must have got lost

I wrote this story in 2012, a few years after the events described herein took place. It originally appeared on my illustration blog and it is one of my personal favorites. If you have read it before, well... you might enjoy it all over again. If this is your first time reading it, you may want to grab a box of tissues first. It's a harrowing tearjerker. — JPiC

Let me tell you about Pudge.

In the summer of 1982, just after Mrs. Pincus and I met, we went on a day trip to Hershey Park. Just barely into our 20s, the appeal of an amusement park still held excitement for us. In between turns on the roller coasters, bumper cars and Mrs. P's personal favorite, the Tilt-O-Whirl, we wandered into a few souvenir shops that dotted the park's layout. Among the Hershey-emblazoned t-shirts, snow globes, mugs and giant pencils was a shelf displaying an array of plush animal characters. On the second shelf below eye-level sat a slightly over-stuffed brown bear looking very dapper in a blue and red striped shirt. That bear was Pudge. The expression on Pudge's face made him look a bit forlorn and Mrs. Pincus was instantly smitten. I convinced Mrs. P that the last thing she needed was another stuffed animal. (At the time, I did not realize the gravity of the mistake I was in the process of making.) Pudge was placed back on the shelf and we left the store. The one-sided conversation on our ride home was me being berated for not allowing the purchase of Pudge. The next several months saw my beloved bride scouring every conceivable outlet within a fifty-mile radius that would have the remotest of possibilities of stocking the elusive Pudge. (This was in a time before a simple Google search would yield any number of global retail establishments and purchases could be made without putting on shoes, getting dressed, burning gasoline or making contact with another human being.) Finally, after what seemed like an eternal exercise in futility, Pudge was tracked down and located at a mall a little under sixteen miles from our home. Mrs. Pincus purchased that little brown fellow, brought him home and soon his adventures began.

Pudge has accompanied my family on many trips to many places. From short jaunts around the corner to my in-law's house to exciting, multi-day automobile treks down the eastern seaboard to elaborate, cross-country flights to the Pacific coast, Pudge has been there and he has the pictures to prove it.

L to R (top row): At the Statue of Liberty; On the Kiss production line at Hershey, PA; With the Monster.com mascot at eBay Live in Boston; Pudge receives the Emmy; In Graceland's visitor parking lot; At the Haunted Mansion in Disneyland; With the 2008 World Series trophy.

L to R (bottom row): At the famous Randy's Donuts in Inglewood, CA; On the front steps of Gianni Versace's house in Miami; On Winnie the Pooh's star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame; Waiting for the Strasburg Rail Road; Having fun on a Carnival cruise; Riding a Nittany Lion at State College, PA; Riding the bus with Rosa Parks at the National Civil Rights Museum in Memphis.

Pudge has seen the roaring waters of Niagara Falls and the stirring majesty of The Statue of Liberty. He has paid his respects to the late King of Rock and Roll at Graceland and viewed memorabilia of Elvis' contemporaries at The Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in Cleveland. Pudge has witnessed tributes to legendary ballplayers at the Baseball Hall of Fame in Cooperstown and famous movie stars on the star-studded Walk of Fame in Hollywood. One trip, however, is the topic of limited discussion — the details of which are related in hushed tones and then quickly the subject is changed before emotions bubble over. Over twenty-five years after Pudge joined our family, he was nearly lost forever. (Sure, one time my wife absent-mindedly stuck Pudge in a drawer at her parent's seashore apartment in Ventnor, New Jersey. But, once we retraced our moves, Mrs. P was again united with Pudge in a tearful reunion.)

As spring became summer in 2008, the planning stages began for a complicated, multi-legged, two-week drive to Florida — involving my in-laws, my brother-in-law and his family and other assorted and uncategorized extended family members — with a lengthy stop in Orlando before proceeding to the ultimate destination of Miami Beach to visit yet more relatives. My wife would be accompanying her parents alone, serving as travelling companion, as well as navigator and chauffeur of their vehicle for the lion's share of the journey. I would not be joining them, as securing two consecutive weeks off from my full-time job would be difficult, plus, it was implied that my son and I were not invited on this trip. (I surmised this when my wife's brother informed her rather bluntly, "Your miserable husband and your miserable son are not invited." I was quite proud of my brilliant deduction skills.) My wife carefully packed all the necessities she would require for a fortnight in the Sunshine State including a travelling companion of her own — Pudge. Snug within the confines of her backpack, Pudge stayed secure between Mrs. P's make-up bag and her wallet, occasionally popping out for a seat on the dashboard, providing company when Mrs. P's Mom and Dad dozed off in their seats.

