don't box me in

 * * * DISCLAIMER *  *  * PLEASE READ! * * *
* * * ESPECIALLY IF YOU HAVE GIVEN US BOXES * * *
Let me start off by saying the opinions expressed in this blog post are mine and mine alone. Don't not let my angry rants and annoyed disposition reflect poorly upon anyone with whom I share a household or their comparably friendlier and way more grateful character. These are my feelings and my feelings alone. Also note, that I run the risk of getting myself into some serious trouble by what you are about to read. — JPiC

Yes.

Mrs. Pincus has operated and maintained an eBay business for a very long time — around twenty years. (Before you ask, no, she will not sell your items for you.) She spends a good portion of that time packing and shipping items to customers. Packing and shipping those items requires a lot of packing material and packing material costs money. More than you would think. So, for years, we have saved every box, padded envelope, strip of bubble wrap and Styrofoam packing peanut that we received from our own shipped purchases. Of course, this is not nearly enough to cover the volume of shipped items that Mrs. P's eBay business generates. Corrugated boxes, padded envelopes, bubble wrap and packing peanuts need to be purchased on a regular basis. And like I said, that can get expensive. Always looking for a way to cut expenses, Mrs. P began asking friends and neighbors to save their boxes and packing materials. We would either come and pick them up or they could drop them off — anytime of day or night — on our front porch. This was great. Folks looking for a place to dispose of unwanted or excess boxes, lengths of bubble wrap and loads of Styrofoam peanuts now had a place to dump them. For years now, we would arrive home to be greeted by a porchful of various sizes of boxes and bags with bubble wrap and foam packing peanuts. We were happy and appreciative and all was right with the world.

Yes.

We specifically ask for small boxes, as Mrs. P sells mostly small items and large boxes are of no real use to her. On the off chance that a big box is required for a particular shipment, Mrs. Pincus usually has no trouble finding one. But, small boxes were what we were looking for. We are sincerely grateful for the small boxes, but the large ones are just discarded, chopped up and flattened for inclusion in our weekly recycling. Still, we receive a lot of large boxes. An awful lot of large boxes. Despite putting the word out that we do not need large boxes, we get them anyway.

In addition to the unneeded large boxes, we have discovered a wide variety of things on our front porch that do not remotely fit into the "packing materials" category. Among a large number of packing lists and invoices (that contain loads of personal information), we have also found the items that were originally shipped in these boxes, like makeup, bags of nuts, bolts and screws and other odd and unidentifiable pieces of assemble-it-yourself furniture. Once, we even found a package of unused syringes. Recently, we found a credit card laying at the bottom of a carton under some sheets of bubble wrap. After tracing the name on the card to a shipping label on one of the empty boxes, Mrs. P called the person, only to be told that the card was canceled and we could cut it up and throw it away.

Which brings up another point....

No.

We have found trash dumped on our front porch. Yes, actual trash, like used napkins and tissues, wrappers from candy bars, used paper cups, greasy fast-food restaurant bags, boxes filled with crumbs and shreds of torn shrink wrap. Sometimes, trash is mixed in with a grocery bag filled with newspaper, but oftentimes it's just a bag of someone's trash. Plain old trash that someone is giving to us in the name of benevolence.

Yes, your generosity is greatly appreciated. Yes, it really is. But, come on. We are not the township dump. We just want your small boxes, bubble wrap, Styrofoam packing peanuts and even the result of documents that went through your paper shredder. (No, we're not going to piece together microscopic strips of paper to gets your personal information. We can get that from the invoices you leave in the boxes.) All we ask is that you assess the practicality of what you are leaving on our front porch. Ask yourself: "Is this useful for packing or is this trash?" If it has the remnants of food hanging off of it, it's trash. Please take it down to your curb on your predetermined trash pick-up day.

Mrs. Pincus really appreciates what you do. And, on Trash Collection Day, so do I.

