precious

Your time is not precious. This is very easily confirmed. Just make an appointment with someone — a doctor, a contractor... anyone. Most often they will keep you waiting or be very late or cancel your appointment or not show up at all. Their time is special. Their time is valuable. Your time is worthless.

I turned 65 a month ago. Turning 65 qualifies me for a few benefits. I am now eligible to enroll in the nationwide Medicare program — which is the closest I'll ever get to the level of subsidized healthcare offered by nearly every other country on the planet. A little closer to home, I am now eligible to received a free SEPTA senior pass which allows me to enjoy (enjoy? riding SEPTA?) free rides on public transportation that is operated by SEPTA in the Philadelphia area. All I have to do is stop by SEPTA's main office, supply them with some basic information, show proof of age and they will give me an ID card right then and there. However, getting to SEPTA's office is terribly inconvenient. It requires a drive into center city and finding parking or taking public transportation which — ironically — I'd have to pay for. Also, SEPTA only has office hours at the same time as my working hours, which means I'd have to take time off from work to accomplish all this. As an alternative, I could go to my local State Representative's office. There, I can submit the same information, but I'd have to wait approximately four weeks for my card to arrive.

I had an upcoming follow-up doctor's appointment for which I had already taken a half-day of sick time from work. I figured that I could pop over to the State Representative's office before my doctor's appointment and get everything done in one day. I consulted the State Representative's office website and saw that their daily hours began at 10 AM. My wife had just applied for her SEPTA pass a few months ago at this office and they told her, if need be, they could come in at 9 AM, if that would be more accommodating. So, I called the State Representative's office one day prior to my doctor's appointment top confirm their promise of meeting me earlier. The friendly woman on the phone assured me — assured me — that the office regularly opens at 9 AM, regardless of the posted hours. She further assured me that I could happily come in at 9 AM and have everything taken care of in a matter of minutes. Before I ended my conversation, I very plainly made sure that I could come in at 9AM the next morning and the woman said — and I quote — "Absolutely!"

I was not convinced.

The State Representative's office is just a short drive from my house, no more than ten minutes. I arrived at the office at 8:55 AM. I parked, walked around to the front entrance and tugged on the door. It was locked... and through the front window I could see there was no signs of life inside. I paced the sidewalk out from for a little while, then I retreated back to my car. After fifteen minutes of still being the only car in the small parking lot, I walked back to the front door. It remained locked I checked the time on my phone, calculating in my head how long I could wait and still make my 10AM doctor's appointment. As I paced off my annoyance, a couple with a small child came up from the path leading from the parking lot.

"Are you waiting for them to open?," the woman asked. "Yes," I replied, then, despite not being asked, I continued, "They told be they would open at 9 this morning." I checked the time. It was now 9:30. The couple thanked me for the information and said they would return at 10. I, too had to leave in order to arrive on time for my doctor's appointment (because I am courteous in that way). In disgust, I walked back to may car.

I arrived at my doctor's office a few minutes before my scheduled 10 AM appointment. I checked in with the receptionist and took a seat in the waiting room... for my 10AM appointment. I waited. And waited. My name was finally called at 10:20AM — a full twenty minutes past the time I was expected to be there. When I arrived, I spotted my doctor wandering around the office and patrolling the hallways back where the exam rooms are. I was led to an exam room where I was instructed to take a seat and that the doctor would be with me shortly — which translates to more waiting.

Finally, the doctor came in and asked me how things were. I told her (she is an otolaryngologist) that I was having some difficulty hearing in my left ear. She took an otoscope and examined my left ear. Then, with some unseen tool, she extracted something from my ear canal that immediately allowed for all sound to be heard.  "Wow!," I said, "What a difference!" The doctor smiled, handed me a printout to give to the receptionist and promptly exited the room. The whole thing took less that ten minutes... that was half the amount of time I spent in the waiting room.