I kept in regular phone contact with my wife during her trip. She'd call to document the day's activities, the sights they saw, the pictures Pudge posed for. I'd tell her about the concerts my son and I attended in her absence and reassured her that we were eating well and taking care of each other. As she began her week in Orlando, the phone conversations evolved into reports of the petty arguments and unusual behavior she witnessed among her family as an unattached observer. Mrs. Pincus was the first one up each morning and, subsequently, the first one out the door as my sister-in-law's sister staggered about in a hangover-induced stupor and my two nieces bickered over which pair of Crocs they would wear and who picked all the green clovers out of the box of Lucky Charms. With a smile on her lips and Pudge in her backpack, Mrs. Pincus exited the mayhem in the claustrophobic time-share and drove her own rental car off to enjoy a Disney theme park. She'd spend several days experiencing all that Disney offered in EPCOT, the Disney Studios and, of course, The Magic Kingdom. (She skipped the Animal Kingdom because, no matter how persuasive Disney tries to be with the idea that it's "Natazu" ... it's a zoo.) Her solo adventures were interrupted infrequently by the briefest interaction with her parents (based on their limited capacity of mobility) or her brother's family (based on their limited capacity of getting their shit together). So, for the most part she was alone — except for Pudge.

On the final day before departure to their more southerly course, Mrs. Pincus wished to spend her remaining hours at the Magic Kingdom, her favorite of the Disney parks. Before she set out that morning, Mrs. P's sister-in-law presented her with a heaping stack of special "line jumper" passes — allowing immediate access to the ride-boarding area — that they had received from a Disney "castmember" (The Walt Disney Company's universal word for "employee") in order to pacify a (possibly-imagined and most-likely exaggerated) "horrible situation." It was explained that they couldn't conceivably use all of the passes they were awarded in their allotted time, so Mrs. P took them with the instruction: "use as many as you can." With the majority of her group awkwardly traipsing their way across EPCOT, Mrs. P languidly strolled down Main Street, meandered through the faux-exoticism of Adventureland, leisurely moseyed along the wooden-planked walkways of Frontierland and lazily sauntered the winding paths of Fantasyland. As dusk approached and the ambient lights came on, the once sun-brightened surroundings now sported an otherworldly glow and Mrs. P found herself in Tomorrowland. Choosing a ride on the fearsome Space Mountain as the capper to her visit, she entered the queue line and distributed fistfuls of the special passes to delighted strangers who happened to be in the right place at the right time.  At the ride's conclusion, she was breathless and parched. She reached into her backpack for a bottle of water. With her thirst sufficiently quenched, she headed towards the still-open shops on Main Street when her cellphone rang. It was her brother.

"Are you still at the Magic Kingdom?," he inquired.

"Yes. Why?," replied Mrs. Pincus.

"I forgot to get Mouse Ears for the girls. Can you get them?" he asked, hopefully. It was nearing closing time on the last day of a six-day vacation and it had just occurred to my brother-in-law that the single most popular Disney souvenir had not been purchased for his children.

"I'd be glad to.," my wife answered cheerfully. She truly is the nicest person on this otherwise God-forsaken planet. She memorized the details of her brother's request, dutifully noting the style of head wear and the desired inscriptions, and made a beeline towards the Main Street hat shop. Engulfed by the throng of exiting guests, she came upon a cheerful group of castmembers wearing Mickey Mouse-style gloves and waving "Good Night" to the tired and contented patrons. Mrs. P thought this would make for a great photo of Pudge. She opened her backpack to retrieve her camera and, to her horror, Pudge was gone. A cold sweat burst upon her forehead, her throat tightened and her heart thumped uncontrollably in her chest. She tossed the contents of her backpack from side to side. Pudge was indeed gone. Tears began to well in her eyes as she frantically scanned the ground in her immediate area. Panicked, she retraced her steps for several yards and replayed her recent activity in her mind. Space Mountain, water, phone call, castmembers. It all swelled into a big confusing blur. Suddenly, a lucid thought was triggered and she beat a determined path to the renowned Lost & Found at Main Street's City Hall.

Taking her place at the end of a line populated by the optimistic owners of lost sunglasses and misplaced flip-flops, a tearful Mrs. P fidgeted until the woman in front of her said, "You look like you lost something very  important. Please. Go ahead of me". My wife thanked her and approached the castmember behind the desk. With tears streaming down her cheeks, my wife's voice cracked as she spoke.

"I lost a small brown plush bear. He has a red and blue striped shirt and I am not leaving this place without him."

The young lady behind the desk smiled reassuringly and said, "Just a minute. I'll look."

A few excruciatingly-long moments later, the young lady emerged from a hidden cache somewhere behind the reception area. Resting in the cupped hands of her outstretched arms was Pudge.

"Is this him?," she asked. Before she had reached the word "him", Mrs. Pincus had nearly leaped over the desk and snatched Pudge out of her hands. She hugged the little bear to her face, wetting his matted, plush fur with her tears. She thanked the City Hall staff profusely, still crying. Somewhere between Space Mountain and the end of Main Street, Pudge must have tumbled out of the backpack. Then, a thoughtful, concerned and compassionate guest picked him up and brought him to the Lost & Found, figuring that someone might be looking for this little, and obviously, well-loved bear.

And Mrs. Pincus still managed to get the Mouse Ears for her nieces.