By the way, if this snowman head is yours, you can come and pick it up at my house anytime.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

welcome to the grand illusion

I actually wrote this post almost one year ago to the day. I just never got around to publishing it, Coincidentally, the holiday that I reference — and the subsequent annual celebration — just occurred this past weekend. It is interesting to note that the events that I describe were repeated nearly identically as they had a year ago. This leads me to believe that I could just publish this post every year, at this time, and save myself some writing.

My in-laws had an annual gathering at their house. The occasion was the holiday of Sukkot, a celebration that takes some explaining for the uninitiated. Luckily, I have written about Sukkot before, so you can find the explanation of the holiday here. It may not be the most accurate explanation but, after all, isn't that why you are here? To relish my inaccuracies? If wanted accuracy, you could just "Google" stuff. You're welcome.

Hours before the first guests arrived, my wife was busy in the kitchen. She coordinated a precision "assembly line" of trays filled with hors d'oeuvres. As one tray went into the oven another came out. With the indispensable help of my niece, the process of getting the food prepared for a houseful of hungry people became a regimented ballet. Mrs. P's cousin, an invited guest, even pitched in to plate appetizers and bring them to the serving table. Between the three of them, the place looked inviting and the food was stocked to the delight and appreciation of the multitude of freeloaders guests.

Then there was Simone. Simone was her regular self. She took great care in dishing out the few salads the she brought or prepared there. She sort of shuffled some items around on the kitchen counter, giving the illusion that she was actually doing something constructive or helpful. She checked the status of  the hors d'oeuvres baking in the oven exactly once before retreating to join the rest of the guests that she invited... never setting foot back in the kitchen to see if her assistance was needed.

I have my doubts. 

The table looked beautiful and, thanks to Mrs. P and my darling niece, the food offerings were never sparse. There were mini hot dogs in puff pastry, latkes, sweet and sour meatballs and their vegetarian counterparts (or so I was told) and much much more, including an array of baked goods for which my wife is renowned. At the end of the afternoon, as guests thanked my in-laws and said their farewells, Simone disappeared or faked an injury or some such other bullshit. Mrs. P cleared the serving table, with help from her father and even me. My spouse hand-washed the delicate dishes and loaded the dishwasher with the sturdier plates and utensils. I helped to put away what remnants of leftovers were, well, left over. Simone, spooned her salads back into their containers and loaded them into a bag to take to her home, along with a few bottles of wine that were brought by visitors. She barked for her immediate family and, as they say, "got the fuck out of Dodge,"

Mrs. Pincus made sure her parent's kitchen and dining room looked exactly as it did before a horde of of guests filled the house. Satisfied that everything was in order, we headed home. But first, we thanked my in-laws for hosting. I don't recall Simone doing even that.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

up, up and away

Here we are in the final weeks of summer. Families are taking vacations before the kids have to return to school. Some will take quick jaunts to a nearby beach or lake resort, while others plan more elaborate trips to one of the many theme parks spread across the United States. I am reminded of my first vacation without my parents. In 1980, a year after my graduation from high school, some friends and I decided to scrimp and save to afford a trip to Walt Disney World in Florida. We were beside ourselves with excitement as the summer date approached. When we actually boarded the plane (my first plane trip), we were ecstatic. When we landed in the magical land called "Florida," we were like uncaged animals, ready to explore and, most likely, wreak as much havoc as we were able.

I wrote this story nearly ten years ago about a trip that happened nearly three decades earlier, but it certainly could have happened last week — or on any trip to any family vacation destination that involves rides, souvenirs and ungrateful children. That pretty much covers everywhere.

Just prior to turning nineteen, I went to Walt Disney World with three of my friends. This was my first vacation without my parents. I told about this trip in a previous blog post. My first day in Walt Disney's Magic Kingdom was great. After spending a fun but exhausting day, my friends and I headed back to our hotel. Somnolent, we slogged the length of the sparsely-lit Main Street USA towards the Monorail that would take us to the parking lot. Just before we exited, I purchased a Mickey Mouse-head balloon for fifty cents (remember, this was 1980). There I was, eighteen-years old, springing toward the Monorail with a balloon string in my fist and a wide grin across my face. 

