all things must pass

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Happy Passover everyone. Maybe next year.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

the anniversary waltz

There once was a boy
named Pierre

eBay, the famed internet auction, is celebrating its twenty-fifth anniversary in 2020. It's hard to believe 28 year-old computer programmer Pierre Omidyar sat in his apartment on Labor Day Weekend 1995 and wrote the code for an online auction, just so he could sell off a few duplicate Pez dispensers he had in his little collection. Or so he says in the company's press release. Actually, that story about eBay's humble beginnings that Pierre has been telling for a quarter-century is total bullshit. But it sure makes the internet auction powerhouse sound... um..... human?

My wife has been selling on eBay for nearly as long as there has been an eBay to sell on. (No, she won't sell your stuff.) Starting off as a supplement to running her parents' general merchandise store, Mrs. P has built her eBay business into just that — a business. She buys, lists, packs and ships merchandise in a regular routine and does it all herself. (I said 'No!,' she will not sell your stuff. Let it go!)

Way back in 2003, when my in-law's store was still operating, Mrs. P was maintaining her eBay business just a few days per week. Still, she was selling a good amount of merchandise. One day, while going through her email, answering questions from potential buyers and sending "end-of-auction" messages to customers, she received an announcement from eBay's headquarters — or so it appeared. She often received bogus emails claiming to be eBay and alerting her to some discrepancy in her account or a similar issue which needed immediate attention. This particular email congratulated her as the winner of a trip to the annual eBay Live! convention being held in Orlando, Florida. She perceived this email as no different from a number of scam offers and announcements she received on a daily basis — so she deleted it. A few days later, she received the same email again. And, again, she deleted it. A third email arrived. This one she read to me and we were treated to a good laugh before this email met the same fate as the previous two.

Then, a week or so later, instead of an email allegedly from eBay, Mrs. P received a phone call from eBay. The nice man on the phone asked my wife why she had not responded to the email about winning the trip to eBay Live! Mrs Pincus laughed and questioned his claim of truly being a representative of eBay. The man on the phone chuckled and said, "Well, I can end all of your auctions, if that'll convince you." She was convinced from the statement alone. He re-sent the email and we read it more carefully this time.

Apparently, because of Mrs. P's stellar selling record, she was awarded "Power Seller" status. All "Power Sellers" would be treated to a two-night stay at the ritzy Peabody Orlando Resort and full admission to the eBay Live! event at the Orlando Convention Center, a three-day celebration of all things eBay, including workshops, seminars and slew of other informative programs we weren't the least bit interested in. The convention also featured a trade show-like presentation floor, where hundreds of eBay associated businesses would be giving away all the logo-emblazoned tchotchkes we could carry. In addition, eBay would pick up the cost of airfare for the two of us. It sounded great, but we really weren't certain this was legit.

We received an official-looking information packet in the mail — allegedly from eBay — including several different release forms — all of which needed to be notarized. We took these forms to a local notary and then sent them back via registered mail. I said, "If this is a scam, at least we're only out the cost of a notary seal and postage."

In a few weeks, we received a bigger packet from eBay that included airline tickets, a hotel voucher and admission credentials for the convention itself. We still weren't convinced. As our departure date drew closer, we packed as though we were actually going on this trip. On the actual day printed on the so-called airplane boarding passes, we drove to the airport, proceeded to the proper gate and, eventually, boarded an Orlando-bound plane. The plane taxied and achieved an airborne state. Mrs P and I looked at each other and decided that we would finally be convinced once we checked in to the hotel.

Well, we landed in Orlando and were shuttled to the beautiful Peabody Hotel. We checked in without a hitch and soon found ourselves smack in the middle of the eBay Live! marketplace. We met and spoke with dozens of eBay representatives and collected free enamel pins to commemorate the event. We were invited to watch then-eBay CEO Meg Whitman deliver her keynote speech — a rousing motivational address that seemed to only be missing a cheerleading squad. When Ms. Whitman completed her oration, the stage was overtaken by the one-and-only Weird Al Yankovic who serenaded the faithful with an eBay parody set to the timely tune of the Backstreet Boys' "I Want It That Way."