 * * * * * * *

Footnote: Pudge still travels with us, only now he uses this helpful accessory.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

long ago and oh so far away

I recently read that there is not a single "Opening Day" attraction still operating at Disney Hollywood Studios in Florida. I find that fascinating, considering the theme park opened its doors to guests in 1989 — just 35 years ago. (Granted, I have been a Disney enthusiast for years and you may not find this little tidbit of trivia the least bit fascinating or even interesting... but I do and it's my blog.) Even though I have not been to a Disney theme park in almost a decade, I still like to read about and keep up with changes, developments and memories... especially memories.

Disney Hollywood Studios was originally conceived as a working movie studio ala Universal's popular operation in California. Disney had vast plans to shoot films and television shows and produce their signature animated movies in its planned Florida theme park, with guests peeking over the shoulders of the action as it actually unfolded. Believe it or not, it was already determined to be a so-called "half day" park before the first brick was laid or the first drop of cement was poured. Disney signed a licensing agreement with MGM Studios to use various aspects of their branding at the proposed them park. However, Disney was irked when MGM opened a mini theme park in Las Vegas. Specific stipulations were laid out as to which MGM properties (and how much of them) were featured in Disney's "Great Movie Ride." On Opening Day, there were two major attractions at the park — The Great Movie Ride and That Backstage Studio Tour. It was indeed a "half day" visit. In the years to follow, more and more attractions were opened and Disney's Hollywood Studios (then called "Disney-MGM Studios") became a destination and proved just as popular as the other two theme parks on Disney's Florida property. 

My first visit to Disney Studios was with my family in the 90s. By this time, the park had undergone some major changes since its opening just a few years earlier. A large extension had emerged as an offshoot of the main entranceway. Keeping with the "Golden Age of Hollywood" theme that overarched most of the park, the new Sunset Boulevard section boasted two big thrill rides — The Twilight Zone Tower of Terror and the Rock 'n Roller Coaster (the first inverted loop roller coaster on Disney property). However, the Disney Studios was still trying to figure things out. There were smaller "show" attractions focusing more on audience participation rather than the tried-and-true "sit in a vehicle and watch stuff around you." Trying to evoke the "you're in a real live studio" atmosphere, guests were often selected to participate in the action. A few folks were selected, hastily costumed and thrust onstage at the "Indiana Jones Epic Stunt Spectacular." Their participation wasn't close to dangerous. They'd just "ooh" and "aah" and point from the safe sidelines while Disney professionals avoided fireballs and out-of-control jeeps.

One of the more interesting "audience participation" attractions at the Disney Studios was Superstar Television. Hosted in the 1000-seat Superstar Television Theater (later renamed "Hyperion Theater" and current location of the "Frozen Sing-Along"), this purposely-campy performance attempted to recreate a typical broadcast day at at typical television studio. Before each session, a number of guests were recruited from the massive queue line that formed outside the theater doors. On the day of our visit, my family and I joined the already large group just as Disney cast members were beginning to scan the crowd for volunteers. My wife and my then-eight-year old son enthusiastically "whooped" and yelled and pointed to hapless Josh Pincus until a smiling cast member grabbed my hand to lead me backstage. As I was "dragged" away, I caught a parting glimpse of my family in incontrollable hysterics.

I assumed the rest of the audience was admitted to the theater, my family included. I was taken (along with my fellow volunteers, whether willing or not) to an area backstage. The place was exactly what I had seen on TV, strewn with cables and fake backdrops and rolling racks of colorful and mismatched costumes. A young lady was outfitted in a pink dress and hairnet, similar to the one worn by Lucille Ball in the classic "candy conveyor belt" episode of the I Love Lucy show. A little boy was given a New York Mets jersey as he prepared to be interviewed in a pseudo-post-game sports segment. My t-shirt was covered with a false tuxedo front that Velcro-ed in the back. A rubber, but realistic-looking cream pie was attached to my hand with a hidden elastic strap. The Disney cast member informed me that I would be playing a butler in a Three Stooges short. I even had a couple of lines as well as a yet-to-be explained "action" sequence. At a particular cue, heard via in-studio playback, I was to announce "Dinner is served" in a gentlemanly tone. As I watched the action in an off-stage monitor, my next line was to be "Gentlemen! Please!," offered as a reaction to the beginning of a notorious pie-throwing spectacle. Finally, I was instructed to raise the prop pie as though I was about to launch it across the room, while snidely growling "Why you....!" At this point, the cast member said, I would be smacked in the face by a real pie.

What?

The cast member repeated the instruction, my line and the creamy consequence I was to expect. She also suggested that I remove my glasses to avoid possible damage. Her smile never waned. She had obviously explained this entire scenario to dozens and dozens of Dads whose family had volunteered them for the same fate. I folded my glasses into a case in my pocket. I adjusted the rubber pie to a more comfortable fit and squinted my eyes in hopes of putting the giant blur before me into better focus. I listened to the other "volunteers" as they performed their parts and watched the awkwardness from a nearby monitor. The audience expressed their collective approval with each new segment — the I Love Lucy bit, a take-off on the Gilligan's Island opening. Through the "magic of television, costumed Disney guests, plucked from the crowd, were inserted into clips of General Hospital, Cheers and The Golden Girls. The audience was delighted. Finally, it was my turn.