Seeing that I had some extra time, I headed back to the State Representative's office. There were two cars in the parking lot, possibly letting me know that they were, indeed, open. I walked around to the front entrance and it opened. I was greeted by a woman behind a desk who, if I didn't know better, was Amy Sedaris. I told her that I'd like to apply for a Senior SEPTA pass. She smiled and asked for the required information. When it came time to take my picture for inclusion on the card, the camera failed to operate. After several tries and  several comments of "Oh, this darn thing!," she led me back to another office and another woman (who resembled Aunt Bee from the Andy Griffith Show) who would continue to process my application and — hopefully — was equipped with a working camera. Her camera worked, but she was clueless as to how to access my already-started application. Amy returned and the two of them pondered the computer screen for a good long time. They also made chit-chat with me about the Phillies (prompted, I suppose, by my Phanatic sneakers) and the weather. Eventually, they figured things out and my application was submitted to SEPTA.

I debated with myself about telling them that I was assured they would open the office at 9AM and that, based on that assurance, I was at their front door at 9AM. I ultimately decided not to bring it up. It was pointless and would accomplish nothing after the fact. Well, it may have accomplished pissing them off.

After all, my time is not precious. Theirs is.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

it's too late

I have been working at my current job at a South Jersey commercial printer for three and a half years. Every morning, I leave my house at the same time. I drive the same route... mostly... unless there is a scheduled opening at the Tacony-Palmyra Bridge, in which case, I take the far less traveled Betsy Ross Bridge that eventually takes me to the same place on Route 130 in Pennsauken, New Jersey. I drive into the nearly-empty parking lot at work around 7 AM, just in time to see the small night shift climbing into their cars. I punch my entrance code into the keypad at the door and enter. I walk through the cavernous printing plant, a building roughly the size of an airplane hangar. The printing presses are whirring madly and spitting out stacks and stacks of full-color advertisements for supermarkets up and down the East coast. Some of the presses are a little smaller than a football field, allowing the operator to actually enter the press to fix a paper jam or check the flow of ink. I follow a designated walkway, cordoned off from the bustling "print floor" by a series of guard rails. I am kept safe from a potential run-in with one of the many forklifts arranging and rearranging wrapped pallets stacked with printed circulars. Just before I punch another code into another keypad allowing me access to the pre-press area where my computer sits on my desk, I wave "hello" to a guy in the Shipping Department.

Since Day One, this guy — a pleasant looking fellow always sporting a backwards baseball cap with the company logo emblazoned across the front... er... back — is hunched over his computer screen, diligently striking the keyboard and checking his entry against an LED readout on a nearby scale, piled high with taped cardboard boxes. But, he always raises his glance and pauses his work to offer a "good morning" to me, usually accompanied by a single, friendly wave of his open hand. I, of course, return the greeting with a "how you doin'?," consciously changing my words, so as not to sound like an unimaginative parrot. I open the door to my department and that's the last he'll see of me until I have determined that all my work for the day has been completed and I decide to head home.

I shut down the internet and all open programs on my computer, grab my cellphone from its charging pad and start towards to door. When I open the door, there's the guy. Right where I left him, Still hunched over his computer screen and still check the corresponding weight of a different stack of boxes on the scale. As I pass, I wave and say, "See ya! Have a good night!" He replies, "Have a good night. See you tomorrow." Except on Fridays, when his parting message includes a direct request for me to have a good weekend.

And that's it. This has gone on every single working day since May 4, 2021. Over the course of time, our conversation has briefly — briefly — included short discussions about the various t-shirt designs I have worn to work and a couple of times we talked about the previous night's Phillies game. Aside from that, it's been just "Good morning" and "good evening." and that is all.

Oh... did I mention that I don't know this guy's name?

Hey!