The final day of the convention was capped off with an old-fashioned block party, where the inside of the Orlando Convention Center was transformed into a picket-fenced and green-lawned locale of Anytown USA. Grilled hot dogs, fresh popcorn and big, ice-filled tubs of soda were available for all conventioneers. As we strolled about the faux twilight-flecked neighborhood that the good folks at eBay meticulously created, Mrs. Pincus and I were finally convinced that this was on the level.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

baby what a big surprise

My wife and I just returned from a seven-day cruise to the Caribbean aboard the Carnival Breeze. But this story isn't about that cruise. It's about the events that led up to the cruise. If you want to read about a cruise, go here. If you want a story about deceit and intrigue and messing with family, then here we go.

A little over a year ago, Mrs. P's cousin Liv planned a family cruise to celebrate her 45th year of wedded bliss to her husband Peter. My wife is very close with Liv and her three children, Scoop, Veronica and Juniper. The children are grown, some with children of their own. Mrs P is close with that entire branch of the family, even though they live in Virginia Beach. Mrs. P often takes the six-hour drive to spend a weekend with them. I have made the trip, as well, when I could, but, honestly, they want to see Mrs. P, not me. When Mrs. Pincus found out about their cruise plans, she secretly booked a trip on the same ship, as a surprise. At the time, I was limited to vacation days from my job, so Mrs. P would be taking this trip solo. She planned to drive — alone — to the Port Canaveral launch destination, staying — alone — overnight along the I-95 corridor. Then she planned to board the ship as stealthily as possible and surprise the whole clan. Mrs. Pincus regularly speaks with Liv and Juniper, even visiting them over the past year, but she never breathed a word about her secret plans. Actually, she didn't tell anyone about her plans for fear of someone spilling the beans.... and in her family, there is an awful lot of bean spilling.

Well, a year is a long time and, as they say, the best laid plans of mice and men...

Everything was planned perfectly. Mrs. P arranged for a hotel near Port Canaveral, Florida that included parking and shuttle service to the cruise terminal. She would leave on Thursday morning, leaving plenty of time for a Friday arrival. She would keep the trip on the down-low, so as not to arouse any suspicion. With these plans in place, Mrs. P visited Virginia Beach a few months ago for the first birthday of Scoop's son. She steered the conversation away from "cruise talk," only briefly and casually asking about their plans. Meanwhile, Mrs. P was gathering gifts and novelties to share with Veronica's pre-teen children who, most likely, would be the most surprised and thrilled to have the magical Mrs. Pincus along on their vacation.

With all the details and plans taken care of, all that was left was waiting for the date to roll around and the surprise to get underway. Then, a monkey wrench was thrown into the works. Without any warning, I was laid off from my job at the beginning of July, just five weeks before the cruise departed. Past experience had revealed that the job market was not exactly a welcoming place for a 58-year old graphic designer. Mrs. Pincus, however, was stuck with a laundry list of non-refundable charges and payments that had already been made. She felt horrible about taking a fairly pricey trip  — alone — while I stayed home and looked for a job. She suggested that, as long as I had the time, I should come along. She would check to see if I could be added to her cabin booking. She would also check for an open spot on the terminal shuttle. Calls were made and reservations were amended. This contradicted everything I stood for. I hated the idea of taking a vacation when I should be out looking for a job. I continued on the job search and, luckily, secured a new position just a few weeks after losing my job. At the interview, I explained that I had a previous obligation and I would not be able to start until the third week of August. My new employer was fine with that and I felt a whole lot better. With my conscience clear, we continued with our plans. Mrs. Pincus was actually relieved that she would not be taking the journey alone... although we were not convinced that our surprise presence would be welcomed by Liv and her family.

Mrs. Pincus chatted often with Juniper and Liv, answering their many questions based on our previous cruise experiences, but careful not to appear too enthusiastic. On Wednesday, the day before we (collectively) planned to leave, Mrs. Pincus told Juniper that we were going to take a road trip to celebrate my new job and to give our new car (purchased in September 2018) a chance on the open road. Juniper remarked "you should just come on our cruise with us" and Mrs. P nervously giggled and brushed the invitation off.