I was guided to my mark (as they say in show biz) and I said my first line. With my chin up and nose at an appropriately "snooty" position, I announced "Dinner is served," as I had heard the late great Bud Jamison say so many times. (It was his role I was subbing for.) At the designated cue, I lamented "Gentlemen! Please!," trying to convey real concern for the Stooges turning a dignified dinner party into a pie-hurling free-for-all. Then, after delivering my "Why you!" at my menacing best, the Disney cast member — the one who had been so nice and sweet and helpful — slammed a hefty cream pie square in my kisser. I heard the audience roar with laughter. I, however, couldn't see a goddamned thing, as my already myopic eyes were thick with whipped cream. A minute later, I was led out to the stage with my fellow "performers" for a group bow and one last moment of the patented theme park humiliation that Disney prides itself on.

Backstage, the cast member thanked me for my participation and handed me a bottle of shampoo and a towel she pointed to a sink similar to those found in a beauty salon. She explained that the pie that was now dripping from my face and hair was a real, dairy pie. I was further advised to thoroughly wash my hair, because the combination of unrefrigerated dairy ingredients and the 90+ degrees of the afternoon Central Florida sun would produce a result that can only be described as "funky." She also handed me a coupon for a free dessert at a Disney Studios restaurant, an ironic reward. I asked if I would be hit in the face with that one too. She laughed and replied, "No." I suspect she had heard that before.

The cast member left the room. I looked at the shampoo and the towel and the sink. I audibly emitted an "Pfft!" to no one in particular. I thought to myself: "There is no way I'm going to wash my hair. I'll be fine." I folded the "free dessert" coupon and stashed it in my pocket. I found my way out of the backstage area and joined my family. My son and Mrs. P laughed and hugged me and patted my back. They told me "I'm a good sport!" and laughed some more. I unfolded my official park guide map and we began to discuss what we would do next.

As the afternoon progressed and the Central Florida sun rose high and large in a cloudless sky, the Disney cast member's words of warning echoed in my mind. Suddenly, I was surrounded by the unmistakable aroma of a power failure in the dairy case at the local supermarket. As we stood in various queue lines or wandered around gift shops, I could see frowns and displeased looks from other guests in my peripheral vision. My family, not worried about tactfully offending me, told me: "Jeez! Your hair stinks!" Panicked, I searched for a water fountain. I found one and splashed handful after handful of water over my scalp. After a considerable amount of time* (*a period of time that would have to suffice until we returned to our hotel room at the end of the day), I had washed out a good portion of old pie remnants as well as the accompanying scent of spoiled milk.

I never did redeem that coupon. I think I had enough dessert for one day.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

dope hat

Many years ago, my family and I went to Walt Disney World. We took regular trips to the renowned resort in central Florida, often accompanied by our friend Randi, when we were still on speaking terms with her. On this particular trip, we were meeting my wife's brother and his then-girlfriend, later-wife, soon to be ex-wife. They were flying down to Florida, while we opted to drive the more interesting route along the Eastern seaboard. My brother-in-law and his girlfriend would be staying at Disney's All-Star Music Resort, the same hotel in which we secured accommodations. On our first night, we made plans to meet and eat dinner at Downtown Disney (now known as "Disney Springs")

We arrived early, dropped off our luggage and drove over the the Disney shopping complex. We wandered around the quaint little shops looking at things that we would never buy in a million years. We were on vacation and that's what we do. My brother-in-law had arrived earlier in the day and we planned to rendezvous at the World of Disney store, the centerpiece of Downtown Disney.

We wandered into World of Disney, a sprawling, multi-room retail store jam-packed with everything and anything you could imagine, prominently emblazoned with the famous Disney logo. There was housewares and t-shirts and bath towels and flatware and pins and toys and who-knows-what-else! We congregated at a display of hats. There were straw hats and baseball-style caps and, of course, the famous mouse ears. At the same time, we all spotted the same hat. It was the dumbest looking hat we had ever seen. It was a small straight-side, somewhat bucket-style hat, very reminiscent the one sported by Leo Gorcey in countless "Bowery Boys" films in the 40s. Of course, Leo Gorcey worse his chapeau strictly to elicit laughs. This hat was being sold in earnest, as a legitimate hat. At least we thought so. And this hat was embroidered with little Mickey Mouse icons all around its main portion. Did I mention how dumb this hat looked? We each picked it up to examined it, laughing as we each got our turn. Even our young son giggled at the obvious absurdity of the hat. We wondered aloud as to who would actually buy and wear this stupid hat?!?!

Suddenly, we got our answer.

