this is cracker soul

Mrs. Pincus and I got married in July 1984. For our honeymoon, we drove to Walt Disney World in Orlando, Florida — foreshadowing what would become a nearly annual trip for us and the eventual extended Pincus family. The drive was a real adventure for the newly-wed Pincuses. As Mrs. P sat behind the wheel of our little maroon Datsun, I studied the map provided by AAA and acted as navigator for our route down Southbound I-95. We stopped at outlet stores and roadside stands offering useless souvenir tchotchkes of whatever locale we were passing through. As we ventured deeper and deeper into the uncharted southern states (well... uncharted for us anyway), we came upon some establishments we had never seen before. We ate our first dinner as husband and wife (aside from the one we had at our wedding — a meal which we both actually skipped), at a place called Aunt Sarah's Pancake House, adjacent to the hotel at which we stopped on our first night. Aunt Sarah's was once a small but thriving chain in the southern United States, content with its status and not threatened by national chains like IHOP. Just as long as Aunt Sarah kept slinging pancakes within a specific area, everyone would get along just fine. (After 17 years of "playing nice," Aunt Sarah's has sadly gone out of business.)

Hitting the road again on the morning of Day Two, we visited our share of Stuckey's, the granddaddy of roadside rest stops. Stuckey's, dating back to the 1930s, once boasted nearly 400 locations across 30 states. Over 4000 billboards nationwide announced the distances to the next store to weary travelers. It was a place to get gas, stretch your legs, visit a rest room of questionable cleanliness and purchase a variety of Southern-style treats like boiled peanuts and pecan log rolls. It was also a window into a culture that a Northerner who had never crossed the Mason-Dixon Line had ever experienced. The flagpole in the parking lot usually flew a large Confederate flag and among the hand fans, sunglasses and snow globes, one could easily find a selection of items depicting "playful" racist sentiment amid images of kerchief-wearing "Mammies" and sinewy, overall-clad African-American children eating watermelons. In 1984, still many years away from the disappearance of such items from Stuckey's shelves, Mrs. P and I marveled at their stock in uncomfortable silence.

Somewhere in North Carolina, we chanced upon our very first Cracker Barrel. We had passed several billboards promising an "old country store" experience, its message illustrated with the help of a friendly-looking country gentleman in a rocking chair leaning on — what else? — a cracker barrel. Up ahead, set back a bit from the six-lanes of I-95, was a rustic little building with a long front porch outfitted with a line of high-backed rocking chairs. Mrs. P veered the car onto the small service road that connected the highway to the parking lot. We parked, walked across the crunchy gravel that covered the lot and stepped up on the porch towards the big wooden entrance doors. Between a few of the rockers were cloth checkerboards on barrels and an array of red and black checkers in position and ready for a new game. The front doors opened to the sound of a tinkling bell, purposely placed to evoke visons of ol' Mr. Drucker or reliable Nels stationed behind the counter of Oleson's Mercantile. 

With beauty shots of fried chicken and fresh sunny-side up eggs splashed across forty-foot billboards, we were of the understanding that Cracker Barrel was a restaurant. But once inside, we were momentarily startled, believing we had mistakenly entered the annual Mayberry Church Bazaar, half expecting to find Aunt Bee and Clara Edwards duking it out over a box of Christmas decorations. Cracker Barrel offers the best of both worlds for the typical vacationer traveling by automobile. There's a roomful of pseudo-country crafts, knick-knacks and clothing along with a large selection of snacks, condiments, beverages and cast-iron vessels in which they can be prepared. Tucked in a nearly-obscured corner is the entrance to the actual restaurant — a large, open, plank-floored dining room with tables attended to by a battalion of gingham-and-denim dressed young ladies just trying get enough money to get through the next semester of college. 

Let me tell you something, as a person descended from the group of people who fought on the non-bigoted side of the Civil War, I was a wee bit uneasy meandering around the faux-homey displays in the Cracker Barrel retail area. As a person who was raised Jewish — albeit a very casual and minimally observant version of Judaism — my feeling of uneasiness was heightened. There was just something about the place that made me feel I didn't belong. From my standpoint, Cracker Barrel is not for everyone. Sure, on the surface, it appears very welcoming and very hospitable — a comforting oasis on the road to one's vacation destination. But, there's an underlying feeling of scrutiny and a palpable air of non-Heimisha that permeates Cracker Barrel. I can't quite explain it, but ask one of your Jewish friends (assuming you have at least one). They'll know what I'm talking about. They'll know that you shouldn't dare ask for a bagel to accompany your country breakfast plate. (As the kids say: "IYKYK.")

Over the years and through many journeys down I-95, my family and I stopped at Cracker Barrels. We noticed that locations began popping up more frequently and closer in proximity to one another. We even ate in Cracker Barrel's dining rooms one or two times, often finding it very difficult to find an entrée (or even a side order) that fit into the criteria of a family that keeps Kosher (like mine). A lot of Cracker Barrel's victual offerings are proudly, if not stealthily, cooked in or with some sort of fat rendered from an animal that doesn't possess a cloven hoof or chew its cud. (You have the internet. Google the "rules of kashrut" and settle back for a wild read.) Pancakes or eggs were a safe bet, but corn muffins and hash browns were inexplicably prepared with bacon fat. After a while, the Pincuses wised up and stopped elsewhere for meals along the 900+ mile trip. We still stopped at Cracker Barrels here and there, just not to eat.

Just last weekend, Mrs. P and I attended a collector show in Maryland, a couple of hours drive from our suburban Philadelphia home. The COVID-19 pandemic, coupled with some pressing family issues, have kept us grounded for the past few years... more specifically, keeping my wife from engaging in one of her favorite activities — road tripping. Mrs. Pincus loves to drive. Loves it! Almost as much as I hate driving. In our nearly forty years of marriage, we've driven to a lot of places. (Well, she's driven. I just sat in the passenger's seat and gazed out the window like a puppy.) But Mrs. P loves tooling along, window down, wind blowing, fiddling with the radio buttons and taking in the whole carefree experience. On our way home from Maryland, we found ourselves on familiar I-95 in the once-familiar position of looking for a place to have dinner... harkening back to those long-gone days of checking a AAA TripTik for rest stops. Of course, the TripTik has gone the way of the dinosaur in these instant gratification days of the internet. Now I just merely Googled "restaurants near me" and, with the mobile GPS coordinates emitted by my phone, the glorious internet guided us to a selection of chain and local restaurants available at the next exit. One of those places was a Cracker Barrel. Mrs. P lit up. "Hey, let's give Cracker Barrel a shot!" (We had briefly decided on Red Robin, but weren't committed.)

Mrs. Pincus steered the car off the highway and followed the posted directional signs to Cracker Barrel. A narrow road looped around the parking lot of a Hampton Inn where, nestled behind a bank of landscaped trees and bushes, was the familiar rustic porch of Cracker Barrel. The rocking chairs on the porch were now constructed with some poly-carbonite-neo-fiber-wood-like alternative, but their appearance brought back memories circa our honeymoon trip. We entered the building and were immediately transported back decades. The store stock was the same. Sure, things were a bit updated, but there were still plenty of knurled wood plaques with "WELCOME" painted in distressed pink letters. There were displays of smiling Christmas snowmen and rural-looking Halloween witches side-by-side. There was a toy section filled with quaint "Wooly Willys" and wooden trains, along with trendy electronic devices and Barbie-themed items. Near the dining room entrance, there was a large area with shelves full of candy and chips and unusual bottled sodas. Mrs. Pincus picked up a few candy packages in hopes of bringing back a little surprise for her parents. She began scanning the packages for a symbol indicating Kosher certification. (This has been a common practice for us. I hope you Googled  "rules of kashrut" like I suggested.) I told her not to bother. Even though we have entered the 21st century and more and more businesses are doing their very best to accommodate the needs of those with specific food aversions, allergies or dietary restrictions based on religious, philosophical or environmental beliefs, Cracker Barrel is still a Southern company with Southern values and, if it weren't for recently-passed laws, would still be flying the ol' Stars and Bars right below Old Glory on their flagpole.

