don't talk to strangers

I'll never learn.

I have been working at my current job for a little over four and a half years. The job is fine, something I have been doing in one form or another for over forty years. Everyday, I arrive at work two hours before my scheduled shift time. I sit in an empty, quiet office — all alone — and I knock out a lot of work. Quickly. Efficiently. And — most importantly — uninterrupted by the banal, droning, meaningless, inane conversation carried on by my co-workers. When my co-workers arrive at work, I do not participate in any of their conversation. I work. I am very focused, mostly because my job requires me to be focused. I cannot understand how my co-workers can carry on lengthy conversations about reality shows and films in the Marvel Cinematic Universe and problems with various family members. One day recently, I overheard a particularly loud co-worer make multiple phone calls to line up a cleaning service for her mother's house. I heard every painful detail of the process loud and clear... and this person's desk isn't even in the same office as mine. She's down the hall, and yet, it was as clear as if she was sitting next to me.

My co-workers know very little about me. Some, I'm sure, don't even know my last name. I have had many, many jobs over the past forty years where I was personable, friendly and talkative with my co-workers. But now... at this point in my life... I just don't feel like it anymore. I don't need to feign interest in the lives of a bunch of people I merely work with. The extent of my conversation with my co-workers is limited to work-related subjects. Period. I don't want it to go any further than that. I'm not rude. I just don't initiate conversation and I don't care to "jump in" to an existing one. I just want to do my work, get paid and go home.

Unfortunately, I broke my own rule this week. I'm not sure why or what compelled me, but I did. And I learned why I should keep to myself.

There's a guy who comes into work at 3 o'clock, a scant 90 minutes before I am scheduled to leave for the day. I acknowledge his arrival with a nod or a quiet "hey" uttered under my breath. But that's it. It was almost a month until I found out his name is Tom. Tom sits at a computer at a desk about ten feet behind me. He sits and I sit and we tackle our respective work until 4:30 rolls around. Then I grab my water bottle, my cellphone that has been charging on a pad by my computer monitor and I leave. Sometimes, I raise a hand in parting salutation as I head for the office door.

But this week, a conversation... sort of..... erupted. I still don't remember what prompted it, but I think he brought up the subject of — of all things — "collecting autographed photos." A nerve was struck! Until recently, I collected autographed photos starting way, way back at a time when my son was still in a stroller. (He's now 38 and — SURPRISE! — no longer requires a stroller for getting around.) I have over a hundred photos, all proudly displayed on the walls of my basement. Tom (my late-in-the-day co-worker... remember?) mentioned that he, too, collected autographed photos. We exchanged a few brief anecdotes about obtaining said photos, all the while I kept thinking to myself "Why am I having this conversation?" I glanced at the office clock and quickly ended the conversation and quicklier made my exit.

The next day, Tom lumbered in to work as usual at 3 o'clock. I was busy doing last-minute corrections to an ad that was due to print at day's end. Tom took his usual place behind his computer monitor. But, then, he loudly cleared his throat in a very obvious attempt to get my attention. I turned around to see Tom produce a large photo album from a cloth tote bag he had carried in with him. "I brought this in to show you," he proudly announced as he placed the album on a communal work table and spun it around to allow me easy access to open and peruse its contents.

I opened the book and turned each page. Tom had accumulated quite an impressive collection of autographed photos. The overarching theme was old Westerns. Shows like The Virginian and a number of John Wayne feature films were represented with color and monochrome glossies personally inscribed by the hands of James Drury, Clu Gualger, L.Q. Jones and other "stars' of the same "mid-fame" stature. There were a few I did not recognize and their illegible signatures didn't add any help. However, there they were, perched on a horse alongside the Duke himself, although Mr. Wayne's signature was conspicuously absent from any photo in which he appeared. There were photos of Ernest Borgnine, Ben Johnson and more recent names like Tom Selleck. There were non-Western stars like Mel Brooks and Don Rickles. Towards the back of the volume, cleaved as if in some sort of invisible separation, were a succession of female stars, including Raquel Welch, Debra Paget, Angie Dickinson, early television staple and future game show hostess Ruta Lee, horror icon Caroline Munro, Debbie Reynolds, Adrienne Barbeau and — my favorite — Doris Day. The book ended with a photo of President George W. Bush, who Tom sheepishly admitted was probably inscribed with an Autopen. I nodded approvingly as I closed the book. "This is great, Tom.," I said as I returned to my desk for the final hour of my workday.

There's another guy at work. He's a tall man with white hair and a perpetually confused expression on his face. I don't know exactly what his position is, but he does have his own private office and he often wanders the hallways loudly singing the wrong lyrics to classic rock songs. Just before I got ready to leave for the day, the tall white-haired man walked into the office which I sometimes share with Tom.

"I hear you brought in pictures of naked broads!," he bellowed through the smirk on his face. Tom explained that he brought in his collection of autographed photos as a follow-up to a conversation we had the previous day. The tall white-haired man hefted the book into his large hands and began to page through it. "Where are the chicks?," he demanded, as he turned each page after disappointing page. He commented on a few of the photos of men until — midway through the tome — he arrived at the first female image. "Woah! Ho! Ho!," he exclaimed as he closely examined a photo of Doris Day, bringing the book right up to his face. "She's got a fuckin' great body!," he stated as he gave the black & white image the ol' "once over." From then, he gave his un-asked for impression and assessment of every single photo of a woman included in Tom's collection, punctuating each lascivious comment with words like "boobs," "hooters," "knockers" and "chest." He even threw in a stray "sweater meat." He went off on a detailed commentary of Adrienne Barbeau when he reached her photo, injecting his already creepy remarks with uncomfortable analysis of her ample endowments. "Wow!," the tall white-haired man continued, as he poked an exploratory finger at the decidedly not provocative photo of Debbie Reynolds, "Talk about a fuckin' hot body!" Tom and I said nothing. We were both taken by such surprise by these uncalled for assertions that we were rendered speechless — simultaneously! The tall white-haired man finally put the book down, leered for a moment at the closed volume and left the office. I gathered up my stuff and said goodbye to Tom.

And THIS, my friends, is why I don't talk to my co-workers.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

even in the quietest moments

I started my current job almost four years ago. This is — I believe — my billionth job since I graduated from art school forty years ago and entered the wonderful world of graphic design (although, forty years ago, that term did not exist. It was called "commercial art" back then.)