Up strolled my brother-in-law and my future sister-in-law. And perched on the top of her head was that stupid hat. She smiled her stupid smile and modeled the hat for us, explaining that the had bought it earlier and just needed to have it.

My wife, my son, Randi and I all clammed up. Our eyes grew wide but our mouths stayed clamped shut. We silently made our way to the front entrance of the massive Planet Hollywood restaurant. Our eyes never lost sight of that stupid hat sitting atop my future sister-in-law's stupid head like a big, fucking albatross.

After a mostly quiet dinner — our collective eyes never waning our gaze from that hat — we said our goodbyes and went off to find our car. Once safely inside the car, we roared with laughter.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

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

running with the devil

This morning, my wife and I drove down to our son's house in South Philadelphia to feed his cat while he is away this weekend. The route we took from our suburban home was straight down Broad Street. As we drove though the stretch of Broad Street that bisects the campus of the hospital of Temple University, I glanced out the window and saw something that caught my attention. Emerging from one of the many hospital buildings was a family — Mother, Father and two teenage daughters. What intrigued me was their appearance. From their clothing, it was quite obvious that they were Amish. Dad was wearing a royal blue button-down shirt and black pants with black suspenders looping over his shoulders. He sported a wide-brimmed straw hat atop his head. The three ladies — Mother and the two daughters — all wore similar dresses. They were long and all fashioned from a single pattern of cloth. They each wore a white apron tied around their waist and a white kerchief tied around their head. Dad stood on the pavement in front of the building and surveyed his surroundings. He looked as though he had been dropped out of an airplane blindfolded and had just removed the blindfold. He scratched his jaw as he turned his head from left to right and to left again. Then, he raised his head and considered the multi-story cement and steel structures that surrounded him and his brood. The three women cowered behind him. They appeared to be lost. To be honest (and based purely on their appearance) they would seem lost in most environments that did not feature at least one barn and several cows. Yes, I managed to take in and assess this situation from the passenger's seat in a car traveling in the neighborhood of thirty-five miles-per-hour. Okay.... maybe I embellished a little.

The whole scenario reminded me of a story that appeared on my illustration blog in 2011. It was a funny story when the incident actually occurred (in 1993) and it was a funny story when I wrote about it (and even illustrated it) years later. It's still a funny story...

My son and I experienced Niagara Falls for the first time at the same time. My wife, whose parents took their three children on numerous family vacations, saw the renowned natural spectacle in her youth. I went on my last furlough with my parents at the age of seven, and Atlantic City, New Jersey is severely lacking in the waterfall department. When I became a father, I was determined to travel with my own family as much as time and money would allow. They would need not be extravagant, cultural excursions — just good, old-fashioned family fun time. So, in the summer of 1993, the three-member Pincus family loaded our typically-domestic minivan with suitcases and snack foods and headed in the direction of our neighbors to the North. 

Niagara Falls, in all its majestic aqueous glory, is truly breathtaking. However, after staring at an enormous wall of furiously rushing water, one’s sensibilities tend to shift from awestruck to bored to “I really have to go to the bathroom.” The Niagara Falls Chamber of Commerce is obviously aware of this emotional phenomenon. That has to be the reason that one of the most glorious displays of natural wonder and beauty is surrounded by kitschy souvenir shops, wax museums, arcades, miniature golf courses, spook houses, fast-food joints and budget motels. The average traveler might be turned-off by such vulgarity but this was right up the Pincus family’s alley.

Once past the brief, yet friendly, interrogation by the international border patrol, we crossed the Rainbow Bridge at Niagara Falls, New York and entered its bright and sparkly Canadian namesake on the other side of the Niagara River. As our son E. peered out of the backseat windows at the flashing lights and colorful building facades of frantic Clifton Hill, Mrs. Pincus navigated our Plymouth Voyager to the Quality Inn that would be our accommodations for several midsummer nights. We pulled into the Victoria Avenue driveway of the Quality Inn and my wife let me out by the front office entrance to check in. The motel was standard, no-frills lodging consisting of a two-story, horseshoe-shaped structure encircling a small in-ground swimming pool surrounded by unassuming chaise lounges and enclosed by a chain-link fence. The rooms were nondescript and served their purpose in cleanliness, convenience and affordability. 

Our first evening included a search for restaurant food that didn’t contain meat — evidently, a fairly difficult task in Canada. Afterwards, we strolled Clifton Hill, its surreal promenade alight with exuberance that spilled out of every open door and into the streets. E. was amazed and excited and we capped the night with a stop for ice cream before turning in. As we made our way back to our motel, we noticed a large group of Amish* teens — the boys in straw hats and dark vests with dark colored shirts; the girls in solid color dresses and starched white bonnets — heading in the same direction. As we walked, the population of the Amish youths steadily increased. When we reached the Quality Inn, the Pincus family proceeded to our first-floor room and the faction of Jakob Ammann‘s young disciples climbed the open-air staircase to the second story and retired to three adjoining rooms. 