We were seated in the restaurant by a very attentive young lady who handed us menus and returned quickly to fill our coffee mugs. I noticed that Cracker Barrel now offered Impossible™ sausage, the trendy new plant-based meat substitute, alongside their standard fare of pork sausage, pork bacon and pork pork. (Plant-based foods have been a boon for those who keep kosher [Mrs. P] and follow a vegetarian diet [me].) I remember when Cracker Barrel announced that they would be adding plant-based sausage to their menu. The uproar on social media was incredible. Folks (who I was surprised could operate something more complicated than a lawn mower) posted tweets and Facebook comments, expressing their anger with Cracker Barrel's decision. "How dare they buckle to the needs of these "woke" people!" "Keep this plant-based bullshit off the menu! I want my bacon!" "We don't need this crap on our menu! Vegetarians can eat somewhere else!" were just some of the disgruntled sentiment I read. I expected to see someone asking that string beans be removed from the menu, too, " 'cause I don't like string beans!" Cracker Barrel's regular customers are very protective of their beloved rest stop. They want to keep it free of infiltrators with their new-fangled, plant-based, progressive-thinking healthy food and all-inclusive ideals.

After dinner, we paid our check via a sophisticated-looking terminal at the front counter. With our credit card inserted into a slot beneath the tiny screen, we were offered the option to leave a tip in one of three "pre-figured-out for you" dollar amounts. The clientele, however, looked like they would be paying their bill by bartering with provisions from their dirt farm. On my way out the door, I passed a rack filled with CDs by classic country singers as well as Jason Aldeen. There may have been a Confederate flag rolled up in the corner.

Cracker Barrel is an interesting diversion from real life. Try the pancakes. You get your own little bottle of syrup...and maybe a judging glance, if you're lucky.

Y'all come back now, y'hear?

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

another auld lang syne

This story originally appeared on my illustration blog ten years ago. I think it's a good story and I like to revisit good stories because — face it! — some of the crap I write here isn't always worth the pixels they're written on. I am still confounded by anyone who isn't me reading my blog. And if you are one of the tens of loyal readers who have stuck with me, I sincerely thank you and I hope I haven't taken up too much of your time. 

A few notes... The "Randi" that we traveled to Florida with was written about HERE and her life took a decidedly weird turn. And the baby?  Well, the baby is 35 years old now.

Anyway, here's the story about a memorable New Year's Eve. I hope you like it as much as I endured to bring it to you.

New Year's Eve 1986 was the most memorable New Year's Eve for me — and nothing spectacular even happened. It was better than the New Year's Eve when I got stupid drunk and discovered true meaning in Side Two of Pink Floyd's Wish You Were Here. It was better than the New Year's Eve that I dumped Linda Cohen just forty minutes after the ball dropped in Times Square. It was better than New Year's Eve 1999, when I still maintained that it was not the turn of the century no matter what eleventy gazillion people said. No, I will never forget New Year's Eve 1986 and even though I actually slept right through the clock striking midnight, I still remember it fondly it all these years later.

I have loved Walt Disney World since I set foot on those magical grounds in central Florida for the first time in 1981. I took two great summer trips there with friends, followed by a honeymoon with my new bride a few years later. Although, my wife and I love the Disney theme parks and the surrounding attractions (read: outlet malls), the heat and humidity in the Orlando area in July can be uncomfortable. So, we decided to give a December trip a try. The notion of seeing the Magic Kingdom decorated for Christmas heightened our excitement.

The decision to drive the 990 miles to Mickey's Mecca was made without a discussion. Despite the fact that Mrs. P was just informed that she was six weeks pregnant, driving our car was still our preferred choice for transportation. We knew that with a family expansion, our next trip to anywhere would be way off in the unforeseeable future. So, my wife wanted one last long-distance hurrah behind the wheel before the responsibility of parenthood forces us to think rationally. Besides, she loves driving and I love passengering, so it's a match made in heaven — by way of  AAA.

We were joined on this trip by Randi, Mrs. P's longtime closest friend, who was Maid of Honor at our wedding and our choice for godmother to our pending offspring. While I made the arrangements for admission tickets and plotting a route for our journey (in the days before the internet and the GPS), Randi offered to take on the task of booking hotel accommodations near Disney World. A few days before our departure, Randi cheerfully reported that she had secured a hotel.

We loaded up the hatchback of our tiny Nissan with enough essential gear for three adults and we left the day after Christmas, which — as the calendar would have it — was the first night of Chanukah. My ever-prepared spouse packed a small menorah and enough candles to take us through Day Eight of the observance. Judah Maccabee would have been proud. Mrs. P navigated the car south on I-95 and we talked and sang and marveled at the quirky sights along the way (A Cracker Barrel every fifteen feet qualifies as — quirky — in my book). After a long day of driving (and an obligatory stop at South of the Border for God knows what reason!), we pulled into a roadside motel just north of Savannah, Georgia. We just wanted to stretch our legs, eat and sleep so we could arrive fresh and relaxed in Orlando the next afternoon. Plus, we needed to light candles for Chanukah's opening night. We grabbed a quick dinner at the restaurant next to our motel, returned to our room, kindled the holiday flames and hit the sack. We woke early the next morning and headed out to the same restaurant for breakfast. After our morning meal, we came back to find our room had been made up by the attentive housekeeping staff — beds made, fresh towels stacked by the small sink, carpets vacuumed, waste cans emptied. However, the remnants of the previous evening's Chanukah candles were conspicuously untouched. The matchbook lay in the exact same position in which it was left. The melted candle wax, now hardened, stood undisturbed — its frozen drips never reaching the nearly circular, solid puddle of paraffin below. Several unused candles were untouched, still balanced precariously upon one another, just as they had slid from the box eight hours earlier. We figured the chambermaids were horrified and mistook this display for some primitive ritual of black magic, wanting no parts of it. Perhaps they left the room extra clean as a peace offering.

After a full morning on the road, we took the Kissimmee exit on I-4 and began the search for our hotel. Since it was holiday time, the hotels along that stretch of US Route 192 were adorned in Christmas finery. Hundreds of lights twinkled from in and around artificial greenery and from under piles of fake snow, giving the otherwise temperate clime a faux-wintry façade. The changeable signage below each lodging establishment's illuminated logo declared some sort of sentiment of the season. We passed numerous "Happy Holidays," "Seasons Greetings," and the occasional holiday-specific "Merry Christmas," all glowing softly with a welcoming radiance, regardless of the succession of angry "NO VACANCY" signs ablaze just a few inches below. Luckily, we had reservations. The procession of corporate resorts dwindled and we finally located our hotel. It was the last one on the strip before the multi-lane highway yielded to overgrown brush and heat-buckled macadam. The backlit sign proclaimed "Happy Birthday Jesus" in eight-inch high, right-to-the-point Helvetica Bold Caps. This was to be our home for the next five days.