At my current job — one that I hope will be my last — I have an attitude that differs from every previous job I have had. I go in. I do my job. I go home. I am not there to socialize. I am not there to chit-chat. I am not there to make friends. I am there to work. And work I do. Until I leave for the day. I have little to no interaction with my co-workers. When I do, the topic of conversation is always — always — work-related. I don't know any personal details about my co-workers and I don't want to. Similarly, my co-workers know nothing about me. Some of them, I'm fairly sure, don't even know my last name.  And that's fine.

I layout and maintain advertising circulars for supermarkets, some comprised of multiple versions with slight price changes and product substitutions across various geographic markets. In order to maintain a handle on subtle changes on a piece that pretty much looks the same week after week, a certain amount of concentration and focus is required. In addition, the pace is quick and deadlines are almost immediate. I have been doing jobs like this for four decades and, while it is tedious work, I have managed to keep the rhythm that it requires to produce (mostly) accurate end results.

I have gotten into the habit of arriving at work early, long before any of my co-workers show up. I like sitting in a quiet office and doing my work undisturbed and without extraneous distraction. Each morning, I get approximately 90 minutes alone to work in silence before my first co-worker breaches the door to my department. The first one in, thankfully, works in a small office down the hall from me and she is very quiet. It isn't until 9:00 that the department fills up with.... well... co-workers that don't shut up.

I share an office with a guy that, while he doesn't speak that much, giggles. Loudly. And often. On a regular basis, this guy snorts and titters at something. I assume it isn't the ad on which he should be working. I surmise it is something that he is covertly watching on the internet. Then, another co-worker enters our shared workspace to use the communal microwave that rests on a nearby table. After he activates that microwave, he has a lengthy conversation with "the Giggler" about the latest movie in the Marvel Cinematic Universe or last night's football game. The conversation is annoyingly punctuated by a lot of "y'know"s and "yeah, I hear ya"s and lasts way too long.

Then there's Theresa. Remember Theresa? She's been working for my employer for twenty or more years. She is loud and brash and pushy and irritating. Once, I was asked to give her assistance with an ad that I had never worked on before. She rushed through a disjointed explanation of what I was to do, then criticized my work when I didn't correctly complete what she poorly explained. Later, Theresa criticized a new co-worker that I was training. Her complaint? This new girl is quiet and doesn't even say "hello" to her. (You can read about that HERE.) 

Theresa's desk is in a separate office within my department. It is down and across a short hallway. In normal terms, she should be out of earshot. But, alas, she is not. Every morning — every fucking morning — she talks and talks and talks and talks. Loudly. Very loudly. About nothing. I can't really make out the actual words she says. I can only hear the tone of her voice. And it drones on and on. Like a mechanized "hum" you'd hear in a powerplant or manufacturing facility. It kind of sounds like the indistinguishable babble spoken by the unseen adults in the "Charlie Brown" cartoons. That fact that I can hear her, considering how far my desk is from hers, is a testament to how loud she is speaking.

Most mornings she goes on for fifteen or twenty minutes at a time. Sometimes longer. I believe she is speaking to another co-worker with whom she shares an office. I never hear the other woman speak, just Theresa. The afternoon usually brings another round of nondescript yammering. This is an every day occurrence. Every. Single. Day. Except for the days when Theresa has a scheduled day off. Otherwise..... talk talk talk talk talk.

I can't understand how she gets any work done. Sometimes, I can't understand how I get any work done.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

while a dark-eyed girl sang and played the guitar

I have been going to concerts for over fifty years. The concert experience has changed considerably in that time. My early concerts were at one of two venues in the Philadelphia area — The Spectrum and The Tower Theater. The Spectrum was originally built as the home of the Philadelphia Flyers. Someone had the bright idea to use the facility for concerts during the four months when no hockey games were played, along with the time that the Flyers were playing as the visitors in another venue. This left the Spectrum empty for a good portion of the year. In order to keep the revenue flowing, the Spectrum was used for other, non-hockey events, like the circus, the Ice Capades and concerts. Events like the circus and Ice Capades were fine because they were suited to the vastness of the open venue. However, each concert presented at the Spectrum further proved that the Spectrum was not made for concerts. The acoustics were terrible. Most of the permanent seats did not present ideal views of a stage that was set up at one end of the oval-shaped floor. The rest of the floor was filled in with uncomfortable folding chairs that were laid out on one level. Any seat beyond the first few rows from the stage offered a view of the evening's performance equal to that of watching a concert on a crowded bus.

As time went on and my musical tastes changed, I began to see shows at smaller, more intimate venues. I suppose I began to be more interested in bands who couldn't possibly dream of filling a venue the size of the Spectrum. A room that held just a hundred or so fans was more suited to the singers I gravitated towards as I got older. Luckily, Philadelphia was filled with smaller venues that offered a performance space for those acts that were just beginning to gain a following or to those who once experienced huge fame but were now on their way down the "popularity" ladder. 

I liked the smaller venues. They gave fans a close-up show as opposed to watching a tiny speck of a band on a huge stage that you were sitting a zillion feet from. The problem with a smaller venue is people. That seems to be the root problem of a lot of things. People don't know how to behave. They are selfish. They don't consider the feelings of those around them — those who also paid for a ticket. People talk with a loud voice. People sing along — loudly — with the performer. For non-seated shows, people push and shove and lean over other folks who got to the venue early to stake out a good spot for the show. "People" who arrive a minute before showtime want the same accommodations without the logistics or situational planning. The worst offense committed by "people" is shouting out requests and trying to engage the performer in one-on-one conversation, as though they are a traveling minstrel and you are royalty.

Years ago, my son and I saw Inara George at a small (now defunct) venue called The Tin Angel. The Tin Angel was on the second floor of a popular restaurant. The place was accessed from a narrow staircase that led to a seating area that was roughly laid out like a bowling alley. It was long and narrow with a full bar along the rear wall. On the opposite end of the room was the tiny stage, barely large enough to comfortably accommodate a solo performer or, possibly, a duo, A three or four piece band found themselves jockeying for position, especially if one of the band members was accustomed to playing a full drum kit. Between the bar and the stage was a bunch of tables and chairs, all closely-placed so as to ignite instant friendships among the evening's audience. In an effort to fit as many people into a performance, there was a single line of chairs pushed up against the wall next to the stage, leaving a very narrow walkway to the restrooms and backstage area. Anyone wishing to answer the "call of nature" would have to deftly avoid elbowing a performer or stepping on the feet of a seated audience member. When my son and I saw Inara George, we occupied two of those stage-side seats. Before the show started, the seat next to me was taken by a sort-of disheveled man about my age who didn't take off his ratty coat or threadbare hat for the entire night.