Our next day was spent doing all the activities that tourists at Niagara Falls do. We donned disposable rain gear for the famous, yet drenching, Maid of the Mist boat ride. We retained our slickers for the equally waterlogged tour of the tunnels behind the Horseshoe Falls. We snapped photos along the guardrails protecting us from the hundred foot drop to the churning river below. Our whirlwind expedition sapped our collective energy, so we retreated to our motel for a rejuvenating dip in the pool. We hurriedly changed into swimming attire and started toward the small oasis in the middle of the parking lot. I laid claim to several recliners and accompanied my wife and son in the humble, water-filled cement tank. A few laps and splashes later, we were toweling off and relaxing. 

Soon, two boys emerged from the second floor rooms where the Amish family had disappeared the night before. They joined the small congregation of hotel patrons at the pool and commenced to splashing and cavorting and doing the playful things boys do in a pool. While the usually sheltered youngsters amused themselves, two attractive, bikini-clad young ladies sauntered across the parking lot from the far end of the hotel property. Their sights were set on the same midday refreshment the swimming pool offered their fellow guests. The girls idly chatted to each other as they dropped their towels on some chaise lounges on the opposite side of the pool and absentmindedly kicked off their sandals. The two Amish boys froze in mid-movement, their bodies rigid, their eyes transfixed. The young ladies — unaware that their every move was being observed and tracked by two innocent and bewildered 12 year-olds — continued their conversation. It was obvious that these two young men had never, ever, in their short lives, witnessed anything that remotely resembled the figures now on display before them. The female members of their traveling contingency sure as hell didn’t look like these… these…. females. Suddenly, one of the girls rose from her seat and strode to the edge of the pool. The boys’ eyes widened. The young lady pointed her leg and slowly and precariously dipped her toe into the water. At the exact same pace, the two boys slowly and precariously backed out of the water, never once taking their gaze away from the girl. It was as though Satan himself had chosen this small, man-made body of water to cool off his cloven hoof. The girl lazily stirred the water around with her extended leg, then withdrew it and patted it with a towel — never once glancing in the boys’ direction. By the time the young girl returned to the seat by her friend, the two boys were, no doubt, on their knees in their room praying and repenting for whatever they had done to have been subjected to the Devil’s temptations. 

Sometimes, vacations yield more sights that just the ones for the average tourist. And that works on several levels. 

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

* For over fifty years, my wife’s family owned and operated a general merchandise store in a farmer’s market located in the heart of Pennsylvania’s Amish population, so we are well-acquainted with their practices, observances and attire.

silent night

In 1995, the Pincuses took their first trip as a family to Walt Disney World. I had been to the Florida resort with my friends as a teenager, and Mrs. P had been with her family as a child, but this was our first time as the proverbial "Mom and Dad and Son." The first of many.

On my first visit as a rambunctious teen, my friends and I stayed at a hotel just outside the sprawling 27,000 acres that Walt Disney and his company purchased under assumed company names way back in the 1960s. We couldn't possibly afford the high rates charged by the (then only) three hotels on Disney property. For almost a quarter of the cost of a stay at a Disney hotel, my friends and I enjoyed five glorious days of as much debauchery that four sheltered Jewish kids from Northeast Philadelphia could muster.

My wife and I spent our honeymoon at Walt Disney World. We also stayed at a hotel outside of the resort, as the cost of an official Disney hotel was still waaaay out of the price range of a couple of newlyweds. On two subsequent trips, again, we booked rooms at non-Disney hotels.

By the time we decided to take our son to experience the wonders the Walt Disney Resort had to offer, Disney had opened nine additional hotels to join the Contemporary, Polynesian and Golf Resort/Disney Inn/Shades of Green, the three original on-property hotels. Of those nine, eight of them were still out of our price range. One, however, was surprisingly affordable - the new All-Star Resort. Labeled "a value resort," the All-Star offered room rates just slightly higher than the popular hotels that line nearby International Drive. The price seemed fair, considering the amenities that were included to guests staying at a Disney hotel. Free on-property transportation, free parking at the theme parks and that signature guest service that Disney is famous for. We booked a room at the All-Star Music Resort which had just opened at the end of 1994. Each of the five "hotels-within-a-hotel" is themed to a different genre of music. The décor is over-the-top, with giant icons complementing each specific type of music. The buildings sport enormous saxophones and drumkits and conga drums, along with colorful music notes on the walkway railings. We chose to stay at the "Rock Inn," with its neon jukebox entrance way and huge speakers cleverly concealing stairways which allow access to rooms for those not wishing to use the usually crowded elevators. It was exciting to actually stay at a Disney hotel, after years of hearing about how wonderful the staff and accommodations were.

...and now, for the "brutal honesty" portion of this blog post.