We left before sunrise on Thursday morning with a full car and no set destination for our first night. I joked to Mrs. P that this time tomorrow, not one member of her family would be speaking to us. We stayed in phone contact with our Virginia contingency who would be starting out later but picking up I-95 near Emporia, Virginia and, most likely, wind up ahead of us. We arrived at South of the Border, the infamous tourist trap in Dillon, South Carolina, just missing the Virginia convoy by a few minutes. They drove through the night, arriving in a pre-booked air B&B in Kissimmee, Florida with plans to hit Walt Disney World for a single day. We made it to a Hampton Inn in Walterboro, South Carolina, just under 80 miles from the Georgia state border. The next morning we would get to our Titusville, Florida accommodations in the afternoon and make innocent plans with Juniper and her parents for dinner at Disney Springs, the revamped shopping and dining area at Walt Disney World. Mrs. Pincus spoke with Juniper, who wondered what we were doing headed to Florida. Everyone knows how much my family loves Disney, so it really wasn't that out of the ordinary. Without revealing that we already had a hotel room, we met at Disney Springs and had a quick dinner at the Earl of Sandwich sandwich shop, then checked out the new stores and layout of the refurbished and reimagined entertainment district. We parted ways around 9:30 and wished them a great cruise, never alluding to where we were off to next.

The next morning, we drove our car to the Cocoa Beach shuttle and parked in a space near where the shuttle bus was loading. Twenty minutes later, we found ourselves in the Port Canaveral cruise terminal, waiting for our boarding time to be announced and hoping that Liv, Juniper and the family wouldn't arrive and spot us. Finally, we were able to board without incident. We entered the three-story lobby on the Carnival Breeze, marveling at the decor and excited by the thought of the week ahead. We also tried to gauge the reaction we would receive once our cover was blown. Would we be embraced or would we be reviled for muscling in on their cruise? We were baffled.

Almost an hour had passed as we stood conspicuously by the door through which all arriving passengers boarded. Suddenly, our Virginia cousins arrived.... and they were all smiles and bursting with laughter. It seemed that they booked the exact same shuttle service and parked their car in the same row in the parking lot. In addition, Veronica had a bag of trash to discard and she spotted my wife's Grateful Dead inspired license plate, as we were parked next to the trash can. She snapped a picture and exclaimed, "I knew it! I knew it!"

As they say, the best laid plans of mice and men...

We had a great week that ended with everyone still on speaking terms. But next time, we'll try to better cover our tracks.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

harmony and me, we're pretty good company

A few years ago, Mrs. Pincus and I began, what I thought would be, an ongoing family tradition, Yeah, I suppose it's odd to start a "family" tradition when it's just the two of us and we are well into our 50s. Despite that, a 2014 trip to the kitschy, though spectacular, holiday light show at the flagship Macy's location in center city Philadelphia, followed by dinner in nearby Chinatown, had all the makings of a tradition. After that 2014 visit — as well as one in 2015 and 2016 — I thought that this would continue for... well, for as long as we were able.

I was wrong.

A week or so before Christmas, we began to make plans for our annual outing to the holiday light display at Macy's (the former John Wanamaker's, most nostalgic folks over 40, still refer to the store by its original name). Mrs. P contacted our son E., and soon, our plans included E. and his lovely girlfriend Pandora. A rendezvous time on a Sunday was agreed upon. We would meet them at Macy's, as they live in center city Philadelphia and we still reside a short train ride away in the suburbs. Although it was never mentioned, I assumed that these arrangement included dinner at New Harmony, a vegetarian Chinese restaurant a few blocks from Macy's and the location of each post-light show meal for the previous three years. We assembled with the gathering crowd on the third floor of Macy's, overlooking the Grand Court. The show, once again, delighted the holiday shoppers just as it has for the past sixty years. When the show ended, plans for dinner were discussed, much to my surprise. E. and Pandora suggested a couple of their favorite eating spots, including a new place that featured falafel, a favorite of Mrs. Pincus. I smiled and remained silent, but it was obvious that we would not be feasting on vegetarian Chinese food within the next 30 minutes. Goldie, the falafel place, was voted as our destination. Not wishing to appear childish or obstinate, I "happily" went along with majority rule. Admittedly, the falafel at Goldie was really good and it proved to be an excellent choice for dinner (and I will definitely return). However, I really wanted to go to New Harmony.