Inara George is a very talented singer-songwriter. Her music can only only be described as "indescribable." She crosses genres from folk to electronic and a variety of others in between. She has released a number of solo albums and has been a member of several bands, including The Bird and The Bee with Grammy-winning producer Greg Kurstin. Inara is an engaging performer whose stage shows are filled with conceptual presentation. I've seen Inara George a few times and her shows are always delightful and always surprising. Plus, she's very friendly and very personable. She makes it a point to maintain her own merchandise table and greet each fan after the show. Inara is the daughter of the late Lowell George. Lowell was the founder of the pioneering rock band Little Feat, who were an early entry into the "alt-country" genre before it had a name. Lowell dabbled in country, folk, jazz, fusion and was a early purveyor of the "jam band" genre, often lumped into the psychedelia of The Graceful Dead and New Riders of the Purple Sage. As influential as Lowell George was, Inara George's musical output sounds nothing — nothing! —like that of her father.

Before the show began, I chatted with my son. I could sense that the disheveled guy next to me was not-too-stealthily listening in on our conversation. During a pause in my conversation with my son, the disheveled guy tapped me on the shoulder to inform me that Inara George was the daughter of Little Feat founder Lowell George. I looked at him and nodded, replying, "I know." I would say that, judging from the average age of the audience, most of the people at tonight's performance were aware of the disheveled guy's "insider information."

The show began. Inara danced around the stage with a couple of back-up dancers, all were wearing matching  diaphanous tops and were carefully aware of their footing to avoid tumbling off the stage. In between songs, Inara spoke to the audience, relating a story about how a particular song came to fruition or a humorous anecdote about touring the country.

Or, so I assumed.

Despite my close proximity to the stage, I had a hard time hearing everything Inara was saying. The reason was that the disheveled guy was screaming — screaming! — titles of Little Feat songs at the very top of his voice during every break in the music. Inara and her accompanists would sing a few songs in a row, then stop to introduce the next number. The disheveled guy would lean forward and shriek "FAT MAN IN THE BATHTUB" or "SAILING SHOES" or any number of other Little Feat compositions written and sung by Inara's father. During every single break in the music, my immediate air space was peppered with a running repertoire of Little Feat songs, as though the disheveled guy was reading the track listing from the back of the Waiting for Columbus album.

At the show's conclusion, Inara and company thanked the crowd and exited the stage. The approving applause didn't let up, in hopes that it would convince the band to return for an encore. The disheveled guy joined in, punctuating his applause with more, previously unmentioned Lowell George songs. (He did release a solo album just prior to his untimely death in 1979.) Inara et al  returned to the stage and — Surprise! Surprise! — her encore did not include a single Lowell George song.

I've been to other shows where audience members screamed at the performer, either a song request or some undiscernible string of words. The performer usually ignores such outbursts, either out of politeness of seeing there is just no point to acknowledgement. Every so often, a performer will berate such an audience member on behalf of the entire audience. 

I suppose Inara George was just being polite. After all, she does sing this...

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

the sound of silence

After I got my haircut, I ran over to Walmart to pick up a few things from their grocery department. I have a "love/hate" relationship with Walmart. I love their prices and I hate everything else. But, honestly, their price on most grocery items are so cheap, I feel stupid buying those items anywhere else. The problem is, you have to go Walmart to get those prices and, sometimes, going to Walmart is a chore.

On this particular day, I just needed a few "fill in" things. This wasn't going to be a full-blown, "we're out of everything" shopping trip. I saw that were were down to our last few bags of frozen vegetables and I was running low on cereal. That's all I had to pick up. Otherwise, our shelves and refrigerator were pretty well stocked. 

I parked in Walmart's massive parking lot. Every time I go there, no matter what time of day or day of the week, Walmart's parking lot is packed. I found a spot quite a distance from the store. I didn't mind the walk and I grabbed a shopping cart from one of the corrals on my way in.

Once inside, I headed to the cereal aisle and selected a box of store brand Honey Nut Cheerios (or "Honey Nut O's," in this case). I also grabbed a large box of Kellogg's Rice Krispies, because, even though I have no issue with buying store brands, Walmart hasn't quite nailed down the same quality and consistency in duplicating the Kellogg's product. My next stop was the frozen food section were I filled my cart with an assortment of frozen vegetables. In this case, Walmart's own brand would be just fine and at 98¢ a bag... well, how much better could the the most expensive, national brands be? I mean — come on — vegetables are vegetables. When my shopping cart was sufficiently filled, I made my way up to the self-checkout lanes.

I lucked out. I had my choice of open self-checkout lines. This Walmart location recently remodeled to add almost double; the amount of self-checkout cash registers than they offered previously. I parked my shopping cart alongside an open register and began to unload my items, scanning each one and placing in the designated "already scanned" area. When I finished, I filed the reusable tote bag I brought in with me with my purchased items. (As is the trend in a lot of municipalities, this Walmart is in a geographic area that has outlawed single use plastic bags. Customers must either bring their own bags or purchase paper bags at a dime a pop from Walmart. Or, of course, you can go bagless and juggle your purchases — unencumbered — to your car.) I placed my laden bag into the cart, swiped my credit card, grabbed my receipt and headed out of the store. 

Usually, there is a Walmart employee stationed by the exit. This persons job is to stop customers and scan their receipt before they leave the store. Walmart will trust customers to check out their own purchases, but then — moments later — that trust disappears and they need to make sure that everything is paid and accounted for. However, this morning, no one had been assigned to this duty. The exit was wide open and there was not a Walmart blue vest in sight. I breezed through the exit and strolled to my car. I transferred my bag from my cart to the back of my car. I returned my cart to the corral in the parking lot, got into my car and drove home.

What was the best part about this Walmart experience? I didn't speak to or have any interaction with another human being. While there were certainly other people in the store — several of whom I passed and navigated my shopping cart around — I did not encounter anyone blocking the Item I want to get. No one was standing  — smack-dab — in front of the freezer section doors. The cereal aisle was empty, except for me and a zillion boxes of breakfast staples. The checkout lines were free of folks who had never operated a self-serve cash register. All of my items scanned without a hitch, so I did not need the assistance of an employee to amend my running total. And, as I just noted, there was no one at the store's exit to make sure I didn't steal anything.... thank you very much.

If I could be guaranteed a repeat of this experience every time I come to Walmart, I would come to Walmart more often.

Who can I not talk to about this....?

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

gimme a head with hair

On Sunday afternoon, I was at the supermarket to pick up a few things. I needed a head of lettuce, a bag of radishes, a cucumber. (Not for me, for Mrs. Pincus. I don't eat cucumbers in their natural form, Once they are turned into pickles, though... I'm right there!) I added a few more items to my cart before heading to the check-out line.