I obtained the key and directions to our room from the office. I pointed to my wife and she pulled the car ahead in the direction of my outstretched finger. I turned the key in the lock (remember — this was 1986 in a technologically-deficient hotel) and the door swung open to reveal a plain room with two plain beds, a plain lamp and plain dresser and, as we soon discovered, a sink without running water. A quick call to the office (on the age-yellowed desk phone) told me that some work was being performed on the pipes and the water should be on in "a little bit." I was not familiar with the Southern chronological time-frame of "a little bit," so we had no choice but to stick it out and wait. After settling in and a casual dinner, we decided to turn in and get an early start tomorrow at the Magic Kingdom. I noticed that instead of a deadbolt and chain, our hotel room door sported a length of rubber hose nailed to the door jamb adjacent to the knob. (I shit you not!) Proper security was achieved by looping the hose around the door knob, followed by praying to the Lord Birthday Boy. I followed the procedure with the hose, but instead of prayer, I opted to slide a chair in front of the door. I put my faith in a heavy object rather than a magical Lamb of God.

The next morning we were jarred awake by a sound. Not a phone ring or an alarm clock or even the sound of wrenches tightening pipes. This was a human sound; a human voice — or two. Through the paper-thin walls, we could hear the unmistakable tones of an argument, and a heated one, at that! It was coming from the adjoining room. While there was no denying that a bitter disagreement was unfolding on the other side of a few inches of plaster and wood, we couldn't make out a single recognizable word. Actually, we could make out four words. Four distinct words.  Four words that were used repeatedly and they came through clear as crystal as though the speaker were at a lecture hall podium. "SHUT THE FUCK UP!" burst forth in staccato rhythm.  Then, some muffled dialogue. Then, some more muffled dialogue, until the fervent crescendo of "shut the fuck up! Shut The Fuck Up! SHUT THE FUCK UP!" pierced the suppressed fracas again, cutting like a machete through softened butter. We were glued to the unseen action, momentarily stopping our preparations for rushing out to a theme park. Suddenly, the explicit (but subdued) sound of a slamming door signified the ruckus had ended. We laughed as we resumed getting ready to start our day. Making our way across the parking lot to our car, we wondered about the "SHUT THE FUCK UP!" family, surmising that if they were here, then they are on vacation and if they are on vacation, then — Dear Lord! — how did they behave at home?

It was odd being in Walt Disney World wrapped in a heavy jacket for warmth, especially after so many previous visits in shorts and T-shirts. Disney World draws tourists from so many areas and so many various climates, the mish-mash of clothing we saw was intriguing. While in a queue line for It's a Small World, we were flanked by a family in parkas (from Florida) and a family in Hawaiian shirts and clam diggers (from Minnesota). The weather was indeed brisk. While waiting for the next performance of The Country Bear Jamboree (re-programmed for the season as The Country Bears' Christmas Vacation), the three of us chatted and planned out our day. In front of us was a harried mother with a baby in the crook of her arm. A small boy, about 6 years-old, ran around her like a blur, screaming, flailing his arms, swinging on the ropes that delineated the queue area. The poor woman was exasperated, trying unsuccessfully to keep the child in check. In front of them were an older couple dressed in Christmas-y sweaters and knit gloves and a single woman roughly the same age. They were quietly talking, perhaps about finally being able to do all the things they hoped to, now that they had reached retirement age. As she talked, the single woman kept craning her neck over the crowds, obviously gauging the arrival of the missing member of their foursome. Soon, a smiling white-haired man, all sweatered and gloved and looking like a missing piece to this retired crew puzzle, approached. He held before him a cardboard tray with four neatly-arranged foam cups, wispy curls of steam escaping from their vented plastic lids. Balancing the tray, he slipped under the ropes, joined his party and began distributing the beverages. Suddenly, the gyrating 6 year-old flung himself forward, his outstretched arms knocking the man off-balance for a second. He regained his footing without spilling a drop, but was noticeably shaken by the unexpected shove. The boy's mother, now mortified, grabbed the youngster's arm with enough force to yank it from its socket and, with baby parked on her hip, pulled him out of line for a overdue lesson in "How to Behave in Public," complete with some hands-on reinforcement.  The two couples looked bewildered, as though they had entered a play in the middle of the second act. With pleading eyes, they silently sought an explanation from us, since we were close enough to bear witness. "Well," I offered, "maybe he was mad that you didn't bring hot cocoa for him."

To celebrate New Year's Eve, Walt Disney World had a veritable smorgasbord of festive events lined up. There would be fireworks and parades and marching bands and a giant mess to clean up the next day and, of course, thousands of people. We crammed as many rides as we could into that afternoon. Our plan was to leave the park, get a fast dinner, grab a nap and come back refreshed and ready for a long night of partying. I followed the "leaving the park" and the "fast dinner" part as per our arrangement, but when it came time for the "nap" portion, I got a little tripped up. Actually, I never woke up. Come to think of it, I don't think I ate dinner. Mrs. P and Randi did, or so they told  me when they came back to our hotel room after midnight to find me fully-clothed and zonked out cross-ways on the bed. The television was blaring with the harrowing story of a deadly casino fire in Puerto Rico and I still slept through the shouting reporters and the wail of sirens. Even the exploding fireworks (that I was missing) from the nearby Disney Resort weren't enough to stir my slumber.

I missed welcoming the New Year for the first time in ages. So, why was New Year's Eve 1986 so memorable? It was the gateway to 1987; the year life changed for Mr. and Mrs. Pincus. In eight months, we welcomed something much better than a new year.

We welcomed our son.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

shout it out loud

Mrs. Pincus and I were driving back to Philadelphia after a weekend getaway on the southern coast of Connecticut. Although it's just a little over three hours away and Mrs. P loves to drive, we found that a quick pull-over at one of the many rest stops that dot I-95 would be just the revitalizing respite our little journey needed.

He did not live here.

This particular one was named in honor of noted inventor (and sometime asshole) Thomas Edison and sits at mile marker 92.9 on the New Jersey Turnpike. Once my excitement subsided when I realized that this was not Thomas Edison's boyhood home but just a collection of fast food joints, over-priced New Jersey souvenirs and much-appreciated public bathrooms, I happily welcomed a fresh cup of coffee from a pretentious little counter service foodery called Pret-A-Manger. 

Away in a...

We made our way past the unwashed masses gathered in the queue at the Burger King as we headed towards the unfamiliar Pret-A-Manger, whose offerings, according to the signs outside the building, included "organic coffee." Wow! That sounded pretty good/exotic/expensive. It turns out, it was just one of those. The latter, to be exact. It was burning hot and no amount of cream and sweetener could mask the overpowering bitterness of its taste. Now, my wife and I drink a lot of coffee, but we are, by no means connoisseurs. We like Wawa's coffee (a local legend among the ranks of convenience stores) and we have come around on the coffee from Dunkin Donuts (or "Dunkin" as they now wish to be called). We don't like the stuff that is peddled by java powerhouse Starbuck's. Their coffee always tastes burnt and for six bucks a pop — coffee should not taste burnt. I know we are in the minority on this opinion, but aren't we all entitled to that? (I'll answer for you. "Yes." The answer is "Yes.")

We took our lousy coffee back out to our car. For a Sunday afternoon in the middle of North Jersey, the parking lot was packed! And I do mean packed! There were barely any spaces available for weary travelers to stop, park, stretch their legs and enjoy a terrible cup of coffee. The always-prepared Mrs. P (she was a Girl Scout after all)  had packed a small cooler with yogurt, cut up vegetables and hummus and fruit to serve as a quick mid-day snack before getting back on the road for the home stretch of our trip. 

Little did we know, there would be entertainment as we ate.

Can you hear me now?