In the late 90s, there was a sitcom on ABC called Spin City. It was a fictional and comedic portrayal of everyday activities in the office of the Mayor of New York City. The show first starred Michael J. Fox, until the ravages of Parkinson's Disease affected his physical and vocal abilities. He was replaced in the show's final seasons by Charlie Sheen. The show featured an ensemble cast, filling the various roles of the Mayor's staff. Among the characters was the Mayor's timid and gullible speech writer James, played by actor Alexander Chaplin. In one episode, James was strolling down the hall while conversing with press secretary Paul Lassiter (Our first exposure to ubiquitous character actor Richard Kind). As they talked, they passed a guy carrying a stack of papers. James says, "Hey!" to the guy and the guy says "Hey!" back. Paul interrupts himself to ask James "Who was that?" to which James replied, "Oh! That's my 'Hey!' guy." Paul is confused, even after James offers a lengthy explanation about how he sees this guy everyday. He doesn't know his name or where in City Hall he works or what he does or who he works for. But, when they see each other in the hall, they heartily exchange "'Hey's." The explanation doesn't really satisfy Paul's inquiry, but he lets it go because James is decidedly on the quirky side. At the episode's conclusion, I believe that James becomes upset because his "Hey!" guy got another job.

I believe that the guy in the shipping department has been working for my employer for many years. I never asked his name, though. Nor will I. I will just continue to say "good morning" in the morning and "good evening" in the evening.

I think 42 months is too much time passed for me ask his name now.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

where does the time go when it's not around here

My friends and I used to play this game when we were kids — "How Old Will I Be in the Year 2000?" As a youngster in the middle 1960s, the turn of the century was a million years away. Television shows like Lost in Space (set in futuristic 1997) showed us that traveling to planets inhabited by giant vegetables would be as accessible and commonplace as a trip to the supermarket. The Jetsons presented a future filled with servant robots, push-button dinner preparation and flying cars. As a six-year old, trying to visualize a thirty-nine year old Josh in the 21st Century was unfathomable. The magically distant year 2000 would never arrive. Or so I thought back in my youthful days when a drive to Atlantic City took ten hours. (It actually took 90 minutes; 75 in light traffic) and the minutes of the school day would creep by like a snail. However, on a positive note, a Saturday matinee movie would serve up what seemed like an entire day of entertainment and summer vacations seemed endless.

Now, here we are — sixteen years into the 21st century. Things are great, but they didn't play out exactly as I had imagined when I was six. The little, silly pictures I drew as a child became the stepping stone to my career as a professional artist. However, my little imagination never considered that thirty-nine year old Josh would be married with a thirteen-year old son when the year 2000 rolled around. 

But, I can't quite place the exact moment when time went from a deliberate crawl to a mad dash. Now, it seems that days, months, years go by so quickly. Time is whizzing by at an astounding rate. It's already May! It was just January! The days zoom by. I sometimes look at the clock and it's 9:30 in the morning and my next glance tells me it's 4 in the afternoon. It's a different story for events in my long-term memory. I am blessed (sometimes cursed!) with a great memory, but I have trouble gauging how long ago certain events happened. If I try to remember when a saw a particular movie or concert, or how long since a specific vacation, I am usually off by a few years. I can recall numerous details — minor characters in movies or side dishes of meals we've had on vacation — but when it comes to pinpointing the time frame, I'm way off. Considering how aware of time I have become, I will just blame that shortcoming on my advancing age.

Oh, I am very aware of time. Most of what I do on a daily basis is dictated by time. Getting up for work, deadlines, bill-paying, appointments for haircuts (and hair coloring — very important!), setting the brand-new DVR for recording a favorite movie — all are time-driven. So, imagine my concern when yesterday, I awoke before my alarm went off and watched as the clock ticked right past the set time without a sound. Uh-oh! I checked to confirm that I had, indeed, set the alarm the night before. (I did.) I checked the settings and everything looked normal. I had this clock-radio for a long time. Long enough that I had forgotten exactly how long. Its electronic "beeping" and its dual alarm had served my wife and I well. It dutifully alerted me when it was time to go to work or to leave for a family vacation. But now, sadly, my trusty alarm clock had run out of time. It was time for a replacement. (Jeez! How many more "time" puns can I slip in here?)

New slogan.