There are basically two types of people who visit Disney theme parks. There are those die-hard, avid Disney fans who are just enamored with anything and everything the company does. Sure, they are, at times, critical of some decisions, but, all-in-all, Disney is their "happy place" and being at a Disney resort is the best place to be. Then, there are those who go to a Disney resort because their neighbor went to a Disney resort and we can't let that son-of-a-bitch and his family do something that we haven't done. This faction of vacationers follow the crowds like lemmings, taking in as much "experience" as they can so Dad can brag to his co-workers that he was first in line at Space Mountain and how much the whole goddamn thing cost him, but, y'know, it was worth it, y'know, for my kids. However, during the trip, they complain about prices and service and waiting in line and point their kids in the direction of Daffy Duck to take a picture that they will never look at.

When Disney made staying at an on-property resort more affordable for the "working class Joe" who wished to take his family to "that place that everyone talks about," they opened themselves up to a different group of society. One they weren't exactly prepared for. Going on vacation can be a joyful , yet stressful, undertaking. Sometimes the line between "joy" and "stress" is blurred, resulting in loud, boisterous behavior exhibited by folks who are used to staying at a fleabag hotel in Wildwood. Sometimes people forget where they are and forget simple decorum. Some people forget that there are other people in this world. Some people just don't care.

On Night Two of our 1995 Walt Disney World trip, we arrived at our room — tired after a long day at the Magic Kingdom. It was past midnight by the time our bus dropped us off at the All Star Music stop located at the main building of the hotel. We still had a ten minute walk back to our second floor room in the Rock Inn, which was situated near the rear of the property. Already dragging and with an exhausted eight-year old in tow, Mrs. Pincus and I were blocked from direct access to our room by a dozen or so teenagers playing soccer in the hallway. They were loud and aggressive and had no regard for the late hour or any other guests. We did our best to maneuver through the young men and women. They made no effort to allow us passage. We managed to get into our room and Mrs. Pincus was pissed. I readied our son for bed, while Mrs. P stormed off to the front desk, once more navigating through the impromptu soccer match going on outside our door. About 30 minutes later, my wife returned. After voicing her dismay about the lack of proper chaperones for this young group and Disney's failure to maintain guests safety, she received an apology, along with instruction to pack up our belongings. Disney would be moving us to a different room (in the closer-to-the-bus-stop Calypso building) and discounting our final bill for the inconvenience.

I have not been to a Disney theme park since 2017. After nearly annual trips, we, as a family ventured to other destinations. Then, our son moved out on his own and Mrs. P and I began taking cruises as our preferred form of vacationing. Then, of course, the world fell under a pandemic, cancelling or severely limiting everyone's vacation plans. Despite not actually visiting a Disney theme park, I have kept up with the numerous changes going on. Not just exciting new rides and innovative dining options, but policy changes. Disney has implemented a reservations system and a virtual queue policy and all sorts of nuanced protocol that has taken a lot of the spontaneity out of a Disney vacation. I understand that things evolve and it is someone's job to come up with a "better way" for everything. Sure, it takes some getting used to for stogy old traditionalists like me, but I understand the need.

Just this week, however, it was reported on a Disney fan website that new signage has been popping up at the Disney All-Star resorts. Over the years, the All-Star resorts has become the designated hotel for visiting marching bands, cheerleaders and other youth groups performing or competing at Walt Disney World. The signs gently state: “Hey there, Musicians! We hope that you are enjoying your stay! Please remember that quiet hours are between 11:00 pm and 8:00 am.” Yep, Disney has to remind guests to behave themselves. Guests who are paying $185 per night have to be reminded — via printed, publicly-displayed signs — that they should be respectful of other guests at the hotel. On the Walt Disney World website, there is a lengthy list of "dos and don'ts" for guests considering a stay at the resort. The list includes things like "no firearms or other weapons" and "no fireworks." I honestly don't understand why this policy has to be stated.

Who am I kidding? Of course I do!

What has happened to people? What has happened to respect for yourself and your fellow human? Why do adults have to be told how to behave and why to they have to be told to monitor the behavior of their children? The folks at Disney should be concerning themselves with the newest technology for making your theme park experience thrilling, fun and memorable. They should be concocting inventive menus at their restaurants and original souvenirs for their gift shops.

Teaching and maintaining discipline? That's your job.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

(Yes, Steve, I know you would never go to a Disney theme park. I know.)

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

this is my cayman review

After many trips to Walt Disney World in Florida, my family and I decided to venture out to the west coast and see what Disneyland was all about. When we planned vacations to Florida, my wife and I were already pretty familiar with the accommodations that were available in our price range in Central Florida. We had gotten information from travel agents or friends who had taken similar trips or just from scouting around the area on trips that we had previously taken. We were familiar with the tourist-y areas and with various hotel chains. Of course, we had our share of bad experiences (referenced in this post), but they only served to narrow our list of possible choices on subsequent visits.

