch and one with which I am very familiar. Heck, my favorite all-time television episode is a 1974 episode of M*A*S*H called "Adam's Ribs." (I even wrote about it HERE.) Eventhough I like M*A*S*H, I will gladly make fun of it, because I make fun of everything... because everything is funny. So, injecting a little bit of sarcasm in the otherwise staid comment section was something that was custom-made for ol' JP. Here is my comment:

Of course M*A*S*H fans will recognize this as a deliberate misquote from the poignant 1975 episode "Abyssinia, Henry," that marked McLean Stevenson's swan song as the befuddled commanding officer "Lt. Col. Henry Blake." The line was delivered by Gary Burghoff to an unsuspecting cast and the tearful reactions in the episode's final scene were real. But, the internet is a relentless, humorless place, fraught with serious people who feel it is their self-appointed duty to keep the internet honest. Instead of putting their focus on inconceivable concepts like a child sex-trafficking ring operated by a former US senator under the cover of a Washington DC pizza parlor or the gubernatorial appointment of a religious zealot to a municipal board of directors, after he claimed that the public water system is responsible for turning men gay, they choose to put their time and energy into setting me straight on my confusion over a four-decade old sitcom. This is the battle they choose to fight. This is the hill they choose to die upon. The responses to my comment came in thick and fast.

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It was hysterical! Do these people really think I was being serious? Let's analyze this for a second... First of all, if I can post a comment on Facebook, then I have access to the internet. If I have access to the internet, don't they realize that I can look this quote up in a matter of seconds? And, if they are such experts and bound to uphold the good and decent legacy of M*A*S*H, don't they see that the quote is spot-on accurate, except for the substitution of Radar's real name for that of Henry Blake's? And, most of all, don't they realize that this line was delivered by RADAR HIMSELF?!?! The whole thing is stupid, obviously comical and far from serious. 

At last count, ten people had made some attempt at correcting me, either with a brief "No" or "Wrong" to some actually taking the time to explain why I am wrong. These, of course, are the same people who enjoyed seeing the added request of "show your work" at the bottom of a lengthy word problem in seventh-grade math class.

A few responses were phrased as though I had just revealed an extramarital affair at a memorial service for Grandpa. How dare you! How dare you sully the legacy of the greatest achievement in the history of broadcast television! M*A*S*H stands for all that is good and decent in this world and making a factually incorrect statement about any aspect of the series is akin to blasphemy... even worse. A couple were written as though M*A*S*H was a documentary, Radar was real person and I flunked the final exam. The more self-righteous responses to my stupid joke were posted, the funnier it got.

I recently began selling t-shirts on the website TeePublic. A recent addition was this one, prompted by my regular response to those who don't "get" me. Perhaps you'd like one too. They can be very helpful... and they come in a wide variety of sizes and colors.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

just dumb enough to try

My wife has been selling items on eBay for over a quarter of a century and, as I have said many times before, no! she will not sell your stuff for you. She has enough problems with unreasonable, dim-witted customers that she doesn't need to add to those ranks and receive just a percentage of the selling price for her aggravation. Get it? No? Here's some examples of what poor Mrs. Pincus deals with on a daily basis.

While Mrs. P takes great pride in her packing skills, she is still at the mercy of the simian-like handling of packages by the intrepid (or is that "inept?") United States Postal Service. While she goes to great lengths to make sure delicate and fragile items are secure and protected for shipping, things happen, especially when those things fall into the Neanderthal clutches of the unwashed cretins who are employed by the post office. Just a few days ago, a customer emailed Mrs. P explaining that their recent purchase of a ceramic bowl arrived damaged. This has happened on occasion and while it — technically — is up to the customer to pursue filing a claim and getting a refund for damaged items that carry postal insurance, Mrs. Pincus is only too happy to assist in filing such a claim. This particular customer brought up the notion of filing a claim for the broken item, asking if said claim should be filed with the United States Postal Service, the entity responsible for delivery of the item (and whose carelessness caused the breakage) or UPS, a competing delivery company who, in this case, had absolutely nothing to do with the package. Mrs. Pincus remained professional and guided the customer to the USPS claims website to get the ball rolling. It's a good thing that this customer was not dealing with Mr. Pincus, as things would have taken a decidedly different, a decidedly more sarcastic and condescending route.