When I got home from work, I headed over to a local Target store. I parked my car and walked in, unconsciously making my way back to the small electronics department where, I assumed, I would find a selection of alarm clocks from which I could choose, I wasn't looking for anything fancy. All I needed was one with a dual alarm and a large, bright display that I could read in the dark without my glasses. As I approached the small department I saw several flat-screen TVs and an endcap display of iPhones. In the first aisle, there were shelves of wireless speakers, something that did not exist the last time I bought a clock-radio. Aisle number two was stocked with various sizes of home networking hardware, all securely wrapped with cables and some sort of theft-deterrent device. I strolled slowly up and down each aisle, silently scanning the shelves. I saw printers and headphones and cellphone cases and a few sleek, matte black, high-tech looking things that I couldn't quite identify, but nothing that resembled a clock-radio. Suddenly, I ran out of shelves of electronics and found myself in the garden department.

I retraced my footsteps. I redoubled my shelf-scanning efforts. Nothing. There was not a time-measuring device to be had. I slowly — slowly — walked away from the small electronics department. I even purposely walked through the small kitchen appliances department, hoping to find a clock-radio miscategorized among the blenders and coffee makers. No luck. I returned to my car. Clockless. I would be forced to use the alarm on my cellphone as my daily wake-up call. Y'know, like most people do now.

I suppose I am one of the last members of a dying breed. I still read books with a cover and pages. I still shop in "brick and mortar" stores. 

And I still like to know what time it is.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

on the road again

I used to make these things called "mixtapes." You know what they are. In the early days of transportable music, when the cassette was king, I would meticulously select ninety minutes of music as the soundtrack my travels. Whether it was my brief commute to work or a lengthy drive to the shore, the music was just as important as a packed lunch or even a change of clothes.

Making a mixtape was no simple task. It was more that just a bunch of songs crammed into two sides of a cassette. It was pacing. It was choosing the overall tone or theme of the tape. Which song would kick the whole thing off? Would I include more than one song by the same artist? Would I be listening to it alone? These were important decisions, along with determining the flow of the entire compilation. Proper timing was essential, as well. I had one tape that cut off The Clash's Magnificent Seven just after Joe Strummer delivered the line "Vacuum cleaner sucks up budgie." Unfortunately, every time I hear that song, I expect the same thing to happen and am surprised when the song continues. Then, of course, there was the actual recording process. Coordination of hitting the "record" button while trying to cue up the desired track on an album was a delicate ballet, both physical and aural.

I would make special mixtapes for long trips, like regular family journeys to Florida. Knowing my wife would be in the car changed the contents of mixtapes. With her unusual combined adoration for The Grateful Dead and 60s bubblegum pop, I would always take care to include a few extended hippie jams and at least one appearance of either Hitchin' a Ride or Oh Babe, What Would You Say. I was careful to avoid fast-forward bait like Led Zeppelin or David Bowie (except for Under Pressure, the Thin White Duke's collaboration with Queen. Curiously, Mrs. P disliked and rejected the majority of Queen's own catalog. Go figure?).

As technology progressed, the once-mighty cassette was soon unseated by the compact disc. Although the term "mixtape" stuck, there was no longer any actual tape involved and making them became a whole lot easier. Songs could be collected from any number of sources — your own CD library or a host of websites offering music files to downloaded — legal or otherwise. In the days of Limewire and Napster, music was available everywhere — quickly, conveniently and, best of all, it was free. I had thousands and thousands of songs in the digital mp3 format. I would make CD mixtapes nearly everyday, arranging and rearranging songs in a process that was as easy as dragging and dropping file names into a window on my computer. The CD program even told me how much time remained on my proposed collection, thus eliminating a repeat of the Magnificent Seven incident. I still come across these CDs in my car, usually stuffed under my seat. Every once in while, I'll pop one in to my dashboard CD player. It's like a time capsule of songs that were experiencing popularity for a fleeting period, now quaint and nearly forgotten. It's interesting to trace the progression of my musical tastes. Run-DMC, who made many appearances on early mixtapes, were entirely absent from later volumes abundant with Lyle Lovett and Brian Setzer. Squeeze and Elvis Costello gave way to Wilco and Beck.

My son, a music aficionado from the time he was a pre-teen, eventually took over duties of programming the family's in-car listening experience. His CD mixtapes were the precursor to his chosen profession. He is now a DJ on a Philadelphia radio station. It's cool to know that he honed his skills while hunched over the laptop in his bedroom.