On the ride home, Mrs. P revealed to me that she really doesn't like New Harmony. I was shocked. We had eaten there quite a few times, not just after the Macy's light show. She said she would rate the food as "just okay," but, in reality,  she was a bit creeped out by the fact that we have always been the sole customers each time we've been there. She felt it was a reflection of the business that there was never another diner in the place. This admission took me by surprise. First of all — the food was  just okay? Just okay?? Compared to our usual choice for Chinese food, a neighborhood place that is, at best, inconsistent — New Harmony is a four-star Zagat favorite. I love Chinese food and it has featured prominently on my personal menu since I was a kid. (In 2009, I even wrote about the role Chinese food has played in my life.) The Chinese restaurant around the corner from our home is like that pair of ratty old slippers you can't bear to throw away. Sure, they're comfortable, but they're not the best. They've just been around awhile. Plus, when you see a new pair of slippers, it becomes obvious what your tired old slippers are lacking. I wasn't mad at missing my chance at New Harmony, but now it was apparent that, if I wanted to eat there, I was gonna have to do it alone.

Mrs. Pincus went away for an extended weekend to visit Cousin Juniper in Virginia Beach. She had plans to leave on Friday afternoon while I was at work. Although I cannot cook, I am quite capable of fending for myself when left on my own. I can throw together a salad or a sandwich without much effort. I can also go to any number of restaurants or take-out places where a meal can be prepared for me. One of those places, I decided, would be New Harmony. 

Cold, noodle-y and delicious.

After work, I headed — by myself — through a rain-soaked Philadelphia to New Harmony, a mere eight blocks from my office. To my pleasant surprise, I saw I was not the only customer when the host showed me to a table. Across the small aisle, a couple was just finishing up dinner, their table covered with empty, sauce-smeared plates and dotted with stray grains of rice. In the corner, a couple with a baby was dining with a guy who I momentarily mistook for my friend Cookie. As I perused the lengthy menu, another single diner was seated at the table ahead of me. Soon, a waiter filled my water glass for the first of many times and asked for my order. I requested hot and sour soup, cold noodles and sesame sauce and orange beef with broccoli  — all enticing and all creatively made from meatless ingredients. My soup arrived almost immediately. It was a thick, brown broth, resplendent with crisp bamboo shoots, flavorful mushrooms and three enormous chunks of tender tofu. I happen to love tofu and this soup was delicious. As I polished off the soup, a large plate of vermicelli noodles slathered with a big glob of sesame sauce and accented with finely shredded carrots and sesame seeds was placed on my table.

Crispy, crunchy and very orange-y.

I thoroughly combined the two main elements with two provided forks and transferred a healthy portion to my plate. The dish was awesome and, while I could have easily wolfed down the entire serving, I refrained, deciding to focus on my entree. I picked hesitantly at the remaining noodles until my orange "beef" arrived. In spite of the prominent "imitation meat" disclaimers placed at various spots throughout the menu, even the most die-hard carnivore would be satisfied by the offerings at New Harmony. The orange "beef" was a concoction of seitan (a wheat-based meat substitute), breaded, deep-fried and covered with a light, slightly spicy, ginger-orange sauce, accompanied by huge florets of the brightest, freshest, greenest, crispest broccoli. As I ate, I could only compare it to the familiar sameness of every dish at our local Chinese restaurant. My old standby there  — General Tso's tofu (a purely American recipe)  — is good, but it includes thin, limp sticks of broccoli that should be embarrassed by the examples set before me now. I ravenously finished the entire plate (and the rice) as though I was a death-row inmate consuming his last meal.

That's the way the cookie crumbles.
(Click to enlarge.)

The waiter cleared the empty plates from my table and presented my with the check and a cellophane-wrapped fortune cookie. I snapped the baked confection open and read the enclosed message. This prophetic little cookie must have had some kind of insight into my love of trivia, Jeopardy! and all kinds of useless knowledge. I put on my coat, grabbed my messenger bag and started for the front desk to pay my ridiculously inexpensive check. I thanked the waiter and he returned a "thank you," as well. I noticed that the dining room had begun to fill up, with at least six tables occupied in the tiny dining room. Perhaps the secret is to come on a Friday evening and not on a Sunday after a holiday light show. I will try to convince Mrs. P to give New Harmony another chance. I think I am now equipped to make a pretty good argument.