Just across from where our car was parked, a man was pacing feverishly while shouting into his cellphone. He was filled with purpose, gesturing wildly with his free hand, as he circled the confines of a rare empty parking space. Several hopeful cars slowly approached his domain only to sheepishly drive off when they saw the threat of confrontation. This guy was pissed about something! And whoever was on the receiving end of his electronic wrath was getting a good chunk of this guy's mind. Or, maybe he wasn't angry. To tell the truth, he was too far away for us to make out any actual words. He could have been happily giving praise and hearty congratulations to whoever was listening on the other end. What we did know is that he was strutting and prancing around that space like a cross between 1970s-era Mick Jagger and Al Pacino in front of the bank in Dog Day Afternoon. And he was yelling at the top of his lungs.

I can top that.

The silver car parked in the space adjacent to his territory, we realized, belonged to him. And the woman who was leaning on the open passenger-side door was his wife — or at least his traveling companion. Guess what she was doing? She was screaming into her cellphone rivaling her male counterpart. Her body language was equally as animated — flailing arms, pacing like a cornered lioness. Watching the two of them was like watching a meticulously choreographed performance. Each participant providing an individual display, yet together, their similar movements in perfect synchronization.

By this time, the man had completed all he needed to say to the party to whom he was speaking/shouting. He walked towards his car and grabbed the door handle... but suddenly let it go to return to its normal position. He then turned in the direction of the rear of his car. Fumbling momentarily with his keys, he pressed a button on a key fob and the car's truck popped open. He leaned into the trunk, obviously searching through whatever was in there to find something specific. And boy! did he. He extracted a large liquor bottle filled with dark brown liquid. He uncapped the bottle and took a healthy gulp  — not a taste or a swig — a big, chugging gulp! He looked around a bit as he replaced the bottle. I don't know who or what he was checking for, because his little afternoon nip was in full view of everyone who was parked nearby, walking to or from their cars or sitting in their vehicles (like us). Satisfied with his little "booster shot," the man got behind the steering wheel and, after a very brief verbal exchange with the woman — who had also finished her phone conversation — sped off at a speed a bit too fast for a busy parking lot filled with weary families anxious for a little rest before the last leg of vacation.

People sure can be entertaining. Especially when they don't know they're the entertainment.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

put out the fire

This story was written nearly two years ago, prior to the global COVID-19 pandemic.— JPiC

Mrs. Pincus and I just returned from a cruise that departed from Port Canaveral, Florida. We opted to drive to the Sunshine State from our suburban Philadelphia home. We covered the approximate 16-hour drive over the course of two days, leaving on a Thursday before the sun came up and taking the second leg at a more leisurely pace. We arrived at our destination — a somewhat seedy Best Western motel in Titusville that offered a shuttle and parking for the length of our trip — in the late afternoon on Friday. At the conclusion of our cruise, we hopped into our waiting car for the return trip. We got a late start, but pressed on through the south until Mrs Pincus had had it for the day. I secured a room at a Hampton Inn in Lumberton, North Carolina and we headed across the street to a shopping center to grab a quick take-out dinner to enjoy in our room.

Mrs. P had noticed a sign for "Firehouse Subs," a chain for which I had seen commercials but never had the opportunity to patronize. Actually, we are kind of partial to a few Philadelphia sandwich shops, regularly steering clear of the Subway chain after several "less-than-favorable" experiences over the years. Honestly, I don't even know if there are Firehouse Subs in our area. (A quick Google search shows me that the closest one to my house is 13.1 miles away..... pass.) Curiously, the commercials for Firehouse Subs stuck with me, as I found it unusual that they focused primarily on the fact that each purchase benefited community firefighters. There were numerous shots of firefighters in full gear, along with scenes of fire stations, fire fighting equipment and fire engines. There was little mention of the food or even if it was good.

Anxious to eat after a long drive, we decided to give Firehouse Subs a try. How bad could it be? Besides, it certainly wasn't going to be our last meal ever.

The brightly-light store was nearly deserted. One table was occupied by a burly man clad in the uniform of local law enforcement. He stared off into space as he shoved the final bit of a drippy sub into his maw. We turned our attention to the massive and way-too-confusing menu board that covered the entire wall behind the food prep area. The overly-wordy menu was dotted with impossibly delicious-looking subs, piled high with succulent meats and colorful vegetables glistening with fresh-washed goodness. Now, Mrs. Pincus and I don't eat meat. Actually, I never eat meat and Mrs P follows a strictly kosher diet, so when we eat outside of our home, we both eat as vegetarians. Firehouse Subs doesn't seem to accommodate the vegetarian diet, offering a single "Veggie" sub among its numerous animal-flesh options. We asked the young lady at the cash register about a custom sandwich containing just cheese and vegetables. She stared back at us, as though we had addressed her in an African Khoisan language that employs a series of "clicks." It took several attempts at an explanation until she simply stated that we could just order a meat sub without the meat. (For a second, I felt like Jack Nicholson ordering wheat toast in Five Easy Pieces.) Mrs. P specified that she did not want deli mustard, but would prefer cucumbers on her sandwich. I asked that my sandwich did not include tomatoes. The young lady seemed to understand our request and set off to begin preparing our order. We paid and our receipt was handed down the assembly line to another disinterested young lady who would be tasked with assembling our sandwiches. The unusually high counter prevented us from watching our order being made, making it impossible to see that deli mustard was liberally applied on the roll that would contain Mrs. Pincus' sub (without the requested cucumbers) and that my sandwich was topped with two thick slices of tomato.

During the way-too-long preparation process (the place was empty of customers), two more young ladies, dressed in Firehouse Subs uniforms, bounded through the front door, carrying a cardboard tray laden with an assortment of hot and cold drinks from the Starbucks next door. They squealed with delight as they distributed the various liquid concoctions to the other Firehouse Subs employees. The distribution was accompanied by a detailed play-by-play recap of the entire ordering process at Starbucks. Suddenly, the fulfilling of our sandwich order took a back seat as full attention was given to the frothy and condensation-covered cups from Starbucks, along with additional analyzation of each individual beverage order. Finally, our sandwiches were wrapped in Firehouse Subs branded paper and placed in Firehouse Subs branded hinged trays, then into a large Firehouse Subs branded bag with a wad of Firehouse Subs napkins.

Nothing at Firehouse Subs looks like this.

We returned to our hotel room. I emptied the bag and Mrs. P ripped the bag in two, creating improvised place mats. We each opened our trays and unwrapped our subs. In no way did they come close to resembling those beautiful photos on the  menu board. They were misshapen, sloppy, drippy assemblages, flattened by the too-small containers and fairly unappetizing. But, it was 9:30 and we had been stuck in the car all day. So we suffered. And I picked the tomatoes off my sub before I ate it.

Mrs. Pincus fired off an email to the folks at Firehouse Subs, recounting the dissatisfaction with our experience. Surprisingly, they responded pretty quickly with a very apologetic reply. They told us that the issue would be addressed at a staff meeting and subsequent training would be implemented. They reiterated that everything we experienced goes against company policy and they hoped the offer of a gift card would entice us to return for a second chance. My wife thanked them for the offer. She said we would be happy to give it another try, but a little closer to home. Lumberton, North Carolina is a little far to go for a disappointing sandwich.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

beyond the sea

I'll be honest with you. It's kind of tough to write a weekly blog post when you haven't left the house in six months. I guess I could write about watching television.. Oh, wait... I did that already. I guess I could write about what I've eaten. Oh, wait... I've done that, too. Well, how about I tell a funny story that I don't think I told before? Okay. Here goes...