Another victim of advancing technology, the CD has found itself falling out of favor, replaced by the purely electronic medium of the iPod. The "mixtape" was no longer confined to a ninety minute run time. Oh, and the "mixtape" had found itself with a new name — the "playlist." On a recent trip to Florida with my wife, my son and his girlfriend, our music was supplied by merely plugging my son's iPod into an adapter that, in turn, plugged into our 2003 Toyota's cassette deck. Although our car is a lagging a bit in the technology department, the irony is still apparent.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

well, don't waste your time waiting

I was clicking away on the Internet and I stopped to read an article on a particular webpage. Because I live in the Philadelphia area and it was early December, this banner ad popped up in the middle of the story I was reading:

Yes sir, our good friend Bruce Springsteen was coming to Philadelphia. He just released a sprawling, seven-disc box set called The Ties That Bind, a comprehensive collection of songs, demos, outtakes and performances from the pivotal The River-era of the venerable Jersey rocker's career. It features the original The River album along with tracks that The Boss deemed sub-par enough to leave off the disc in 1980, but good enough for the fans that have stood by his side for the next 35 years. And, as if the flood of audio wasn't enough, there's four hours of never-before-seen footage of Bruce performing these songs, rehearsing these songs, talking about these songs and burning these songs into two stone tablets with fire from his fingertips. 

So, in order to promote this release and sell the faithful followers on a set of essentially Springsteen cast-offs, rejects and filler, he's springing the remainder of the E Street Band from their various retirement facilities and dragging them on the road to recreate the whole The River experience for those who saw it the first time around (like me) and those too young to have witnessed it.

That's right. I saw The guitar-slingin' Jersey Devil for the very first time on December 9, 1980 when The River tour made a stop at the Philadelphia Spectrum. It was one of the best concerts I have ever seen. He was magical and fully dazzled the audience. Bruce and his band played a marathon three-hour set, delivering their "Detroit Medley" encore with the house lights on and oblivious to the fact that Mark David Chapman was shooting John Lennon to death just 96 miles away. 

After that, I saw Springsteen two more times and the spell was broken. Then, he released Lucky Town and Human Touch simultaneously and I was all done with the Bruce Springsteen portion of my life. I was his biggest fan. I still know every single lyric to Lost in the Flood and Incident on 57th Street but now, I couldn't name a Springsteen song that came out after 1985.

So, just out of pure curiosity, I clicked on the banner. I was immediately taken here:

The Wells Fargo Center, the current multi-purpose venue that replaced the outdated (and now long-gone) Spectrum, had placed me in a "virtual waiting room." According to the website, due to the heavy demand for tickets, I was relegated to watching an animated circle of dots draw and redraw itself until I was connected to the actual ticket-purchasing section of their web presence. Well, I had no intention of purchasing tickets, but, I do have a sense of adventure so I waited to see how long it took until I was given the opportunity to actually buy tickets. 

One minute.

Two minutes.

Three minutes. I opened another tab.

Ten minutes.

I read an article. I checked my email. I clicked through a pop-up to see what had become of the cast of F-Troop.

Twenty minutes. That circle had orbited itself about a zillion times.

Thirty-minutes. I went and got a cup of coffee. When I came back, a new graphic appeared, this one offering the option to request the best available tickets for the February 12 performance in Philadelphia. Again, my curious finger clicked the "find tickets" button and it returned with a pair located on an upper level section at a price of $150 each, not including the additional convenience and service charges. The tickets on the secondary market threaten to command upwards of three-hundred dollars a pop.

I laughed to myself. My first concert — Alice Cooper — cost me $6.50 for a ticket. That was the going rate, with a few topping out at ten bucks (Elton John comes to mind.) When I saw Bruce Springsteen in 1980, nineteen-year-old Josh Pincus had to scrape together an unheard of $15 for admission. Thirty-five years later, time had tacked a zero at the end of that already steep price. 