And I brought home a souvenir, although I doubt it will still be here when Mrs. Pincus gets home.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

your mom threw away your best porno mag

I am on vacation right now, so I present a story that was originally published on my illustration blog in 2010. It is one of my favorite stories. If you haven't heard me tell it before, I think you'll get a kick out of it. If you have heard it before, you'll find it funny all over again.

My dad was a simple man and he loved simple things. He loved the Philadelphia Phillies. He loved breakfast at the Heritage Diner. And he loved pornography. 

I'm not talking about the occasional Playboy magazine that, as a nine-year old, I stumbled across hidden under some shirts in a bottom drawer or the lurid novel stashed behind the clothes hamper in the bathroom. Sure, my dad owned several copies of Playboy and Penthouse, but his tastes leaned towards the more — shall I say — exotic.  These weren't artful shots of lithe beauties, softly-lit and airbrushed to flawless perfection. I'm talking full-color, foreign-published, plain-brown-envelope, hard-core stuff. These tomes were filled with grainy photos of skanky women in various stages of undress, bent into impossible positions and inserting any one of a number of varied objects into any one of a number of body orifices. This was harsh and shocking stuff in the pre-Internet days of the 1960s. A thousand times more shocking than the sanitized material distributed by Hugh Hefner's fledgling publishing empire. 

My dad thought he was clever and wily and that only he had knowledge of his pornography collection. I can't understand how he could believe this while sharing a house with his wife and two young (and curious) sons. My father was terrible at hiding birthday gifts and his beloved Tastykake snacks  from his family and he was just as terrible at hiding his pornography collection. My mom used to joke that nothing could get past her, but my brother and I were not so sure she was joking. She knew about things that she couldn't possibly have known — from the whereabouts of a mysteriously missing cupcake to a failing grade brought home on a hidden school test. My father's porn accumulation was no exception. My mom was fully aware of my dad's explicit cache. On a semi-regular basis, while my dad was at work, my mom would gather up his X-rated stockpile. She'd load it into several heavy paper grocery-store bags until they were at the point of bursting. Then she'd cap each one with another inverted bag for extra security and privacy. She'd carry each bag, sometimes numbering four and five, to the curb and place them alongside our metal trash cans, where they would wait until the municipal sanitation department truck came for its weekly pick-up. After a few days, my father was obviously frantic. He would search for his pornography in the most casual and unassuming manner. My mom would smile silently and relish in his frustration. He couldn't very well come out and say to his wife, "Hey, where's all my pornography?" It was an unspoken ritual. They were both aware of what had transpired, but neither one would dare give verbal acknowledgement. 

One day, my mom decided the time was right to "clean house" of my dad's smut reserve. While my father was at work, she went from hiding place to hiding place and gathered the material up into the grocery bags. With the second bag securely capped on top of each bundle, she placed five or six of the obscenity-stuffed packages at the curb in front of our house. Soon, the trash collection truck appeared, slowly making its way up the block as the workers methodically emptied the neighbors' refuse into the truck's rear receptacle. When enough trash had filled the open cavity at the truck's posterior, one of the workers would pull a lever and the garbage would be compacted back into the large storage area that made up the bulk of the vehicle's size. Eventually, the truck rolled up to the Pincus curb. One of the workers ambled over to our trash cans, while the other hefted two of the paper sacks holding the lewd contents. He tossed them into the truck. They mingled with the coffee grinds and empty cans and the usual household discards as he returned to the curb for the remainder of the bags. After adding the last few bags to the repugnant mix, he decided the mass needed compacting to make room for the rest of our blocks' rubbish. He pulled the lever and the machinery roared to life, as a huge steel plate forced the garbage back into the depths of the truck's auxiliary stowage. Suddenly, under the pressure of the equipment and the sheer volume of trash, several of the bags burst, spewing their lascivious filling into the air. A cloud of vulgarity rained down. One worker realized what had happened and yelled "Stop! Stop!" as the other quickly disengaged the compacting switch. The two workers dropped to their knees and grabbed at the printed material that was now scattered in all directions, shoving it in their pockets and arranging it into neat little stacks. The driver climbed out of the cab to investigate and soon joined his colleagues in their pursuit of free porn. My mother watched, unnoticed from our kitchen window, as the trash collection was halted for a good twenty-five minutes, while the three sanitation workers reaped the spoils of hitting the erotica jackpot. When every last piece of my dad's collection had been retrieved, the truck continued on its way up the street. 