I queued up behind a couple who had loaded up the conveyor belt with their afternoon's grocery order. I grabbed a plastic divider, placed it behind the last item in their order and began to transfer my selections from my cart to the conveyer belt. In my peripheral vision, I saw a man take his place behind my cart. I continued my task and — in typical Josh Pincus fashion — ignored everything that was going on around me.

Then I heard the man behind me say.... something.

In these days of cellphones and Bluetooth and wireless earbuds, one can never tell who someone is speaking to. I have seen folks have lengthy conversations — complete with flailing arms and expressive hand gestures — with unseen recipients of these animated diatribes. From a distance of even a few feet, they appear to be performing some sort of pantomime skit or perhaps an interpretive dance. With this in mind, I usually assume that a stranger speaking in my general direction is having a phone conversation and not addressing me. That's what I assumed regarding the man behind me in the supermarket check-out line. However, I unconsciously glanced up while leaning over the top of my cart and looked directly at him.

He smiled at me and said, "I like your hair."

Admittedly, I was taken off-guard and I felt myself involuntarily smiling. Then, I emitted a little laugh. He smiled even more broadly and added, "You certainly have more that I do!" He pointed to the top of his own head — shiny and bald. I nodded and laughed again.

It had been a very, very long time since any stranger had paid me a compliment about my physical appearance. For many years, I colored my hair a striking, yet decidedly unnatural, red. This chosen shade became something of a "trademark" among those who knew me personally. It also served as a point of focus for strangers. I regularly received comments about my hair and its unusual hue — in restaurants, in stores, on vacation, even while just walking down the street. However, after a dozen or so years and the onslaught of inevitable hair loss, I stopped coloring my hair and let it grow into its natural gray. With each subsequent haircut, more and more of my forehead became less and less hirsute. The nice woman who cuts my hair would hand me a mirror with which to view the back of my head and assess the results of her adept scissor work. With every new haircut, the bare spot on the back of my head grew bigger and bigger and barer and barer. She always comments that my hair grows so fast, but I know she's just being nice or, perhaps, looking for a bigger tip.

So, no matter what the guy behind me in the check-out line said, there is no way that he — or anyone — genuinely "likes my hair"... at least not at this juncture of my life.

Or.... maybe.... maybe... he really liked my hair.

After I paid for my groceries, but before I made my way towards the exit, I turned to the man behind me in the check-out line and said, "You... have a good day!," with emphasis on "you."

When I got home, I related this story to Mrs. Pincus and that four-word phrase — "I like your hair" — officially entered our daily conversations, joining such stalwarts as "How was your day?" and "What should we have for dinner?"

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

crush with eyeliner

After two years of dating and thirty-eight years of marriage, Mrs. Pincus and I have had some pretty weird conversations. Because we share so many interests (we do part ways on some subjects), we have been known to have lengthy and deep discussions about all aspects of certain television shows from our youth. These conversations are frequent — more frequent that you would imagine — and they are great for making the time pass on long car rides (and we take a lot of those, too.)

Subtopics of conversations have ranged from the total implausibility of Gilligan's Island to the subtle and heretofore unnoticed similarities between The Andy Griffith Show and Little House on the Prairie to why Darrin Stephens should have been thanking his lucky stars to have nabbed a hot witch like Samantha who was clearly out of his league. We have revealed our favorite episodes of Twilight Zone, as well as our least favorites. We have marveled at the casting of a handful of character actors who have appeared in multiple roles on numerous TV series throughout the 50s, 60s and even into the 80s. (John Anderson and the unrelated Richard Anderson come to mind.) We have talked about obscure game shows that we watched on days we were kept home from school with the sniffles. We lamented over that fact that none of the current crop of "retro TV" networks show the classic Hanna-Barbera cartoons, like Yogi Bear, Pixie & Dixie and Top Cat. This, my friends, is the secret to a long and loving marriage.

A few days ago, while out walking (not driving this time), I asked my wife about TV crushes she had as a kid. In reality, I knew of two of them — Bobby Sherman and Randolph Mantooth. Early on in our relationship, the subject must have come up. In addition, Mrs. P has held on to a couple of well-played 45 singles of Bobby Sherman recordings, as well as a big plastic button emblazoned with his toothy smile under that trademark helmet of hair. She purchased this beloved keepsake at a 1971 live concert by Bobby Sherman — one she begged her father to take her to at the long-gone Philadelphia Civic Center. I'm pretty sure my father-in-law wore a suit and tie to that one, after all, he wore a tie to the beach. Despite television throwing David Cassidy, Leif Garrett and Davy Jones in the direction of every pre-teen girl, the future Mrs. Pincus remained loyal to Bobby Sherman... until Randy Mantooth came along. 

Just a year after breathing the same air as Bobby Sherman at that West Philadelphia venue, producer Jack Webb, capitalizing on the "procedural drama" concept he made popular with Dragnet and Adam-12, introduced Emergency on NBC. The show followed the daily doings of the firefighter-cum-paramedics at LA County's Station 51. There was action, adventure, drama and, above all, there was dreamy Randolph Mantooth as hunky but benevolent and brave John Gage. Because Randy Mantooth didn't muster a singing career, Mrs. Pincus had to look elsewhere for mementos to reinforce her affection for the dark, handsome actor. She purchased a metal lunchbox shaped like a fire engine, as well as a plastic fire helmet featuring the Station 51 badge and Viewmaster reels highlighting scenes from the show. Those items and others still occupy a place of prominence and honor on a shelf in our third-floor office.

And that's it. Just those two. Even when pressed, my wife confessed to having only two TV crushes as a child. She hedged at including Henry Winkler in the group, but, after a little thought, she determined that her feelings for The Fonz were not on the same level as those for Mr. Sherman and Mr. Mantooth. Contrary to the sentiment expressed in that Joe Jackson song, I contend that it's different for boys... because I had more TV crushes that I can remember.

I seems I was smitten by every pretty female face that flashed across my television screen. In my house, the playing field was evened because we only had black & white television sets until I was in high school. So, Tina Louise's flaming red hair offered no special consideration over Dawn Wells' dark allure. Susan Dey's psychedelic stage costumes were a meaningless enhancement and Marlo Thomas' rouged cheeks and pastel eyeshadow were wasted on my potential devotion. Arlene Golonka's colorful wardrobe was monotone in my eyes. It didn't matter that Judy Carne's bikini-clad body was mistaken for a coloring book. I had a crush on all of them anyway! But, if we are really confessing, my main TV crushes were double the amount of my spouses. And, later in my life as an adult, I got to meet two of them. I coulda died!