I imagine that the shows on this tour will sell out. I imagine Bruce Springsteen will make a ton of money to add to the ton of money he already has. I imagine the money he will make for touring in support of an album that is thirty-five years old will give him great satisfaction. The one-time working class guy who grew up out behind the dynamo near the darkness on the edge of town is living the "American Dream."

The ties that bind indeed.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

happy birthday to me

Yesterday was my 54th birthday. Yeah, no big deal. 54 isn't exactly a milestone age, unless of course, you consider the alternative.

I was thinking about all of the significant events that occurred in my lifetime (so far). I realize that 54 years, in the great scheme of things, is not a particularly long time, however an awful lot of history was made in that time.

A president was assassinated and serious attempts were made on the lives of eight more. A couple were nearly successful.

The Beatles rose to huge popularity and, at this time, two members have passed away.

A full trade embargo against Cuba was put in place and lifted.

The population of the world doubled.

The Walt Disney Company increased its theme park presence from one to five (soon to be six).

The first man walked on the moon. That man has since passed away.

The Berlin Wall was constructed and demolished.

The United States elected its first African-American president.

The 20th Century became the 21st Century

There have been six popes, two of them in the 21st Century. One of them resigned. 

A President of the United States resigned. Another was impeached.

The Woodstock Music & Art Fair happened.

Cellphones.

Cable television. VCRs. DVD players. Blu-Ray. Netflix. (The rise and fall of the video rental.)

Walkman. Discman. iPod.

And the internet... which allows for this blog.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

from a park you can hear the happy sounds from a carousel

Early on Sunday morning, Mrs. P and I hopped in the car and headed up the Pennsylvania Turnpike. Somewhere along the way, we must have driven through a time portal. That was our conclusion when we pulled into the expansive, grass-covered parking lot of Knoebels.

Does your theme park have a giant cake?

Tucked away in a pastoral wooded area known as "Peggy's Valley" when it first opened its gates in 1926, Knoebels is something of an anachronistic anomaly. It hearkens back to a time when families would pack a wicker picnic basket filled with sandwiches, potato salad and big jug of lemonade for an al fresco meal in a tree-lined grove. When little kids would get excited to ride on a beautifully carved and painted wooden horse to the soundtrack of the calliope, breathlessly churning out an "oompah oompah" rhythm. When older boys and girls would race to grab the coveted first car of the roller coaster, then dare each other to loosen their grip on the safety bar as they "wooshed" down the rickety hills and thrilling curves. Well, that still exists at Knoebels, despite the advancement in amusement ride technology and engineering and the sprawl of modern theme parks.

Does Disney
know about this?

However, Knoebels very existence is a real head-scratcher. Parking at Knoebels is free and there is no admission charge to pass through the entrance. The park still uses paper tickets for rides and each ride is individually priced. The roller coasters and similar thrill rides cost a mere three dollars to ride. A spin through the award-winning* Haunted Mansion will set you back two dollars and the kiddie rides (a lot of 'em and they all looked looked like a whole lotta fun!) are just a buck! From the sounds of squeals and screams, riders seemed to be having the time of their lives.

As we strolled through the oddly-configured walkways, we saw smiles everywhere. Smiling parents. Smiling teens. Smiling children. This is a notable contrast to the anger-filled Dad berating his crying children at the entrance to Disney's Magic Kingdom. ("Do you know how much this goddamn trip is costing me? Stop that goddamn crying RIGHT NOW! You're gonna have a good time if I have to beat one out of you!" Happiest Place on Earth, indeed.)

Penny candy? What year is this?

We saw a couple of free shows — a hokey ventriloquist telling lame jokes, and later, a delightful improv fairy tale, featuring costumed narrators and enthusiastic audience participation. We watched kids ride on kiddie rides that we rode on as children. An arcade attendant set us up with a few free games of Fascination, an old-time arcade game with rubber balls and flashing lights, sort of like Bingo. We won a pair of licorice whips and a plastic dinosaur. I bought a soft pretzel and my wife bought a handful of penny candy from a huge display, the likes of which we had not seen since we were kids. The posted prices for food were so incredibly cheap, I thought they may have been misprints. We were quite content to meander along the winding paths that transverse the self-proclaimed "America's largest free admission amusement park," and I decided that this place was for people who have never heard of Walt Disney World. And, unlike that famous Florida theme park, we spent a grand total of four dollars over the course of our five-hour visit. (We opted not to go on any rides.)