Remember vacations? Remember when we took vacations? Well, Mrs. Pincus and I have taken a vacation nearly year that we've been married. In 2013, we took our first cruise and that has been our main choice of vacation every year since. We even took two cruises in some of those years. Although we've had many varied adventures on our various cruises, they have really all been pretty much the same. That's not a bad thing. We enjoyed each one, but the "cruise experience" for us doesn't really change from one cruise to the next. Perhaps. it's because we do a lot of the same activities on every cruise — buffet, shows, trivia contest, interactive games, casino, hokey singers in a lounge. Not necessarily in that order, but we would participate in all of those activities at some time during our one week stay aboard a giant, floating "city on the seas." 

One particular morning, on one of these cruises (I actually forget which one, but it doesn't really make a difference), we were eating our breakfast out on the deck just outside of the ship's buffet. Actually, we had just come from the buffet line, where we piled our plates high with a selection of breakfast foods, as well as coffee and and juice. Now we had located an empty table in a shady area outside in the fresh Caribbean air, but covered by an upper deck overhang that afforded protection from the direct rays of the tropical sun.

Mrs. P and I were enjoying our morning meal, when we noticed two young men surveying the immediate area for an empty table. They were in their 20s, most likely traveling together, possibly coming off an evening of drinking and romantic companionship courtesy of someone they didn't know 24 hours earlier. They stood at the outer edge of the assembly of tables and chairs, slowly swiveling their heads and squinting to zero in on a place to set their overly-laden plates. (And I do mean "overly-laden." Looking at what they had collected from the buffet, I wondered if anything was left for the other passengers.) 

The two fellows spotted a dining room worker just clearing away the dishes and utensils from the previous diners, so they quickly moved in and snagged the newly-cleaned table. The table was just a few feet from where Mrs. P and I were seated. We nodded and offered a friendly "good morning" to the guys, as we "cruise veterans" have become accustomed to doing after a day or two aboard ship. The prevailing atmosphere becomes one of instant camaraderie — a sort of "we're all in this together" feeling, not unlike adult summer camp. They hesitantly nodded back and returned half-hearted smiles. Then, we watched as they placed their plates on the table's surface, turned their backs and looked around again, mumbling something about "where's the coffee?" They wandered off in search of java, leaving their breakfast-filled platters unattended, unguarded and very vulnerable.

This was a foolish move.

As soon as the two guys walked away from their table and anticipated breakfast, a large seagull swooped down and began investigating the situation. You see, several hours earlier, while most of the passengers were still asleep in their cabins — either enjoying a lazy slumber as vacationers or nursing the adverse effects of late-night reveling — the captain had guided the vessel into a predetermined port in keeping with the cruise itinerary. Which port? Who knows? After so many cruises, one pastel-camouflaged, distressed Caribbean harbor looks like all the others. Out in the open water, the animal world is sparsely represented — maybe a single, circling bird or the solitary jumping dolphin. But, in port, the seagulls are abundant and always in search of food scraps to scavenge. This particular seabird had hit the avian jackpot. Here were two enormous, bird-ready smorgasbords and no one around on "shooing away" duty. The feathered filcher gingerly pranced around on the table top for a bit before going full in on a stack of waffles with his beak. Mrs. Pincus and I watched in silent horrified amazement as bits of food flew up with each of the bird's rapid-fire pecks. The guys had still not returned and the gull was taking full advantage, enjoying an array of bacon, croissants, pancakes and — however cannibalistic — scrambled eggs. Either content or frightened, the bird finally flew away. From the far side of the dining area, one of the "20-something" fellows approached the table, his fingers curled around the porcelain handle of a steaming cup of coffee.

Mrs. Pincus — her involuntary motherly instincts kicking in — spoke up promptly before the young man lifted a fork or even sat down. "Excuse me," she began, raising her voice slightly to accommodate the distance between our tables, "I wouldn't eat that." The guy looked around at first, then focused on us, once he realized from where the warning was coming. He cocked his head inquisitively and replied, "Why not?"

Mrs. Pincus explained that, in his brief absence, a seagull had made a personal feast of the unprotected food they had left. The guy looked at us. Then, he looked at the two plates on the table. He lowered his head a bit and scrutinized the plates a bit more closely, visually probing the food for tell-tale signs of invasion to corroborate my wife's story. He looked up and, gesturing with his extended forefinger, he asked, "Both plates... or just mine?"

"Both, I think.," Mrs. Pincus answered. She furrowed her brow and a sort of disgusted grimace crossed her lips.

Just then, the guy was joined by his traveling companion. He saw his friend was having a conversation with some lady that he didn't know and asked "Hey, what's up?" His now-informed buddy related my wife's eyewitness account of the winged food thief. The two of them studied their plates, which, honestly, looked relatively the same as before they embarked on their coffee objective. As they continued to assess the extent of the damage, I finally interjected. "Y'know, you can just go get another plate of food," I said, "It's included in your trip. You can get as much as you like."

They didn't seem too motivated to go through the process of re-assembling "the perfect breakfast," as though months of rigorous preparation had led up to this very moment. Their body language and lack of urgency seemed to indicate that they would never achieve the exact balance of waffles and syrup or the precise ratio of orange marmalade to corn muffin surface area.

Mrs. Pincus went into full maternal mode. "Just go get another plate, boys.," she insisted. I had heard this tone many, many times when my son was younger. I also remember my own mother's stern command when I required guidance I didn't know I needed. Reluctantly, the two travelers headed back in the direction of the buffet, which was still open for another few hours and fully stocked with copious quantities of every single item that they had selected before. With a little thought and effort, they could easily duplicate their platters right down to the last pat of butter and golden square of hash browned potato. Hell, they could even grab that oversized lemon Danish they passed up on their first go-round. They could even grab two.

Their mothers would have been very pleased.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

keep Baltimore beautiful

Well, we just returned from yet another cruise — our second one this year. We sailed on the Carnival Pride. This was our first cruise that left from the port of Baltimore, the so-called "Charm City," a misnomer if I ever heard one.

When Mrs. Pincus booked this trip, she arranged for an overnight stay and a shuttle to the cruise terminal through an online service called "Park Sleep Fly." (Wasn't there a serial killer with that nickname?) We packed our luggage and headed south on I-95 towards the Best Western BWI Airport Inn & Suites. For around a hundred bucks, they offered a room for overnight, parking for our car for the week we'd be away and shuttle service to the pier — plus a complimentary breakfast in the morning. Sounds good? Yeah..... we'll see.

We followed the directions as the indispensable Waze app guided us to our destination. Exiting I-895, Mrs. P navigated through what can only be described as a seedy-looking neighborhood, eventually arriving at our accommodations situated in a small courtyard at the end of Belle Grove Road, just past two auto body salvage yards.

The first thing I noticed as we pulled into the parking lot was the distinct lack of "Best Western" signage and branding. Nowhere was there any indication that this hotel was part of the Best Western chain. The backlit sign at the street very plainly identified the place as "BWI Airport Inn and Suites" The front of the building bore no signs at all. I found this strange and a bit suspicious. We parked and entered the building at the lobby. It looked like a million hotels we've seen (and passed) along the I-95 corridor, but still, not a single "Best Western" anything in sight. There was a large seating area opposite the front desk that was obvious used for the included breakfast in the morning. Mrs. Pincus confirmed our reservation with the slutty-looking blond behind the desk. We were informed that the cost of the shuttle was not included in the final price of our stay. Mrs. P quickly scanned the confirmation that she had printed out and we reluctantly paid the additional charge. The woman behind the desk rattled off a list of convoluted instructions regarding the timing and meeting area for the shuttle the next morning. She handed my wife a small cardboard portfolio with our electronic room keys and disappeared into a back room. Mrs. P and I exchanged silent glances, knowing full well that neither one of us was certain as to where and how we were to be taken to the pier tomorrow morning. We dragged our luggage over to the elevators.