Karen Valentine - How adorable was Karen Valentine?!? The pretty costar of the comedy-drama (years before the portmanteau "dramedy" was coined) Room 222 was an early crush of mine. Room 222, depicting the academic adventures of the students and faculty of Walt Whitman High School, premiered in 1969 in a prime spot in ABC's coveted Friday night line-up — smack dab between lead-ins The Brady Bunch and The Partridge Family and followed by The Odd Couple and Love American Style. Karen Valentine's portrayal of naïve student teacher "Miss Johnson" was positively charming. I can still remember, in the opening credits, when the school bus door slammed in her face... ugh! she was precious! Many years later, I met Karen Valentine at an autograph show. I sheepishly approached her table for an inscribed photo. I also confessed my feelings for her. She smiled sweetly, if a bit leery of this 50+ year-old guy opening up to her. I qualified my admission by saying it was as big a crush that an eight-year old could have. She laughed.

Yvonne Craig - How adorable was Yvonne Craig?!? I was a huge fan of the original campy classic Batman series starring Adam West. After two seasons of extraordinary popularity, the TV viewing public began to stray. Creator/producer William Dozier was looking for a way to inject new energy into the floundering series. Taking inspiration from Julie Newmar's slinky portrayal of the villainous "Catwoman" (the reason my dad and every other dad across the country subjected themselves to Batman on a weekly basis), Dozier recruited actress/ballet dancer Yvonne Craig to don a skintight purple suit as the sexy and mysterious "Batgirl." Fresh off appearances in two Elvis movies and a slew of TV Westerns, Yvonne's "Batgirl" was the exciting shot-in-the-arm that Batman needed. Unfortunately, the show only lasted 26 more episodes before its Bat-plug was pulled. But — boy, oh, boy — was I captivated by Yvonne Craig's high kicks, snappy banter, confident personality and faux long hair that cascaded from under her identity-concealing cowl. For bat's sake, it even baffled her father, the perennially befuddled Commissioner Gordon. Sure, I was just seven years-old when Batman left the airwaves, but, upon more recent viewings, I know now that little Josh was on to something.

Tina Cole - How adorable was Tina Cole?!? Nobody, but nobody, wore a bubble-cut like beautiful Tina Cole. Best known as - sigh! - "Mrs. Robbie Douglas" on the final five seasons of the popular family sitcom My Three Sons, Tina was, as Chip or Ernie might have put it, "real keen and junk!" She appeared in a single early episode of the show, but was brought back as "Katie," future wife of Don Grady's "Robbie." Her character was introduced on the first episode of Season Eight, when the Douglas family moves to California. After the family faces a succession of rude neighbors, store clerks and other assorted and rude Angelenos, Katie is a radiant beacon of friendliness when Robbie bumps into her on his first day of college. By Episode 2, Robbie asks Katie to marry him. Can you blame him? Tina Cole was absolutely delightful. She was pretty, she dressed in 60s mini skirts and enough paisley-patterned blouses to make Prince jealous, and she sported "the Rachel" two years before Jennifer Aniston was born. I met Tina at an autograph show in 2015 and, against my better judgement, I spilled my heart to her. Again, I reminded her that I was speaking about the innocent libido of a six-year old. She laughed and shyly batted her eyelashes. She was still adorable Katie.

Maureen McCormick - How adorable was Maureen McCormick?!? When The Brady Bunch was first broadcast in September 1969, who ever dreamed that it would continue in syndication pretty much forever? One of the main reasons for its ongoing, generation-spanning popularity is — without a doubt — Maureen McCormick. "Marcia Brady," as brought to life by the lovely Maureen, was every pre-teenage boys' dream. She was pretty with a gorgeous smile and she was built like a brick.... well, certainty not one of the buildings that Mike Brady designed. Most of all, she seemed approachable, like someone you'd see at school and could be your friend. Plus, we watched her grow up right before our eyes. From a cute thirteen year old at the series premiere, Maureen blossomed into a knockout by the fifth and final season. Recent accounts of her wild, drug-fueled, off-camera antics made Maureen all the more appealing. But, while The Brady Bunch was in network first run, she was every boy's fantasy prom date. Everyone from Davy Jones to Big Man on Campus "Doug Simpson" wanted Maureen McCormick... and "Oscy" from the Summer of '42 ended up with her! Go figure!

Well, there you have it. I confessed. Anything you'd like to get off your chest?

We're all adults here.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

thinking about things I don't understand

I have been at my new job (since I unceremoniously lost my last job) for almost a year now. Without going into too much detail about what my new job entails, let's just say that it requires me to remain extremely focused, as I must keep track of many things that occur simultaneously. I don't have any issue with being focused. However, there are certain extraneous factors that serve as regular distractions in an attempt to break my necessary concentration.

My workplace is arranged as an open work space. That means no individual offices. My desk is pushed against a wall. Other employees desks are pushed against other walls. Since the entire place is so small, we are all in very, very close proximity to one another. This is not helpful in maintaining the attention to detail required for me to do my job. I do my best to tune out the superfluous conversation from my co-workers (and I use the term "co-workers" very, very loosely), until is it just a bunch of indiscernible white noise. but sometimes I cannot help but hear the inane exchanges.

A mere six or so feet away from me is a bank of half cubicles. Seated at these mini-desks are four salesmen whose sole job is to make cold calls and sell product. I have been a productive part of the working world for 35 years and, in that time, I have never met four dumber human beings. I mean seriously dumb. Stupid. Moronic. Sure, we have all called someone "dumb" at one point in our lives and meant it as a quick insult, not really as its true definition. But, my saying that these guys are dumb couldn't be a more suitable description. No exaggeration. I swear. I honestly can't understand how these guys function. I find it difficult to believe that they don't ask for directions to work every day and then ask for directions back to their homes at the end of the day... if they even have homes. For guys whose job is to talk on the phone, they speak as though they have never addressed another person in their lives and as though they didn't just deliver the exact same sales pitch two minutes earlier.

But it's the between-sales-calls conversation that I find most maddening and most puzzling.

The amount of "down-time" these guys seem to have is astounding, considering they work purely on commission. And that "down-time" is filled with some of the most nonsensical drivel I have ever heard. During football season, the conversation was a riveting, in-depth discussion and analyzation of every single play of every single game that transpired over the past day. However, to hear the conversation, you would suspect that none of these guys had ever watched a football game before. I am not a football fan — hell, I have only watched one football game in my life — but I knew more about what they were confused by. Every week, from August thru the first week of February, I heard the same thing. I heard more speculation and repeated cliches about Nick Foles and Carson Wentz (two Philadelphia Eagles quarterbacks) than I heard on the evening news. Once football season ended, I assumed the football talk would end, too. It didn't. Old conversations were rehashed with the same uninformed tone as previous.