The very same day, another eBay customer contacted my wife with a question regarding an item that they had just purchased. Again, they already purchased this item, and were seeking some clarification after the fact. The item in question, as you can see from the eBay auction listing, is a vintage postcard from the Jewish Museum of London depicting a synagogue lamp from the late 1600s. As the listing title clearly states, this is a postcard, originally printed in 1980. The accompanying photograph shows the front of the card, a large photo of the ancient sacred object taking up most of its 4" x 6" image space. The second photo is the reverse side of the postcard, showing the descriptive text identifying the item, its age and a few more details including where the item is currently on display. This postcard is one of several of the same vintage from the Jewish Museum of London that Mrs. Pincus acquired and is offering for sale. She has sold a number of them already. I have circled the word "postcard" on a screenshot of the item listing, to note that this is indeed a postcard that is for sale, although it is painfully obvious.

But, apparently, not to everyone.

The person who bought this postcard (for four dollars and ninety-nine cents plus seventy-five cents for shipping) asked this question regarding the purchase...

Yes, my friends, this is a legitimate question from a buyer.... after... AFTER... making the purchase. This person actually would like to know if they just purchased a seventeenth century, museum-quality, religious artifact for just under five dollars (and less than a dollar for shipping) or... OR... merely a postcard showing a photograph of this item. 

I shit you not!

Did this customer actually think they were getting a three hundred twenty-eight year old synagogue lamp from Damascus for five bucks plus six bits to get it to their front door? Mrs. Pincus stared at the inquiry for a few minutes before answering in the most professional, most diplomatic, most unemotional, most undeserving fashion possible. She replied that this was a postcard, as stated in the title and auction description. Additionally, the item was already shipped earlier in the day and would be received shortly. (Mrs. Pincus is also very conscientious when it comes to expediting shipments in a timely manner.) She anxiously awaits the possibility of a unhappy buyer and the claim of "item not as described" complaint registered with eBay.

This is why Mrs. Pincus will not sell your items on eBay. This is also why I do not answer her emails.

Wanna check out Mrs. Pincus's eBay items? Click HERE.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

you better shop around

Since the beginning of the global pandemic, our shopping habits and procedures have changed considerably. Going to buy groceries used to be a regular occurrence for the Pincuses (Pinci?) and sometimes, Mrs. P and I would find ourselves at the supermarket a few times during any given week. Now, we (and by "we," I of course mean my wife) go to pick up our groceries from a list compiled online. Our pre-picked, pre-bagged, pre-paid grocery order is delivered by a masked employee right to the cargo area of our SUV. Simple. Convenient. Annoyance free.

Yeah. Right.

There ain't nothing that is annoyance free, especially in a world occupied by humans. Humans always seem to ruin a perfectly good plan, either by saying something inappropriate or stupid or both. Or by doing something that blatantly goes against the policy of the company for whom they enjoy employment. Or they don't do something they should be doing. Or any combination of the above.

Our first choice for groceries is Walmart, the mighty global retail giant that stocks nearly everything. Their prices on most items are so ridiculously low, it makes one wonder how they can sell things so cheaply and why other stores sell the identical item for much more money. Oh... I know the reason! It's because, in order to take advantage of the great prices, you are forced to go to Walmart. Our weekly trips to Walmart started off great. After the first couple of weeks, their ranking dropped from "great" to "pretty good," as the accuracy decreased and product substitution increased. Soon, Walmart's status was at a solid "okay," with the foreseeable potential of dropping further. Right now, thirty-plus weeks into this shitshow, Walmart is holding steady at "adequate." Lately, our orders have been missing items, requiring a return trip. Once, they forgot an entire bag of groceries. We had to go back to the store, well after their curbside pick-up hours had ended for the day. We had difficulty finding someone — anyone — who would venture into the now-closed grocery department to retrieve our errant bag. Now, for subsequent orders, we have begun to perform an inventory before we leave the parking lot.