The elevator arrived. We entered. The door closed. The inside of the doors were decorated with large, full-color graphics of the Baltimore Orioles — which were defaced with angry, jagged gouges obscuring the smiling visage of the familiar Oriole logo. The doors opened at the seventh floor and we followed the directional wall signs to our room. A pile of trash — two greasy pizza boxes, several Coke cans and some unidentifiable crumbled paper — was on the floor next to the small utility room that housed two vending machines and a commercial ice maker. The pile remained for our entire stay.

We found our room and Mrs. P swiped the plastic key card in the lock. A little green light above the knob flashed. I opened the door. The first thing I noticed was a black backpack sitting on the floor under the lone window. The lights were out. The beds were made. The room appeared clean and unoccupied... except for the backpack. Again, Mrs. Pincus and I exchanged bewildered glances. I slowly approached the backpack and gave it a gentle nudge with my foot. Mrs. Pincus exclaimed in horror, "What are you doing?"

"I'm checking to see if something is in it.," I replied, although I was quickly cut off by a stern "Don't touch it!" from my wife.

We decided that the removal of the backpack was the responsibility of a hotel employee. Still with our luggage in tow, we retraced our steps to the elevator (passing the trash pile along the way). Back at the front desk, we encountered a new member of the hotel staff. This woman was dress in a more professional manner and wore a name tag that identified her as the manager. The blond who greeted us earlier was nowhere in sight. Mrs. P told the manager of the strange backpack in our room. The manager listened and immediately asked if we'd like a different room.

"No," Mrs. P answered, "We just want someone to remove the backpack."

A fellow from the maintenance staff was summoned and he accompanied us to our room. Once inside, he fearlessly approached and grabbed the backpack. "Anything else?," he asked with a smile and without waiting for an answer, he grabbed the remote control for the television off the desk. "Let me make sure your TV works.," he said, and mashed a few buttons on the device until the screen lit up. We thanked him as he exited our room.

As night fell, Mrs. P and I ran through our dinner options using Google for nearby restaurants. Across the street was a Checkers, whose neon sign inexplicably flashed "Gheckers" from a side window. Next to that was a Dunkin Donuts. We ruled out both of theses choices, settling instead on hoagies from a nearby Wawa, the beloved Philadelphia convenience chain that has expanded down the east coast. I got directions to the closest Wawa. As we walked to our car, I spotted two young ladies exiting our hotel from the rear of the building. They were prancing towards a car parked in the corner of the parking lot. Both were dressed like stereotypical prostitutes you'd see in any episode of any police show on television in the 70s— short, tight skirts, sparkly tops, fishnet stockings and impossibly tall platform shoes. Glances were exchanged for a third time.

No microwaves for you.

The Wawa was a short drive from our hotel, but located in an equally sketchy neighborhood. We ordered from the touch-screen kiosk, just like at our hometown Wawa. While we waited for our order, a woman, possibly inebriated, burst in and approached the associate who was assembling our sandwiches. She loudly asked if they had a microwave that she could borrow, an odd request, in my opinion. The Wawa associate waved her off and continued with our order as the drunk woman staggered out of the store. More silent glances were exchanged. After dinner, we watched television and then went to sleep.

Pancakes!

The next morning, we packed up our stuff and headed down to the lobby. The lobby and breakfast area were bustling with activity. Folks were milling around — assembling a morning meal from the array of items set out by the hotel. Aside from the usual fare of coffee, bagels, cereal and yogurt, there was a self-serve waffle iron and a contraption that dispensed pancakes that looked like it was designed by Rube Goldberg.

Not included in this story.

We got clarification of the procedure for the shuttle. A woman with a clipboard scurried in and out of the lobby, checking off names and gathering groups together. A ten-seat mini van pulled up outside and folks were instructed to file in, leaving their luggage for the driver to pile up in the back storage area. After a bit of confusion and misinformation. Mrs. Pincus and I were directed to the van and soon we were officially off. Within twenty minutes, we were dropped off at the pier.

We cruised.

At the mercy of a bungee.

A week later, we returned from the sunny Caribbean to Baltimore, which was experiencing a heavy downpour. After a fairly simple debarkation process, we claimed our luggage and started towards the designated shuttle area. Trudging through the maze of people waiting for the departing cruise, we maneuvered to the small bus shelter where we spotted some families we recognized from our hotel (and a few we actually spoke to on our cruise). Our waterlogged colleagues told us that they had been waiting for some time, even after a call to the hotel assured them that "someone will be there in a few minutes." A familiar ten-seat mini van pulled up and our group hustled to find seats inside. Once our luggage was loaded, the driver struggled with the sliding side door, grinding it uncomfortably along its track, forcing it to close. His efforts were unsuccessful. Finally, he asked the husband of a young lady (we watched her sing a karaoke version of Dolly Parton's "Jolene" a few nights earlier) to grab and attach the free end of a rubber bungee cord to the inside door handle. This was as suspicious as the backpack in our room. The driver hit the gas and ascended the on-ramp of I-895. As the van gained speed, the sliding side door slid open — first an inch, then a few more — kept in check only by the flexible restraints of the bungee. The karaoke girl clutched and pulled her husband closer.

The shuttle lumbered into the parking lot of the Best Western BWI Airport Inn & Suites. A neon yellow emergency vehicle — its top lights blazing — was parked under the carport at the buildings entrance. Two men in reflective vests stood by the ambulance's rear doors. Mrs. Pincus and I — the first ones out — quickly collected our luggage from that back of the shuttle. We found our car at the rear of the building..... and got the hell out of Baltimore.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

they paved paradise and put up a parking lot

Mrs. P and I attended the annual XPoNential Music Festival*, a three-day gathering of members (and non-members, I guess) hosted by WXPN, an indispensable radio station in the Philadelphia area. This year marked the 25th year of the festival and boasted such diverse performers as David Byrne, Lukas Nelson, J.D. McPherson and a bunch more. It's more than just a concert, though. It's like a big family reunion, if you liked everyone in your family.

The festival takes place in Wiggins Park on the Camden, New Jersey waterfront. Wiggins Park, named for Dr. Ulysses Wiggins (who, I believe, was the first doctor to treat victims during the annual "Burn Camden to the Ground on Mischief Night"), is a picturesque natural amphitheater, with sloping lawns and shady trees. It is one of the truly nice things in Camden. Actually, Camden is going through sort of a Renaissance. Sort of. Within the first two blocks off the waterfront, there's a lot of construction, a lot of overpriced, rehabbed buildings festooned with signage to entice tenants.... and an abandoned minor league ballpark, the one-time home of the one-time Camden River Sharks. Past that two-block cutoff, you take your life in your hands. Camden is a scary, scary place — rife with shady looking characters, boarded-up buildings and a ton of broken glass. I suppose that's why Wiggins Park faces Philadelphia.

In the days after the XPoNential Music Festival*, most everyone is talking about their favorite memories of the weekend — which performers they enjoyed, that new musical discovery they were exposed to, how many free ice cream bars they consumed. Sure, we had a good time, heard a lot of great music and downed more than our fair share of ice cream, but, honestly who wants to read a Josh Pincus story about something pleasant? I'll try not to disappoint.