When we began making plans for our California vacation, we had a new resource available to us — the internet. Yessir! The good old Information Superhighway, chockful of all sorts of information to make planning a trip a veritable breeze. No longer were the services of a travel agent required. Just log on to a hotel chain website and booking a room could be accomplished from the convenience of your home while wearing pajamas. Then, click on over to Disney's website and purchase admission tickets. Other amenities, like a rental car or admission to side trips, could be secured in much the same manner. As time went on and technology advanced at lightning speed, websites like Expedia and Travelocity and dozens more were popping up, consolidating all of these actions and all making vacation plans so simple that anyone could serve as their own travel agent.

Along with ease and convenience, another aspect of vacation planning became available — reviews and recommendations. Websites like Yelp and Trip Advisor offered potential travelers honest reviews from fellow travelers — people just like you. Folks who visited particular hotels were encouraged to leave a review of their experience, whether good or bad. These reviews were meant to be helpful to other people in choosing accommodations based on the experiences of Mr. and Mrs. Average American Vacationer. So, when I was deciding which Anaheim California hotel would be our home for the five days and four nights we would spend at Disneyland, I read reviews for many hotels in the area.

Oh  boy!

First, I read just the positive reviews of a number of chain hotels (Best Western, Comfort Inn, Holiday Inn), all within walking distance of the theme park. "Wonderful," "Clean," "Warm and welcoming" was the general consensus for these establishments. Then I started to read the negative reviews for the same time period. "Horrible!," "Staff is rude," "Filthy!" read a few. How could some people have had good experiences and others hellish experiences within the same week of stay? The more I read, the more entertained I was by these reviews. I had forgotten that I set out to book a hotel room for a family trip to Disneyland. Instead, I became focused on these harrowing tales of horrendous experiences that these poor families were subjected to. In a flurry of colorful language, one poor reviewer told of giant insects, brown water from the faucets, burns on the carpet, leaking ceilings, unidentified stains on the bed sheets and a staff that chose to ignore their complaints. Another spoke of "unpleasant smells" and "loud noises outside the room." However, a subsequent post, time-stamped just a few days after two I just read, spoke glowingly about the sparkling cleanliness of the room, the bountiful free breakfast, the big bowl of fresh fruit at the front desk and the lovely, friendly, professional employees. Could all these reviews be about the same place? Did they clean up their act and ditch their entire workforce in the time between when these comments were written? How could that possibly be?

I read on. Things got more interesting.

One reviewer of the independent Candy Cane Inn, a longtime and popular neighbor of Disneyland right there on Harbor Boulevard, complained about his room being haunted. "As I lay in my bed," he wrote, "I saw cabinets open and close. I heard strange noises and saw furniture move. I packed my stuff up and immediately demanded a refund. Will never stay again." Another recent visitor to the same hotel gushed about the stellar accommodations and the attentive staff, noting that the Candy Cane Inn is her "go-to" place when in the Anaheim area. We actually ended up staying in a Best Western across the street from Disneyland. A review I read, while offering glowing praise, pointed out that the lines delineating parking spaces in the lot were particularly narrow. Well, indeed they were. It was very difficult to open the doors and exit our rental car if there was another car parked on either side. Otherwise, the place was very nice.

Over the years, I have used Yelp and Trip Advisor as a guide in choosing accommodations for vacation destinations other that a Disney resort. Recently, Mrs. Pincus and I went to Jamestown, New York and stayed at a very nice La Quinta Hotel that was in a pretty shitty neighborhood. The hotel itself was brightly lit when we pulled into the parking lot at nearly one in the morning. We were greeted by a number is unsavory looking folks just sort-of hanging around the otherwise deserted lot. But, once we checked in, the room was nice and clean. The following morning, the lobby was bustling with guests enjoying the free breakfast, as advertised on the La Quinta website. In the daylight hours, the shady element had retreated, only to return once evening arrived. I covered all of this in the review I wrote when we got home. No other review had mentioned anything similar to our experience. 

A few weeks later, Mrs. P and I headed to New Haven, Connecticut. I booked a room at another La Quinta, having been satisfied by the one in Jamestown (well, the hotel anyway) and expecting a chainwide consistency. I briefly read some online reviews, but could not come to any solid conclusion. Some were good. Some were bad. Well, when we arrived, the area looked to be very unappealing. This La Quinta had seen better days. The building was sun-bleached and old. It was surrounded by several fenced-in yards filled with rusty industrial equipment and machinery. There was a seemingly-closed restaurant attached to the main building that lit up with life at nightfall. The nearly-empty parking lot became packed with cars, bringing folks — dressed to the nines — who filed in and out the restaurant. The staff inside the La Quinta were uninformed when asked about check-out times and travel distances to nearby attractions. And their advertised free breakfast (a staple of the La Quinta chain) was a paper bag with an apple, a granola bar and a room temperature yogurt. None of this was in any review I read.... but it probably should have been. That would have been helpful.

I decided that reviews on Yelp and Trip Advisor for hotels (and I suppose restaurants, bars and anything else) are just there as a writing exercise for people hoping to be considered for an college scholarship. Or perhaps they are all budding horror novelists.

Or maybe they are just doing this to entertain me.

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