Inside the house, my mom chuckled to herself. She knew she had a great story that she wouldn't tell to me until years later. A story she never told my father.  

sharp as a pistol

Taking up an area of a little under two square miles with a population of a little shy of ten thousand, you probably never heard of Bristol, Pennsylvania. Oh, wait. There's that song about Bristol — by The Dovells — that hit Number Two on the Billboard charts in 1961. And of course it was the county seat of Bucks County until... um... 1725, but I guess you weren't around for that. Sure, Bristol has its share of history, like any number of towns in one of the original thirteen colonies. I'm sure, at one time, George Washington stopped to ask directions in Bristol or Ben Franklin knocked back a couple of brews at one of the many "publick houses." Actually, Bristol, in all of its charming quaintness, looks a lot like Alexandria, Virginia or Cooperstown, New York or a movie set from a Revolutionary War documentary. It's got that small town, "everyone-knows-everyone-else" homeyness that made you love or hate The Andy Griffith Show. At any given time, it's a good bet that someone is baking a pie in Bristol.

My wife won a pair of tickets to see a production of the Tony Award-winning musical Ragtime at the Bristol Riverside Theatre. Although I am, admittedly, not a fan of stage productions (I love concerts and I love movies, but there's something about stage plays and musicals that rubs me the wrong way), there is very little that I will turn down if it's free. So, on the designated Thursday evening, we drove a mere forty minutes to the tiny burg on the Delaware River. 

Down by the riverside!

We easily found a place to park and made our way to the theater. I was quite surprised to find the place bustling with activity, including a charter bus idling out front, unloading a contingency of folks all dolled up in their weekday finest. The small lobby was alive with chatter, as patrons handed over their tickets and a team of young ushers guided them to their seats. I turned to Mrs. P and commented, "I never imaged it would be so busy." She replied, "Like there's anything else to do in Bristol on a Thursday." She looked at me with that "rolling-your-eyes-without-actually-rolling-your-eyes" look. I smiled in agreement.

We took our seats in the small, darkened theater. The few lights dimmed completely and a very "Aunt Bee" -sort of woman took center stage for some pre-show announcements, most likely to encourage participation in an upcoming bake sale or pancake breakfast to support the church building fund. The the orchestra readied their assorted instruments (a real live orchestra, not a borrowed tape player!) and began the lush overture. On the stage the silhouetted actors moved into position. The lights raised, a spotlight illuminated the group of actors tasked with delivering the opening song and we were off.

I have to confess. I did not have high expectations for this show. In reality, I wanted to hate this show. I mean I really wanted to hate it. In my head, I had already devised a bunch of smarmy lines to incorporate into a blog post (this blog post, as a matter of fact!). I was expecting a high school caliber production with cardboard cutout sets, thrown-together costumes and "amateur-hour" quality singing. I wanted to relish the embarrassment and failure paraded before me. I even hated the book upon which the show was based.*

Boy, was I surprised.

The opening number was fantastic — a word I do not often use. It was professional. It was commanding. It was on par with any Broadway production. Meticulous costumes. Clever, multi-purpose staging. Intricate choreography. Soaring voices. And it was flawless. At the conclusion of the first song, my bewildered eyes met Mrs. P's equally bewildered eyes in the darkness. We were both thinking the same thing — "Holy crap! That was awesome!"

And, so, for the next two hours, we were treated to a totally engaging, totally entertaining production. Staging and special effects were more elaborate as the show progressed, including simulated fireworks and a full-size, working Ford Model T. At the show's conclusion, the cast took many well-deserved curtain calls and the thunderous applause signified unanimous approval.

And this blog post — specifically the distinct reversal of sentiment — is the highest praise I could give.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

* In all fairness, I never actually finished the novel Ragtime. I got through the first two chapters and I didn't hold my interest,