We waited on the platform, in the thick and shifting throng, for the next Monorail to arrive. The sleek transport snaked into the station. It came to a silent stop and the hydraulic doors opened with a hiss. The individual cabins were fitted with futuristic bench seats, upholstered in undentable teal plastic. They were not unlike the back seat of my father's 1968 Dodge Dart. They seated approximately ten passengers. My friends, my balloon and I chose an empty cabin and slid across the seat to accommodate everyone. A young couple and their son joined our cabin and occupied the bench seat opposite us. The boy was about nine or ten and he had a balloon, too. The balloon looked more age appropriate for him than it did me. 

The doors to the Monorail shushed back into place and we began moving. I sat, holding my balloon and smiled at the young boy across from me as he held his balloon. Suddenly, without warning, his balloon burst. BANG! It hadn't touched anything. It hadn't bumped the low ceiling. It just spontaneously burst — BANG! We were all startled, but even more so, when the boy, just as spontaneously, erupted into a spewing fountain of inconsolable cries and tears. His parents tried unsuccessfully to comfort him. Instantly, I spoke up and offered my balloon to the boy. "Here," I said, "you can have mine." His parents looked at me with expressions of relief and gratitude as I relinquished my balloon. His mom wrapped one arm around the boy's shoulders and gestured to me with her other arm — her hand palm up and extended in my direction. "What do you say to the nice man?," she prompted her son. The boy looked up at the balloon. Then, he looked at me with no expression on his small face. 

"I wanted a red one.," he said.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

stacks of green paper in his red right hand

"It was made very clear to me what I'm supposed to do here. I smile, wave my little hat... I did that, so when do I get paid?"  — Tom Hanks as Jimmy Dugan in "A League of Their Own" (1992)

Once again, I am confounded by the inability of some people to follow simple rules of conduct... especially when the party making the rules is dropping a ton of money in your lap. Of course, I am referencing two recent stories to break in the news around the same time. One concerns Jared Fogle, the one-time spokesperson for the highly-successful sandwich shop chain Subway. When Jared was an average, unknown college student, he famously dropped over 200 pounds by restricting his food intake to Subway sandwiches (sans fatty condiments like mayonnaise) and walking a lot. His story was brought to the attention of Subway's marketing department and the first commercial featuring the newly-svelte Jared appeared in 2000. He went on to make over 300 commercials for the chain over a period of a decade. Subway partly credits the "Jared" campaign with tripling their growth over that period and they rewarded him accordingly. It is estimated that Jared's net worth is around 15 million dollars. Plus, he was lavished with first-class travel and stays in 5-star hotels, all on Subway's dime. Jared's instructions from Subway were pretty simple. Subway was willing pay Jared to be the smiling face of the company in exchange for exploiting Jared's incredible weight-loss story. Jared only had to show up at publicity events, smile, shake some hands and get paid. No math, no real work and instant celebrity status with no real exhibit of talent. Pretty sweet deal.

Cha-CHING!

But, Jared had a secret and the money fueled his growing ego. While representing Subway, his meal ticket (pun intended), he explored his lust for underage girls, solicited sex from underage girls and expanded his collection of child pornography. Now, I understand deep-seated urges and how they can be acted upon. I also understand self-control. Jared could have easily sought professional help for dealing with a condition of which he was, no doubt, well aware. Instead, he saw what he understood to be an endless supply of money headed his way and chose to indulge his fetishes, possibly falling into the belief that money makes you smart and puts you on a level above most members of society. A plush room at The Plaza, chauffeurs, publicists and an entourage only reinforced that idea. However it all came crumbling down around Jared in August 2015, when Subway severed all ties with him over allegations and an eventual guilty plea to federal charges of possessing child pornography and traveling to pay for sex with minors. Nice work, Jared. If only you would have just done the minimum of what was expected of you.