Sometimes, non-football talk takes over the conversation. Just this week, there was a heated debate about The Three Stooges, including a sub-discussion about which Stooge was which. They actually went on for ten minutes trying to recall the member of the slapstick trio with "the curly red hair and the bald spot on top."

They have discussed music, movies and television, stores that are no longer in business, stores that may go out of business, current events and things they "sort of" remember from their childhoods — all with the intellectual grasp of a small, overripe turnip. They get names wrong. They get titles wrong. They get simple details wrong. Anything that can be gotten wrong, they get wrong. They are collectively uninformed and collectively misinformed.

At first it was entertaining. But now it is infuriating. It impedes on my work and that is not acceptable. Granted, I have a shitty job and I work for a shitty company, but I still take pride in my work output. I always have and I always will until I am scraped off the floor at my final place of employment.

I just hope the floor of this snake pit isn't the one from which I am scraped.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

don't leave me hanging on the telephone

I often wondered if faithful lab assistant Thomas A. Watson rolled his eyes and pretended not to hear when Alexander Graham Bell's voice crackled over his new invention, ordering: "Mr. Watson – Come here – I want you," "What!?!," I imagine Mr. Watson bellyaching while throwing his hands in the air and stomping his feet. I can picture him groaning at being interrupted — unnecessarily — by his boss Bell for some stupid task that Bell could no doubt perform for himself.

When I was young, my dad would get furious when the phone rang in our house. Not just during mealtime or TV watching time or sleeping time but anytime. Granted my dad would get annoyed by a lot of things (snow, rain, Democrats, minorities on television, minorities not on television, Philadelphia sports teams, teams opposing Philadelphia sports teams), but a ringing telephone would set him off every time without fail. Midway through the first RRRIIIING!, my father would growl, "Who the hell is calling?" Even if he was expecting a call, my dad would greet that initial telephone ring with the same contempt. If it was one of my friends or one of my brother's, my dad would mockingly mutter the friend's name under his breath for the duration of our conversation. I sometimes wondered why we even had a telephone. Why was my father paying a monthly fee to have this constant source of irritation in his house?

Something in my father's make-up must have rubbed off on me. While I don't get annoyed when the phone rings in our house (well, not nearly as annoyed as he did), I will admit, I do hate talking on the phone. I can't quite put my finger on what it is about talking on the telephone I don't like... but I don't like it. I can make it through a few informative seconds on the phone, like a call from my wife if I ran to the supermarket and she realized that eggs were not included on the shopping list. But, if the conversation extends past the instruction to get eggs, I bristle. "We can talk when I get home," I'll gently explain, trying to put an end to a lengthy discussion yet not wanting to appear rude — but usually failing miserably in the process.

I rarely — if ever — answer the phone in my house. It's never for me. If I do answer, it will most likely be someone who wants to speak to Mrs. Pincus. Or it'll be a solicitor with a brief survey that usually ends when question number three is: "Does anyone it your family work for a radio station?' and I answer "yes." Or it's some malicious scammer telling me that they have been receiving messages from my Windows computer. Or it's just a plain old wrong number. But, I can be assured that it's not for me.

So, wouldn't you know.... I started a new job earlier this year that requires me to speak on the phone more than all of my previous jobs put together. It's very strange, but over the last few months I've gotten used to it. Some of my new co-workers have even complemented me on my phone manner, citing me as both professional and pleasant. I have even surprised myself with my patience and courtesy. Some of the folks I speak to on the phone are decidedly harried, curt, unreasonable and downright rude. But I have uncharacteristically maintained a cool head and affable demeanor. I never knew I had it in me. I still don't like talking on the phone, but sometimes you gotta do what you gotta do.

Now, you'll have to excuse me. The phone is ringing..... and I'm not gonna answer it.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

I see your true colors shining through

My hometown has been in the news this week for reasons that do not make me proud. Two African-American gentlemen walked into a Philadelphia Starbucks and sat down to wait for a colleague. This apparently made the manager of the Starbucks uneasy. Having two African-American men waiting at a table was more than this particular Starbucks manager could take. He called the police. After a discussion that referenced Starbucks company policy and a disobeyed order to leave the premises, the two gentlemen were placed in police custody, handcuffed just as their friend was entering the Starbucks to make their appointment. A cellphone video, posted to YouTube, shows the friend questioning the nature of the arrest... and receiving no real answer. The men were questioned at police headquarters and eventually released at approximately 2 AM — nearly nine and a half hours after the police were called. In the days following, protesters patroled the area outside the Starbucks at 1801 Spruce Street. Kevin Johnson, CEO of Starbucks for under a year, came to Philadelphia to apologize to the gentlemen in person. Both Philadelphia Police Commissioner Richard Ross and Philadelphia Mayor Jim Kenney apologized to the two gentlemen for the way the incident was handled by the arresting officers. The whole incident was embarrassing and infuriating. I still find it puzzling that such blatant racism still exists in the United States in 2018.

Last October, my wife and I were on a cruise. During the course of our week at sea, we made friends with a variety of folks who were on the Norwegian Breakaway for the same reason we were. One afternoon, early in our trip, Mrs P and I were participating in a rousing game of Pictionary with some of our fellow cruisers. In between rounds, we made small talk with the other players, mostly discussing about the up-coming ports-of-call and where everybody hailed from. My wife struck up a conversation with a multi-generational family who, like us, called Philadelphia home. A friendly older woman revealed that they were  travelling with a church group from Southwest Philadelphia. As Mrs. P and this woman chit-chatted, a young girl sort of clung to the woman, silently taking in the conversation, trying to figure out who this lady was that was talking to — we later discovered — her grandmother. The little girl was about seven or eight and displayed an air of suspicion. She watched with wide eyes and exercised caution, staying behind the protection of her grandmother. Her grandmother, on the other hand, was quite animated and talkative and the conversation soon branched out past "where do you live?" and entered other areas of shared interest.

During the week, we saw this little family at the buffet, near the pool, walking the common areas, at activities, as well at the first of several late-night movies. As the time went on, the little girl became less and less timid. By Day Two, she actually introduced herself as "Anissa," careful to pronounce it "Ah-NEES-a," as though we would only get one chance and we better say it correctly every time we used it. Mrs Pincus, a natural Pied Piper of children, told Anissa that there was a famous child actress with that name who was very popular and she even pronounced it the same way. Anissa smiled and showed signs of warming up. She asked us if we have any children. I answered her by pulling up a picture of our thirty-year old son on my cellphone. Anissa asked us about pets and we told her that we do not have any currently, but we did have cats — on and off — for years. She asked more questions and we answered the ones that we could. We could see that Anissa was becoming more comfortable with these people who talked to her grandmother. By Day Three, Anissa was shrieking "SUSIE!" with delight when she spotted my wife scooping herself a bowl of oatmeal for breakfast. Later the same day, we again heard the unmistakable cry of "SUSIE!" as we took our places for an afternoon session of trivia — our favorite shipboard pastime. Anissa even took a spot in a chair next to Mrs. P.