We have also frequented Target for grocery pick up. Target, while still a discount store, is a noticeable step above Walmart. In the pre-COVID-19 days, when we still went in to stores, Target was always cleaner and more orderly than Walmart. And their customer base was well-versed in the art of tucking in a shirt. These days, Target seems to have a better, more-efficient handle on the "curbside pick-up" procedure. Walmart requires customers to book and secure a time slot in which to arrive. Target will happily accept your online order and merely asks for the time you will be in their parking lot (in a newly-delineated area installed since the pandemic began). When you arrive, you log into their website, enter the space number in which you are parked and within a minute or two, a friendly red-and-beige clad employee will appear with your order — sometimes including a free sample product along with the requested items. (Once, we got a fruit rollup. Another time, we got a small box of Cap'n Crunch!) But, even Target isn't perfect. Just this week, Target experienced its first Achilles' heel. As part of our order, I asked for two bottles of Johnson's Baby Shampoo. (Yes, that's what I wash my delicate scalp with, you got a problem with that?) According to the website, it was available, but we were only permitted to place 'one" in our virtual shopping cart. Just before our selected pick-up time, we were informed, via email, that the shampoo was unavailable. "Really?" I exclaimed, to no one in particular, "There's not a single bottle of baby shampoo in that entire store?" No one in particular remained silent. My wife and I headed over to our nearby Target. We parked and notified the store that we were there to accept our order. However, the option to enter your parking spot was unavailable. Someone was required to actually go into the store. Mrs. Pincus donned her mask and gloves, a practice that has become second nature at this point in time, and grudgingly set off for the front entrance. A few minutes later, she returned, holding a plastic Target shopping bag. While at the "pick up" area, she asked about the shampoo, explaining its alleged unavailability. The employee shook her head and said that baby shampoo is with baby items, not health and beauty. Another employee was sent out on a mission and returned with three bottles of the shampoo. I have a hard time understanding how just one person in Target holds the secret as to the location of baby shampoo... and it's not the person filling the online orders. Is Target slipping? Oh, say it isn't so!

There's one more place that Mrs. P goes for groceries, but visits have been reduced to approximately once per month. I'm talking about BJ's Wholesale Club. BJ's Wholesale, if you are not familiar, is like Costco and Sam's Club, selling common grocery items in quantiles far too big for the average family to fully consume before some of it spoils. They also stock giant-size containers of things that you would normally purchase one of in a lifetime — like nutmeg. Does anyone who doesn't operate a ski lodge need a hundred and twelve ounces of nutmeg? Mrs. Pincus has graciously been doing the shopping for her parents, as well as for us. So an infrequent stop at BJ's Wholesale can be beneficial for stocking up on large containers of orange juice or cereal or other items that we know we'll use in a reasonable amount of time (no... not nutmeg). On my wife's most recent trip to BJ's Wholesale, her purchases were actually pretty modest. A bunch of bananas, a couple of heads of lettuce, a case of Polar seltzer for our son and a couple of big bags of Hallowe'en candy that may or may not be distributed — the jury is still out. When Mrs. P began placing her items on the conveyor belt at the check out, the cashier felt that it was fully within her rights to comment on my wife's purchases. "Boy, you sure have a big order," she announced. 

Now, if you've ever been to a BJ's Wholesale (or Costco or Sam's Club), I'm sure you've seen folks dragging flatbed carts behind them laden to overflowing with cases and cases of various commodities like soda, bottled water, bulk packages of potato chips, giant glass jars of pickles or jalapeno peppers. Sometimes, you'll see people guiding several overstocked carts through the aisles — as though they are replenishing the staples of a small convenience store or sandwich shop. As a matter of fact, some of these people are doing just that. Independent businessmen and women come to BJ's Wholesale often — a few times a week sometimes — to buy what they need to help keep their businesses running. Believe me, they are buying way more that eight bananas and a gallon of orange juice. Heck, there were people in the checkout line with triple the order size as Mrs. Pincus's. Why this cashier chose to marvel at a few bunches of produce and a few bags of candy is beyond me.