DAY 1

The gates were set to open at 3:30 on Friday afternoon, with the first band — Philadelphia funksters Swift Technique — scheduled to take the stage at 4. Mrs. P and I packed our cooler and gathered our new custom-made blanket (constructed from a collection of bandannas) and backed out of our suburban Philadelphia driveway around 1. After inching through congested traffic on the infamous Schuylkill Expressway, we made it to Camden around 2. Our go-to parking garage is not always accessible, mostly due to non-existent rules and some overzealous attendants who get to exercise a bit of authority one weekend a year. But, instead of following the giant electronic arrow flashing on a temporary sign at the corner of Market Street and Jersey Joe Wolcott Boulevard (I shit you not!), we made a left on the off chance that the parking lot attendant was feeling particularly generous this Friday. 

He was not.

A weathered man with wild gray hair and approximately three teeth in his head (two of which were in his mouth) sporting a bright red "Live Nation" polo shirt signaled for us to stop as we approached the garage entrance. "You folks here for the concert?," he croaked through a sneer. We replied in the affirmative. He sneered more. "You gotta park in lot 1, 3, 4, 9 or 11.," he spat, as though everyone is intimately familiar with his random list of designated parking lots. My wife asked for general directions to the aforementioned lots. The man waved his arms left and right and muttered something about making lefts and rights. Mrs P spun the car around and drove up to the festival entrance where a queue line had already begun to form. I unloaded our gear — chairs, cooler, blanket — and left Mrs. Pincus to grab a spot in line while I went off in search of parking.

I continued past the Camden Aquarium and spotted an A-frame sign in the middle of an otherwise-barricaded street. The sign read: CONCERT PARKING $10. "Well, that's for me!," I thought. As I approached the entrance to a relatively safe-looking, fenced-in parking lot, a bedraggled attendant leaning back in a metal folding chair pointed to his wrist (he wasn't wearing a watch) and yelled, "Three o'clock! Lot opens at three!" Then he curled his lips into the standard parking lot attendant authoritative smirk. I check the clock on my dashboard. It was 2:30. I would have to find a place to sit in my car for a half hour, because the delicate balance of nature would be thrown irreparably out of kilter if I were permitted to stash my car on that hallowed asphalt thirty minutes early. 

Across the street from the inaccessible-til-3 lot was an entrance to a construction site that was as wide as a street with cars parked along both curbs. I saw a couple of hard-hatted men climb in to some of the vehicles and pull away, leaving an open parking spot. I pulled into one of the spaces to wait. A car pulled in behind me and the passenger — a confused looking guy — got out and looked around as though he had been dropped from an airplane. I suppose he was checking for a sign of some sort delineating the regulations for parking in this small access road. Of course, no such sign existed, so he did the next best thing. He asked the nearest person sitting in their car with the windows rolled down. That was me. "Excuse me," he said, "You think it's okay to park here?" I looked right at him and replied, "I wouldn't. I'm waiting for the lot across the street to open at 3 so I can park there." He scrunched up his face in an expression of befuddlement. "What do you mean 'you wouldn't?' Is it because you're worried something would happen to your car because this is Camden?," he questioned. "Yes. Yes, I am." I stated. The man shuffled back to his car. By this time, it was nearly 3 o'clock. I turned the ignition key and swung my car into a U-turn, heading over to the now-open lot. I paid my ten bucks and found myself an open space on the end of an aisle. The guy who questioned my parking plans pulled in next to me.

DAY 2

We arrived bright and early  as the second day of the XPoNential Music Festival* kicked off at noon, with the gates set to open at 11:30. Gluttons for punishment that we are, we took another shot at our favorite parking garage. As we approached, we saw several cars being waved in. That was a good sign and things looked promising. We got closer and an attendant — a different guy from the day before — waved for us to stop before entering. "You folks here for the concert?" he asked. We confirmed that we were. He informed us that today the garage was reserved for radio station employees and handicapped parking. My wife quickly explained that our son is an employee of the radio station. (He is indeed.) The attendant glanced into our car and gave the interior a once-over. Seeing no one but Mrs. Pincus and me, he was prompted to ask, "Is he with you?" Mrs. P tried to save this by saying we will be driving him later. The attendant wasn't buying it. Instead, he directed us to several other lots, the identifying numbers of which he rattled off like he was calling a Bingo game. Slightly annoyed, I dropped Mrs. P off at the entrance line again and parked at the same lot I parked in on Friday.

DAY 3

The final day of the festival found my wife and I dragging. Sure, we were having a great time, but the whole weekend is a tiring undertaking. Plus, with each festival, we find that we are another year older. Although we enjoy the convenience of the riverfront parking garage, we just weren't up for an argument over getting ourselves in. This morning, I just went straight to the entrance line and dropped Mrs. P off with our belongings while I headed to the parking lot that accommodated us the previous two days. As I pulled away from the curb and headed towards the lot situated four long blocks from Wiggins Park, my phone rang. It was my wife. She explained that she was talking to some guys in line who said they parked in the garage with no problem. I hung a quick left and drove right up to the garage entrance where I was greeted by the Sunday attendant — a different guy from Friday and Saturday's guardian. However, he must have been studying the Parking Lot Attendant Official Handbook, because he started off with the ever-popular ice-breaker: "You here for the concert?" I said, "Yes." Then, he threw me a curveball. "Are you a volunteer?" I panicked. I wasn't one of the many volunteers who offer their services for the weekend out of the pure love they have for WXPN. I love the station, but I like to just sit on a blanket and listen to music for three days. Sure, I could have very easily said I was a volunteer, but that would involve lying, which is something I do not do. It would also, most likely, require me to produce some proof of my volunteer status, so I answered, "No." I was immediately denied entrance to the garage. Again. Instead I was directed to follow the street to the traffic light where a left turn would take me to Lot 1. I angrily exhaled. I hit the gas and followed the road until I found a large, fenced-in, unmarked parking lot. A smiling young lady with a fistful of parking tickets waved me in. "Is this Lot number one?," I asked." Her smile broadened. "Yes it is., " she cheerfully replied. As she relieved me of ten dollars, I told her about the contradictory information I was given by many of her co-workers. He gave a little pout and sort of apologized on behalf of the entire Camden Parking Authority. Then she pointed to a wide area of available parking spaces and offered a heartfelt "thank you" as I drove off. That little bit of "nice" almost made up for three days of parking frustration.

At the culmination of the three-day event, the General Manager of WXPN took to the stage, thanked everyone in attendance and invited everyone back for next year's festival.... although he made no mention of where to park.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

* presented by Subaru

honeymoon with B troop

I wrote this story nearly eight years ago and it appeared on my illustration blog. Since I am on vacation with my spouse of thirty-three years, I thought I'd share this tale of our honeymoon. It's one of my favorites.                                                            

Let's get something straight. Men are idiots. They are bumbling awkward misfits who should be eternally grateful that women take enough pity on them to disrupt their own self-fortitude and take them as their husbands. As my 27th wedding anniversary draws near, I am reminded of how my own dear wife ignored all of the idiotic warning signs I displayed on our honeymoon and stuck it out with me for over a quarter of a century.

In the early morning hours of July 15, 1984, while the USFL champion Philadelphia Stars were embarking on their celebratory march down Broad Street, the new Mrs. Pincus and I were readying ourselves for our first trip as husband and wife. We crammed our suitcases into the tiny hatchback of our Datsun 200SX and pulled out of the parking garage of Philadelphia's Hershey Hotel (now a DoubleTree), where we spent our wedding night. Being children at heart (some more than others), our destination was Walt Disney World, the perennial mecca of pretend, just outside of Orlando, Florida.