This actually defies explanation.

In these days of bigger and better, theme parks plan and devise ways to outdo their competition. With 3D simulators whose seats vibrate to triple-looping roller coasters to ultra-themed attractions that immerse the rider into the middle of their favorite movie, TV show or comic strip, industry heavyweights like Disney, Universal and Six Flags constantly vie for increased attendance and increased income.

So, is there still room in this world for a place like Knoebels?

Well, the abundant smiles and laughter told me: "yes."

www.joshpincusiscrying.com



*It has been named a favorite for over 10 years by Dark Ride and Funhouse Enthusiasts. There's an organization for everyone!

the times they are a-telling and the changing isn't free

This week marks the thirtieth anniversary of the day Mrs. P and I tied the proverbial knot of matrimony before a three-ring circus of family and friends.

We were married in 1984, the year synonymous with George Orwell's ominous novel of a dystopian future. When written in 1948, Orwell envisioned a stark, oppressive society, but he also, unknowingly, predicted things that actually came to be, including two-way "telescreens," which can be compared to today's Skype and appearance-altering plastic surgery, in addition to tight governmental control of public information. But in the 30 years that have elapsed since 1984, many things that were once commonplace, have become extinct and are now regarded as "quaint," while other things that are currently used on a daily basis, didn't even exist. Thirty years is a longer period of time than you may realize.

For instance...

The new Mrs. P and I set out for our honeymoon on the day that the Philadelphia Stars, the hometown representatives in the fledgling USFL summertime football league, celebrated their only championship before relocating to Baltimore. The ill-fated league folded after just one more season. Our honeymoon destination was the Walt Disney World resort and its newly-added, separately-gated theme park, EPCOT (then called EPCOT Center). Hollywood Studios and Animal Kingdom, as well as seventeen hotels, two water parks and the Disney Vacation Club, were all mere twinkles on the drawing board. We drove to central Florida without the aid of a cellphone. Our in-car entertainment was provided by the trusty in-dash cassette tape deck and a bunch of custom-recorded "mix tapes." This was years before a CD player was purchased for our home and nearly two decades before I owned an iPod. Our route was plotted by 1984's version of a GPS. The "TripTic," as it was called, was a multi-page, intricately-folded document, that included custom maps and highlighted places of interest. It needed to be ordered from "Triple A" (the American Automobile Association) and preparation took several weeks. It arrived accompanied by a collection of thick booklets filled with hotel listings for each state through which the designated route passed. Vacation memories were captured on film that had to be developed. Postcards were mailed to loved ones at home, as email and texting were concepts straight from The Jetsons.

Those two crazy kids.

Upon our return from Florida, our top priority in home entertainment was the purchase of a VCR. (DVD players? No such thing existed.) Our state-of-the-art Mitsubishi model set us back $800, but it did include the capability of setting a timer to record shows automatically, provided the device's clock was properly set. We, of course, were limited to the offerings on broadcast television, as cable TV would not be available within the Philadelphia city limits for another decade.

Words like "modem," "wifi" and even "internet" didn't exist. We wouldn't purchase a home computer until the early 90s. There was no concern with posting a status on Facebook. Mark Zuckerberg wasn't born until several months after our wedding reception. There was no Candy Crush. No Google. No Wikipedia. An upstart company called Microsoft had just partnered with IBM to develop a graphical computer operating system called "Windows," but that couldn't possibly be of any concern to us. eBay, the online auction/marketplace that provides my wife with her livelihood, would not go live for another dozen years. Jeez, fax machines, a piece of fascinating technology that fizzled out almost as soon as it appeared, were still a ways off. And, in a funny bit of irony, there was no such thing as a blog.

But the most confounding thing is that someone was able to put up with me for thirty years.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com