Oh, we will get through this dark pall that is hanging over us. COVID-19, I mean. Stupidity we're stuck with.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

your racist friend

A few days ago, Mrs. Pincus had to make a drop-off at a local UPS Store, something she has done countless times as a part of her eBay business. (I said 'NO!' She will not sell your stuff for you! Please stop asking!)

The closest UPS Store to our suburban Philadelphia home is just a short drive away, but it is situated as the end store in a strangely-configured strip center. After delivering the bulk of her thrice-weekly shipments to the post office, my wife will drive to the UPS Store and enter the parking lot through the more convenient back lot entrance. You see, the front parking lot — the one accessible from busy Old York Road — employs a one-way cattle chute, allowing cars to only enter from the busy four-lane highway. The narrow entrance is flanked by high cement retaining curbs and sort-of lazily snakes into the parking lot to insure that drivers maintain a single-digit speed limit. There is a small parking up in the front and a larger one behind the building. Once patrons are ready to leave the lot, the only exit is in the back. It is still a bit tricky, as all exiting vehicles must turn left (onto Wyncote Road)  and towards Old York Road. 

Here's a map so you can follow along....

The exit to the street labeled "Wyncote Road" is sometimes blocked by a trailer truck  (as the red circle indicates) unloading new automobiles for the car dealership across the street. So, navigating your way out of a routine stop at the UPS Store can become an ordeal. The day that Mrs. Pincus was there most recently was an ordeal, all right... but not for logistical reasons.

As she was coming up Wyncote Road, she spotted  a car attempting to exit via the cattle chute roadway at the front of the building. Sometimes, drivers try to buck the rules and sneak out this way, if there are no other cars around. It's wrong, but people do the wrong thing all the time. In this case, however, another car was coming in to the parking lot, correctly using the cattle chute. Since the road was constructed to purposely allow just one car to use it, a problem was occurring. Mrs. Pincus pulled into the parking lot at the rear, grabbed her shipment from the cargo area of her car and approached the building. She could hear some horns honking and the sound of arguing, though no actual words were discernible.

In these current days of social distancing, Mrs. P took her place in a queue line that had formed outside the rear door of the UPS Store. Soon, she was joined by a man who fell into formation six feet behind her. The man began to speak out loud, to no one in particular. He was complaining about the drivers in the small parking lot. Soon, it was revealed that he was one of the two drivers involved in the standoff in the cattle chute at the front of the building. ("Standoff in the Cattle Chute" sounds like the title of a 1940s Western from the John Ford canon.) The man exhibited his frustration at the driver going the wrong way and his difficulty in getting the fellow to understand he was going the wrong way. My wife nodded her head in approval, adding something like "Yeah, I know..."

Suddenly, the man ended his angry rant with "Y'know, Black Lives Matter and all that crap..." before trailing off.

SCREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!

WHAT?!?

My wife blinked and, if her mouth wasn't covered by a cotton mask stretched between two elastic bands secured around her ears, her jaw probably would have fallen to the ground.

"What does someone's poor driving habits have to do with the 'Black Lives Matter' movement?," she asked the man.

He readily answered. "Well, y'know, they all want their rights now and they all do what ever they want. The whole 'civil rights' thing has been blown way out of proportion. Once they got their rights in the 60s, things have been going downhill. And now this whole 'Black Lives Matter' thing.... awful. Just terrible."

Mrs. Pincus was speechless. This is 2020. In the United States of America. She finally said, "I didn't see if the other driver was a man of color, but it doesn't matter."

The man, who was Caucasian, replied, "Well, he was and they think they can do whatever they want now." This guy wasn't letting up.

Mrs. P announced, "This conversation is over." It was her turn to move up in line. She dropped off her package and headed to her car. The man called out to her, "Stay safe!"

I have no conclusion to this story, except that our society still has a long way to go. Sadly, it's a very long way.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

state of confusion

Mrs. Pincus went to the local Walmart to pick up a few things in their grocery department. Elsewhere on this blog, I have discussed my "love-hate" relationship with Walmart. I love their incredibly — sometimes impossibly — low prices, but I hate the caveat of having to go to Walmart to get those prices. I believe that's what called a paradox. The customers and staff at Walmart are equally.... well, what's the nicest way I can phrase this?... moronic. I marvel at the level of stupidity I witness each and every time I visit Walmart. The customers all look like they just rolled out of bed, threw on the closest (and filthiest) Halloween costume they could find and headed out to shop. The employees all seem to be on their first day of work... wandering the aisles in a stupor, as though they were just dropped there from an airplane.