One late afternoon about midway through our trip, Mrs. P and I settled into a couple of overstuffed chairs in the ship's Atrium to watch a documentary about swing dancing on a two-story projection screen. Just before the film started, a young man we had not met before came over to us and asked how we know so much trivia. Evidently, he had witnessed the mind-numbing expertise we exhibit while answering the silly, general knowledge questions that were posed. Mrs. P and I laughed and explained that we watch a lot of television, watch a lot of movies and just have an uncanny knack for remembering useless tidbits of information. He laughed, thanked us for our candor and strolled off. As he did, he passed Anissa who appeared with her family and greeted us (actually just my wife) with a loud, excited "SUSIE!" She stood between us and asked — in all earnest and innocence — if that boy we were talking to was our son. She followed up by asking if we were with her church group.

I must interrupt this story for a brief explanation.

Anissa and her family were African-American. The young man who asked about our knowledge of trivia was African-American. My wife and I are Caucasian. 

Anissa, apparently, saw none of that. She merely saw us speaking with a young man older than she, but young enough to be the son we often mentioned in our conversations. Anissa didn't see skin color. At all. For the entire week. We were so taken by Anissa's "matter-of-fact" untainted outlook. It made me wonder if Anissa couldn't be the teacher from which we all can learn. All of us.

early morning strangers

Every so often, I ride the train to work with my friend Randi. I met Randi when our kids went to nursery school together, so I have known her for a very long time. A few years ago, Randi and her husband moved into my neighborhood and, coincidentally, we both work in the same office building in center city Philadelphia. Randi usually takes an earlier or later train than the one I regularly take, but, a few times a week, we ride to work together.

On our short commute into Philadelphia, we discuss a multitude of topics — religion, family situations, movies, television shows. This particular Monday morning, I was telling Randi about the Monster Mania convention, a twice-yearly gathering of all things horror that my son and I attended the day before.

I don't know why I continue to subject myself to this convention, but I do. And with much regret. I go specifically to add to my autographed photos collection, but over the years, the cost of admission and the autographs themselves, have become ridiculously overpriced. I really wrestle with myself every time a new roster of "celebrities" is announced. I assess the pros and cons of driving to Cherry Hill, New Jersey, finding a place to park in the small hotel lot, paying the inflated admission and then paying the exorbitant fee for an autographed photo. But, this past weekend's "guest of honor" — Danny Lloyd — was the clincher. Thirty-seven years ago, Danny played Jack Nicholson's enigmatic son in Stanley Kubrick's 1980 horror classic The Shining. After filming wrapped, Danny had one more role in a TV movie about Watergate nut-job G. Gordon Liddy, then abandoned show business and fell back into "real life." Now, at 44, he is a biology professor at a community college in Kentucky. Well, I don't know exactly what he's teaching in his class, but he sure learned how to get forty bucks for writing his name on a photograph of himself from his youth. I begrudgingly handed him two twenty dollars bills (Oscar-winner Louise Fletcher, who was also at this show, was only asking thirty bucks) and tried to make some small talk. I asked him if the Internet rumors about his not knowing that The Shining was a horror movie were true. He laughed and confirmed that Kubrick, a vicious taskmaster to the adult actors, was very protective of his underage actors (Danny and the Burns sisters, who played the ghostly Grady twins and were, coincidentally, seated at their own table to Danny's left). I asked if his students know about his former life as an actor (albeit two roles). He said some did, some didn't and most were not impressed and didn't care.

As I related my little weekend adventure to Randi, I noticed another commuter, just across the train aisle from us, was hanging on to every word I was saying. It was so obvious. He wasn't even trying to hide the fact that he was listening so intensely to our conversation as though he would be transcribing it later. I tried to subtly nudge Randi to covertly point the eavesdropper out. When the train stopped at our station, we all got off and I pointed the guy out as he hurried up the platform stairs.

The next day, I was standing on the train platform waiting for my morning train. Randi was not in sight on this morning, but that was not unusual. So, as I waited, I fiddled with my phone. Suddenly, in my peripheral vision, I could see someone approaching. I looked up and I was startled to see the eavesdropper from yesterday's morning commute standing less than a foot away from me.

"Hi.," he began, innocently enough.

"How're you doin'?," I mumbled, still trying to figure out what this guy wanted. I am, admittedly, very suspicious of people I don't know.

"I heard you talking on the train yesterday about The Shining." Well, at least he got right to the point. "I wanted to know if you ever saw the documentary Room 237? Have you ever heard of it?," he asked. Not only had I heard of the film, I had seen it. It is an independent production from 2012 that unobjectively relates several wild theories that The Shining is not merely an adaptation of a Stephen King novel, but an elaborate puzzle, cryptically alluding to either the systematic slaughter of Native Americans or an apology by director Kubrick for his collusion with NASA in the ruse that was the first moon landing or a symbolic tale of the Holocaust or a combination of the three.

But the real question was: Why did this guy care if I saw this documentary? Plus, he just admitted that he was listening to my conversation from the previous day.

This was weird. I, however, was uncharacteristically polite. I answered his question and engaged him in a little chit-chat about my views on The Shining and my conversation with the now-adult Danny Lloyd. A train pulled up to the station, thankfully bringing this awkward exchange to an end. I started towards the last car of the train and he called out "Nice talking to you!," as he headed in the opposite direction. I was relived that he didn't feel compelled to continue our tête-à-tête in a more intimate setting on the train.

On subsequent days, I have seen the eavesdropper milling about on the train platform. He seems to be purposely steering clear of me. That's just fine with me. His "striking up a friendship" skills are in need some refinement.

Oh, and Room 237 was absolute bullshit.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

are you ready for some football

I find myself eavesdropping on the various people who, like me, are waiting for the train to arrive and take us to work. I stand on the platform and watch the same faces I see every morning walk across the wooden planks — some clutching briefcases under their arms, some dragging large, wheeled cases behind them — and take the same relative waiting positions they take every morning (myself included). I don't eavesdrop on purpose. I am not particularly interested in the random, nonsensical chit-chat I hear. Some of my fellow commuters just talk so goddamn loud, that I can't help but hear every detail of their usually inane conversations. I often find it maddening, but I guess I also find it amusing — otherwise I wouldn't write about it so often. Or maybe I don't want to feel alone in my torture. Why should you miss out?