As we ate up the distance on our 990-mile journey, our conversation bounced about from our wedding the previous night to the plans for our vacation-at-hand. Playing the part of navigator, I deciphered the TripTik as my "better-half" helmed our automobile — music blasting out of the rolled-down windows. We made several stops along the way to quench my new bride's thirst for new shopping experiences. I believe we patronized every Stuckey's and Cracker Barrel between Philadelphia and North Carolina, checking out the tchotchkes  and souvenirs and stocking up on pecan log rolls and locally-distributed soft drinks along the way. Convinced we were making excellent time, we called it a day at a Quality Inn in Roanoke Rapids, North Carolina, just south of the Virginia border. We were given a room that faced the parking lot and offered an inviting view of an Aunt Sarah's Pancake House, which — based on the remoteness of our accommodations — would, no doubt, be our dining choice for the evening. We hurriedly stashed our luggage in our room. Our short walk across the gravel parking lot was quickly interrupted by a tiny kitten who was wandering around the walkway in front of our car. My wife, a sucker for a cute, pink-nosed, whiskered face — and cats, — immediately envisioned the feline as our traveling companion for the remainder of our trip. I explained how that idea was not a great one considering — well, considering everything — the drive, our reservations in Florida — everything!  A brief discussion yielded an amicable compromise. We decided to bring some small containers of coffee creamer to give to the cat when we returned after dinner.

Several stacks of pancakes later, we took the return stroll across the crushed-stone lot to our hotel. My wife remembered to grab a handful of pre-portioned cream containers, but as we approached the lighted area around our door, there was no sign of the little cat. I pulled back the foil lid on one of the small plastic cups and set it on the ground, allowing easy access to its pseudo-dairy contents. We patiently waited, craning our necks and scanning the surroundings for a glimpse of the cat. Our futile search lasted several more minutes until we finally retired to the confines of our evening's lodging.

An hour or so later, my wife became curious about our feline friend. She asked me to glance outside to see if the puss had come to investigate the processed cow juice we had left for him. Obediently, I parted the curtain and leaned toward the window. As I did, a face leaned in toward me, its head cocked at the same inquisitive angle as mine. Startled, I jumped and hastily threw the curtains back to their concealing position. My wife, shaken, asked what the matter was. I whipped around and said, "Someone was looking in our room at the same time I was looking out." I trailed off, realizing what had just transpired. Mrs. Pincus started blankly at me, her arms folded across her chest and that look  I would soon become very well-acquainted with across her face. Once my initial panic subsided, I realized that the guy I saw peering into our room had a certain familiarity to him. He wore the same glasses and the same shirt as me. He also had the same hair, though parted on the other side. It was at that moment the entire episode crystallized. The combination of the brightly-lit room and the darkness outside coupled with the opaque barrier created by the enshrouding curtains caused the window to take on the characteristics of a mirror. I sunk in the embarrassing affirmation that I had just been frightened by my own reflection. In front of my wife of thirty-six hours, no less.

The next morning, the incident was not subject to further discussion or analysis. I loaded our bags back into the car and we silently restarted our southbound course. However, within minutes, we were, once again, laughing and talking on the open road. Soon, we reached the sun-drenched expanses of central Florida. We plunged into a week's worth of fun and excitement, leaving my display of bonehead behavior a distant (but not forgotten) memory.

Our time in Disney World wound to a close and we began the long trek back to Philadelphia and to the new world of domestic marital bliss. Our trusty map from Triple A directed us to a more scenic homeward route. Veering off of I-95 just north of the Georgia border, we traveled through towns that could have doubled for the ramshackle settings of Erskine Caldwell's Tobacco Road.  At one point, we stopped for gas and, as I dispensed the fuel from the tall, glass-globe topped pump, Mrs. Pincus went to pay in the dilapidated shack that served as an office. She came out chuckling and told of two men playing checkers on a barrel top and how payment was accepted by a Jed Clampett look-alike who was leaning on huge jar proudly labeled "pickled pig's knuckles."

Our drive up Route 17 was long and tedious and, aside from several enormous tobacco fields, far from scenic. My watch ticked past midnight and the hotel offerings were separated by more and more emptiness. Finally, an ethereally-lit Ramada Inn shone like a beacon in the otherwise sleepy hamlet of New Bern, North Carolina. My wife navigated our vehicle just under the carport by the lobby entrance and I hopped out to check the availability of a room for the night. I pulled on the door and, despite obvious activity in the illuminated lobby, it was locked. I could see a burly man jogging from behind the reception desk and heading toward the door. Several other people inside glanced in my direction without changing their positions. As the man drew nearer, the gun jammed in his shoulder holster came into view. "Holy shit!," I thought, "I'm interrupting a robbery!" Frozen in my shoes, I quickly turned to Mrs. Pincus still seated behind the wheel of our idling car. I was about to mouth "Help!" to her, when the man unlocked the door and identified himself as a security officer, explaining that they keep the door locked at such a late hour. I inquired about a place to crash for the night and was informed that a lone room was available. I paid and was handed the keys (actual keys — this was 1984). I ran out to grab our suitcase. A minute later, Mrs. Pincus and I boarded the elevator.

Exiting at the proper floor, we located the room number corresponding to the oversized plastic fob to which the key was attached. I turned the key in the knob, reached inside the slightly opened door and flicked on a light switch. I swung the door fully open and, ahead of me, the television flickered with life. The bed was blocked from view by a wall, but I know an "on" TV when I see one. And an "on" TV usually means someone is watching it. I slowly closed the door and whispered to my wife, "I think there is someone in the room!  The TV  is on!"  Could the front desk have made an error? Did they lose track and book us into an occupied room? I opened the door again and called out "Hello?" No reply. I called again. "Is anyone here?" Again, there was no reply. I instructed my wife to wait in the hall. I entered the room. The TV blared. The bed was made and undisturbed. I cautiously swept my extended arm across the heavy, drawn curtains — in case a possible intruder had learned their lesson in camouflage from a 1940s detective movie. Satisfied that the curtains were not disguising any thugs, I dropped to my knees and checked under the bed. Coming up empty, I bounded into the small bathroom and gave the shower curtain a good shake. Echoing the words of Zelda Rubenstein in Poltergeist,  I announced to my spouse, "This room is clean" and welcomed her in. We were both exhausted but, although I had given the room a thorough once-over, we slept uneasily until morning.

I woke early. My wife awakened as I was dressing. I sat on the edge of the bed and while I pulled a sock onto my foot, the TV suddenly switched on. Then, it switched off. Then, on again. Rattled, I turned around to Mrs. Pincus and asked, "What's going on?" She answered, "I wanted to see what this controlled,"and pointed to an odd-looking light switch on the wall next to the bed. It differed from the other switches in the room, in that it was surrounded by a tarnished metal back plate and not the standard, cream-colored plastic. She flicked the switch several more times and the television screen brightened and darkened in the same sequence."Hey," I began my revelation, "there's a switch just like that next to the door." — I trailed off just like I did in another hotel room a little over a week ago. Again, my foolishness came to the forefront, as I slowly comprehended that I  had turned the TV on the previous night when I opened the door and reached for a light switch. Now, I was facing the big mirror over the dresser. I didn't need to turn around. Mrs. Pincus's reflection was giving me the look.

We silently finished our packing and headed to our car.

July 2011 marks 27 years of a marriage that has overcome the demonstrations of stupidity that book-ended our honeymoon. I know I am not alone in my struggle for consistent intelligent thinking. But, I am  in the minority of those who will admit to it.

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