As long as Mrs. P was in Walmart, she decided to trek on over to the cosmetic department. Among the lipsticks and lotions and powders and such, she found a hook with a particular item that she wished to purchase. (Honestly, I don't know exactly what she bought. The reference to "lipsticks and lotions and powders" was just a guess on my part.) The hook that the item — Maybelline Eye Brow Something-or-Other — was on had a lock at the front of it. Who knew that this was such a hot property that it needed to be kept under secure lock and key.... like baby formula and Sudafed. But, sure enough, there it was and it was locked. My wife noticed that there was a small security camera mounted above the item that she desired. She waved at the camera and pointed to the locked hook, hoping that whoever was monitoring the camera would send someone over immediately. Then she remembered that she was in Walmart — land of sloth-like assistance. No staff member was monitoring anything. She looked around the department until she finally spotted an employee in a bright yellow, Walmart logo-emblazoned vest. She explained to the employee which item she wanted and that the lock on the hook needed to be opened. The employee instructed my wife to ask at the pharmacy counter for help. Someone there will have a key, the employee told her. Mrs. P dutifully went to the pharmacy and repeated her dilemma. The pharmacy employee told my wife that they do not have a key to any locks in the cosmetic department, adding that anyone with a yellow Walmart vest carries a key. Mrs. P offered a blank look, turned and set off to find the first Walmart employee... the one with the yellow vest.

Mrs. Pincus tracked the first employee down. The employee said she did not, in fact, have a key. She walked over to the hook with the eye brow makeup, confirming that this was what my wife wanted. Then, she tore the cardboard hole on the product's packaging. "Here you go.," she said with a smile, as she handed over the damaged package. "Well, I could have done that!," responded Mrs. P, "but I guess security would have come right over to me." The employee replied, "No. Probably not." Then she continued, "If you come in again and want to buy this, just tear it off the hook." Mrs. Pincus tossed the makeup in her cart and went to check out.

She selected a check-out aisle and put her soon-to-be purchases on the conveyor belt. The cashier picked up each item, passed them over the scanner and deposited them in a plastic bag. Mrs. P held the eye makeup in her hand, making sure it was the last item. She wanted to point out the torn package and to let the cashier know that the tear was not her doing. Mrs. P displayed the torn box and described the entire scenario to the uninterested cashier. Actually, the cashier reacted, saying, "Well, anyone in a yellow vest has a key to any lock in the store." The cashier wore a yellow vest. Mrs. P frowned. and countered, "The woman who tore the package was wearing a yellow vest." The cashier shook her head and answered, "That was a different yellow vest."

This evoked another blank stare from my wife.

As a footnote to this tale, we just returned from another trip to Walmart this afternoon. That one, however was not our local Walmart, but one that is thirty miles from our house. We picked up some fill-in items in their grocery section, including a package of Polly-O string cheese that retails at Walmart for $6.47. We had been issued a corporate coupon from Kraft Heinz Foods (Polly-O's parent company) for a maximum $8.00 off one package of Polly-O cheese. We took our selections to the self-check out. After I scanned the last item, I scanned the bar code on the coupon. The terminal beeped, prompting a yellow-vested employee to join us. She whipped the coupon from my hand and examined it. "Ugh!," she groaned with disappointment, "This is one of those 'eight dollar off' coupons!" She typed some numbers on the touch-screen and sighed. "I have to ring this at my register." She canceled our transaction, removed the receipt that was spit out and beckoned us to follow her to another cash register. She re-rang our entire order, hit some additional buttons and instructed me to insert my credit card into the card reader. It beeped when the chip had been fully scanned and the employee handed my wife the receipt. We exited the store and my wife read the receipt and laughed. "She took the full $8.00 off for the cheese instead of the actual price.," I was informed.

I love Walmart..... almost as much as I hate it.

Oh, I'm with you, sister.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com