Yesterday was Monday, the day after Super Bowl 51, in which the mighty New England Patriots captured another record-breaking victory. I believe, if my knowledge of football is what I think it is, they have won every Super Bowl that has ever been played. I don't know. I could be wrong, but actually, I don't give a shit. I have never watched a complete football game in my life. Growing up, my father and my brother watched every sports contest that flashed across our television. Football, baseball, basketball. (My brother watched hockey alone because my father said it moved too goddamn fast for him.) Not me! I never watched any of it. I had no interest. Later in my life, I became an avid baseball fan, but that wasn't until the late 90s when my wife and I purchased Phillies season tickets so we could go to the All-Star Game in our hometown. We kept those tickets for eighteen seasons. But before that, I couldn't tell a home run from a field goal — and I didn't care.

I am not afraid to admit that I am not a sports fan. I have other interests to occupy my time. I know plenty of sports fans, some of whom can't understand how I don't care about three-pointers and clipping. They marvel at my belief that "foul" refers to my preference of language and "icing" is something that decorates a birthday cake. I am offended when some "dude" asks me if I know the score of a particular game just because I'm a guy and all guys follow sports and know all scores. Or when I tell someone I'm from Philadelphia, they immediately pummel me with questions about the Eagles. (Y'know, we have the Liberty Bell, too!) I don't pretend to know about sports and I certainly don't jump on the "fan bandwagon" if my city's team is doing well or during any sport's playoff time.

So, around 7:45 a.m. the day after the Super Bowl, I see some woman sit down on a bench at the train station and start a loud conversation about the game.

First Woman: Did you watch the Super Bowl? 

Second Woman: Well, we're not really much of a football family. Actually, we're not a football family at all. We watched the Super Bowl, 'cause... y'know. Jacob doesn't like football, but he's a Steelers fan and, evidently, if you like the Steelers, then you can't like the Patriots. They're like cross-division adversaries or something. So, we're not supposed to like the Patriots. But, I didn't even watch the whole game. I watched the first half and then I went upstairs and — y'know — did my own thing. I did some baking, too, because we all like to get together for Tu B'Shevat*.

By the time the train arrived, my head had exploded all over the platform.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

* Tu B'Shevat, or "Tubishvat" as the guttural pronunciation goes, marks the season in which the earliest-blooming trees in the Land of Israel emerge from their winter sleep and begin a new fruit-bearing cycle. It's essentially Jewish Arbor Day, and possibly, worth a day off from work.

hesitation blues

Right around the week of Christmas, I accompanied my wife on her regular late-day run to the post office. I had a day off from work (one of those "use-it-or-lose-it" days that all seem to clump together at the end of the calendar year) and I was getting a little bored with watching reruns of  Match Game from 1974. Most everyone on the panel — Tom Bosley, Brett Somers, Charles Nelson Reilly, Richard Dawson — was dead and I had had it with their lame and dated double entendres about Dumb Dora. I was looking for a good excuse to get out of the house. So, when Mrs. P offered to pick me up on the way to drop off a load of pre-Christmas shipments from her eBay store, I jumped at the chance.

We found a parking spot at the post office and I helped my wife carry the shipments, now stuffed awkwardly into large tote bags, inside. Since they were all pre-paid, thanks to eBay's print-at-home system, we merely dropped the bags off at the front counter, sidestepping the queue line, and waited for a postal clerk to collect, empty and return our bags. I, however, needed stamps, so I got into line. Mrs. P. went off to choose a greeting card from the small Hallmark concession relegated to a lonely corner of the post office service area.

A man, several customers behind me, was trying unsuccessfully to get Mrs. P's attention. "Susan, right?," he loudly questioned. Mrs. Pincus looked up and tried to identify the man, while attempting to conceal a puzzled expression. Instead, he identified himself. He was the father of a boy that was a student in my wife's class when she taught pre-school nearly a lifetime ago. The fact that he was able to recognize her after all these years (and it is many years), is a testament to her youthfulness. I still maintain that my wife looks exactly as she did the day I met her. I, on the other hand, have aged considerably and not with any particular grace. 

Mrs. P politely asked how he is and how his children are. And this guy launched into a deeply personal ramble about ill-feelings among members of his family. About how there was resentment and animosity between his sons' spouses and their mother (this man's wife). He elaborated on scenarios that should have remained within the private lives of only those members of his immediate family and those personally affected... not a bunch of people waiting to buy stamps and pick up registered letters.

When we finished at the counter, the man met us at the exit door, stepping aside so as to continue his uncomfortable conversation. As he finished up his convoluted personal tale, he half-heartedly asked if we have children. My wife proudly offered information about our son, a DJ on a local public radio station. The man, whose head sported a knit cap embellished with an embroidered "Hot Tuna" patch, interrupted Mrs. P's sentence to begin a new rambling about The Grateful Dead. Using my son's radio station as a segue, he reminisced about a decades-gone-by broadcast allegedly featuring the Dead playing songs for a dollar-a-minute as a station fundraiser. My wife and I covertly exchanged glances, silently acknowledging that this story was complete fabrication. Still going off on a tangent, he expounded on the various Hot Tuna shows he has seen over the years, emphasizing his close relationship with founding band members Jorma Kaukonen and Jack Casady. He went into excruciatingly minute detail about going backstage and delivering a camera and talking to Jorma's wife. He paused several times to confirm that we were indeed familiar with Hot Tuna, their origins as an offshoot of Jefferson Airplane, their contributions to the world of meandering hippie-space rock and Jorma Kaukonen himself. His story was endless and disjointed and pointless. He held us, though, positioning himself so as to block our access to the door. He needed to finish this saga and, as far as his captive audience was concerned, we needed to hear it to the end! His description rattled on aimlessly for what seemed like another twenty minutes until Mrs. P glanced at her non-existent wristwatch and announced, "Sorry to cut you off, but we have an appointment to get to." He halted midway through a sentence about Native American jewelry (I don't know how that subject breached this one-sided conversation). We smiled and quickly said our goodbyes, inching towards the door.

We scurried to our car, hoping to outrun our loquacious captor. Behind us, though, we still heard him saying something about some long-closed venue and some long-ago performed concert. Mrs. P gunned the engine and we made our getaway.

I often wonder who listens to radio stations with a "classic rock" format. You know, the ones that repeat the same fifteen songs from the middle 1970s. Hang around the post office at closing time. You'll find out.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com