Cha-CHING!

Almost simultaneously, Josh Duggar, co-star of the wildly popular TLC Network reality show 19 Kids and Counting, got himself into some hot water. His show, 10 seasons strong, was a day-to-day chronicle of the Duggars, a family of devout Independent Baptists. They frequently discuss values of purity, modesty, and faith in God. The Duggars vehemently oppose birth control, saying they have allowed God to determine the number of children they have. Since this has been put into God's deistic hands, the title of the show has changed twice with the addition of two more children. Recently, Josh, the eldest son of baby-machines Michelle and Jim Bob Duggar, was accused of child molestation. This was a shocker for fans of the God-fearing, pious clan, however things grew worse for the 27-year-old Duggar son, when it was revealed that four of his victims were his sisters. As these allegations surfaced in the news, TLC promptly canceled the series, which contributed to Josh's estimated net worth of 200 million dollars. That's right, 200 million! Now, Josh, a proclaimed devotee of his religion, family values and all that self-righteous stuff, has been named as an active member of AshleyMadison.com, a website devoted to hooking up married adults for adulterous affairs. (For those playing along at home, "Thou Shalt Not Commit Adultery" is Commandment Number 7.) Look, perhaps the religious tones of the show were not really within ol' Josh's beliefs and he was just playing along for the sake of his family and the money. But, for goodness sake, Josh, if you could have just kept your hands to yourself and sought professional help with your newly-gained funds, that cash cow would still be flowing with the milk of unlimited wealth. And cheating on your spouse? Really? Was it worth the 200 mil? Because your wife, the former Anna Keller, is gonna take a good chunk of that if she decides to seek a divorce. Or maybe she'll just let God decide that, too. But, obviously, God doesn't take too kindly to that shit either. He did burn those rules into a rock right in front of Moses' eyes. I think he made his point.

A little closer to home, I had a co-worker who was hired with specific instruction as to what his job entailed. He was to keep peace within a particular department that displayed signs of friction. That's all. The department's work output was, otherwise, pretty good. It's just that the individual team members were constantly at each other's throats, filled with contempt and mistrust for one another. This guy was just supposed to unite everyone and readjust the focus of the department to one of harmony. (Ironically, he succeeded in uniting everyone in their dislike for him.) For this task, he was grossly overpaid. Now, despite a clear explanation of his role, he proceeded to make unnecessary, overly-complicated and "un-asked-for" decisions. He also exhibited behavior that was, shall I say, unappreciated by some of the female members of the department. He was reprimanded over and over again, until the company finally had enough. If only he had just followed the concise instructions that were clearly explained to him, he would still be collecting that obscenely-large paycheck. Instead, the salary only served to feed an unwarranted ego, one that he couldn't keep in check. He is currently seeking employment elsewhere.

Cha-CHING!

This behavior is nothing new. Back in the 60s, budding filmmaker Bob Rafelson came up with the idea for a sitcom about a struggling rock group. Taking inspiration from the Beatles and their wild antics in the film A Hard Day's Night, Bob joined up with Bert Schneider, whose father was the head of Columbia Pictures' Screen Gems division, to bring his idea to the small screen. The pair placed an ad in a trade paper, looking for "Folk & Roll Musicians-Singers for acting roles in new TV series. Running Parts for 4 insane boys, age 17-21." Of the nearly 500 applicants (including Stephen Stills and, allegedly, Charles Manson), three were chosen to join the already-cast Davy Jones, a proven Broadway actor who had originated the role of "The Artful Dodger" in Oliver! The three additional young men had their roles clearly explained by Bob, Bert and musical director Don Kirshner. They were actors, not musicians. They were playing the parts of musicians. The music was already figured out and they would have nothing to do with it. With that understanding and their cooperation, they would be paid a lot of money. As simple as that sounds, Mike Nesmith, a country singer-songwriter with a modicum of talent, Peter Tork, an unsuccessful guitarist who, prior to this casting, was working as a dishwasher, and Micky Dolenz, a former child actor who was hired purely on the merit of his "unusual face," understood something different. They were convinced they were chosen based on their musical chops and they were to be the next Beatles. Only Davy, the true professional, got it. He understood that he was not Paul McCartney and this was not the Beatles. This was just another acting role and he was going to hang on to it as long as possible, because he knew acting roles are tough to land on a regular basis. The trio (again, not including Davy) were shocked and insulted when they were barred from participating in a recording session. When the money started rolling in, their egos inflated, ignoring the fact that the success was due mostly to someone else's expert casting and predetermined musical choices. When Kirshner presented the "band" with a check for one million dollars (twenty-five thousand each) and a tape of what he selected as their next single,* an ungrateful Mike Nesmith offered his thanks by slamming his fist through a wall and informing the bewildered Mr. Kirshner "that could have been your face, motherfucker." The Monkees, under the tutelage of Nesmith, sabotaged their success and, in essence, orchestrated their downfall. The show lasted only two seasons. Although their fame endured, only Davy embraced the novelty and happily made it his career, right up until his untimely death in 2012. The others begrudgingly took part in reunions over the years, but then took the money as though it was owed to them. They probably still don't realize that they merely "fit the suit."

What is the moral of these stories? If you think it's "Money is the root of all evil," you weren't listening. The true moral is "Listen. Keep your goddamn mouth shut and listen."

www.joshpincusiscrying.com


*The song was "Sugar, Sugar," eventually recorded by a group of anonymous studio musicians and released under the name of the fictional "The Archies." Kirshner commented that he was forced to create a band that couldn't talk back to him.

thank you (falettinme be mice elf agin)

My wife was at a supermarket to pick up a few things for an upcoming soiree at our house. It was not the market at which we regularly shop. She filled her cart as she strolled up and down each aisle until her shopping list was completed. Then, she wheeled her cart to the checkout area and began loading up the conveyor belt with her potential purchases. Based on the grand total of her purchases, the cashier handed Mrs. P a coupon for a few dollars off her next shopping order. My wife looked at the overflowing bags, jam-packed with items she would probably never buy again, in quantities she would never consider again. She thought about the distance from our house and concluded that it would be quite some time until she would pay this store a visit. She looked at the coupon in her hand and frowned.

Now, let me explain something.

My wife is the nicest human being that has ever graced this God-forsaken shit-hole we call "Earth." First of all, she has been married to me for nearly thirty years, so that's saying something. Secondly, she is genuinely concerned about other people. Imagine that! Concern for other people?! She is helpful and she always tries to do the right thing. When she asks "How are you?," she really means it. When she asks "Is there anything I can can do?," she really wants to help.

So, there she was, in the supermarket, with a coupon in her hand that she will never use. She turned around to see a woman in line behind her, surveying the contents of her own shopping cart.

"Hi!," Mrs. P addressed the woman, cheerfully, "Here's a coupon for three dollars off your entire purchase. I can't use it." She reached over the other woman's groceries and waved the voucher in her face.

"Huh?," the woman answered, no expression on her face.

Still smiling, my wife repeated, "I won't be back at this store anytime soon to use this coupon, so you can have it. It's for three dollars off."

"Okay.," the woman said. She was motionless, except for the slow extension of her arm to retrieve the coupon. And then she added "What?," as though not fully understanding that she was on the receiving end of a gesture of kindness towards a fellow human.

"I am giving you a coupon for three dollars off your shopping total today!," Mrs. P enunciated each syllable as though she was speaking to a child and she was getting the teeniest bit agitated. She was practically forcing the coupon on this woman.

"Okay, I guess.," the woman answered and hesitantly took the coupon out of my wife's hand. Then, she looked down and continued contemplating the products that were stuffed into her cart.

"Hmmm....," my wife said, out loud, "if someone gives me something, I usually say 'thank you'. But that's just me."

The cashier shook her head and rolled her eyes in disgust. The woman, however, was oblivious.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com