what's new pussycat?

I guess it's time for a little explanation. If you follow me on other social media outlets (and — face it — why wouldn't you?), you probably have seen pictures of a mature black and white cat keeping a watchful eye atop a set of cement steps and a white wooden doorway whose frame is in need of a fresh coat of paint. As far as I'm concerned, this stoic little fellow is named Ambrose.

Maybe.

Probably not.

I love Kung Fu

My wife and I became active walkers well over a year ago. And by "active," I mean "active for our age." We are not in training for a 5K or a 10K or any other K that may exist. (I thought "K" stood for "strikeout." I don't know what it means in relation to walking or running.) We like the exercise and, as we approach the twilight of our lives, a bit of leisurely exercise is a good thing. We're not trying to break any records. We just want to stay healthy. So, instead of purchasing some bulky piece of commercial exercise equipment that will only become an expensive clothes rack after the initial novelty wears off, Mrs. Pincus and I do a couple of rounds around to block as often as possible. Like David Carradine's "Kwai Chang Caine," we walk the earth — seeing what we can see and meeting who we can meet. Mrs. P sees people she knows and even waves to people she doesn't know. We find unusual things along the way, like discarded full meals still wrapped in the logo-emblazoned paper from McDonald's and, more recently, a trail of newly-discarded face masks as though Hansel and Gretel were blazing a path but still trying to keep COVID-19 at bay. 

Most days, we take the same route. Actually I follow my wife's lead, since she knows the neighborhood better than I do — even though I have lived here for thirty-five years. Some days we head to the right once we've exited the house and descended our porch steps. But, most days, we head south on our suburban Philadelphia street. It's on this route that we see Ambrose.

A mere four houses away, Ambrose surveys his feline kingdom from the top step of the stone and wood house of our unseen neighbors. Ambrose watches regally as I fumble in my pocket for my cell phone. He waits patiently as I awkwardly enter the passcode and scroll to the camera icon. He poses obligingly when I raise my phone to eye level and snap off a couple of quick pictures. Then, he watches as Mrs. Pincus and I continue on our little jaunt around the block — or sometimes even further. If we happen to double back on our return trip to our house, taking a portion of the same homebound route as we started out on, Ambrose is frequently in the same position as earlier. Sometimes, he has dozed off behind one of the large cement urns that flank our neighbor's front door. Sometimes, he has stretched himself out upon the welcome mat, experiencing a slightly different perspective of his domain. Rarer, though, Ambrose is gone, perhaps off to chase a bird or a mouse or to see what awaits him in the backyard.

In the winter, although we kept up our regular walking habits, Ambrose had vacated his usual spot, opting — no doubt — for a warmer place. Cats can always find a place to keep warm. But once spring returned and the warming sun was out, Ambrose was back, silently surveying the area. 

Ambrose has a tendency to disappear for days at a time. We've passed his familiar steps and, sadly.... no Ambrose. Day after day, we walked slowly by our neighbor's house, craning our necks to hopefully catch a glimpse of Ambrose lurking behind a bush. Then, one day, Ambrose would reappear at the top of the steps — staring at us with his confident look, letting us know that he would not be offering an explanation of his absense.

As you may have seen, I post a picture of Ambrose whenever I see him. Mrs. Pincus gets a little nervous when I stop to take a picture. "What will you say if someone comes out of the house and asks why you are taking a picture of their cat?," she asks.

"I'll just explain that Ambrose has a little following on my social media." I reply.

The problem is — if the owner hears my explanation, the first thing they'll say is: "Who the hell is 'Ambrose?'"

You see, we named him "Ambrose." We actually don't know this cat's name. There's a good chance it's "Fluffy" or "Whiskers" or "Misty." There's a better chance that it's not "Ambrose."

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

shotgun

Yesterday, my wife and I went on our (almost) daily afternoon walk. We take nearly the same route everyday, circumnavigating the same streets that surround our suburban Philadelphia home. Our neighborhood is comprised of a diverse mix of housing. There are twin homes (like ours, called "duplexes" in some parts of the country, although a "duplex" means something else in our area). There are apartment buildings and townhouses and there are huge, sprawling, multi-floor structures situated on expansive plots of land and featuring additional out buildings like guest houses and multi-car garages. Around the corner from our house is one such property. It is a corner lot, surrounded by a low concrete wall and a connected ornate wrought-iron fence. We have only seen the family that lives there on rare occasions. In summer months, we can hear them splashing in their hidden pool. Sometimes we catch a glimpse of them closing the front door after retrieving a package from the cobblestone walkway that runs parallel to the main entrance.

Yesterday, as we walked alongside the property's outer wall, we could hear a loud, repeating "clicking" sound emanating from their yard behind a cluster of trees. I mentioned to my wife that it sounded like a giant stapler, perhaps the industrial hammer-type used to apply roofing shingles. As we grew nearer and the the trees no longer impaired our sight lines, we discovered the actual source of the sound.

And it was chilling.

The family, as revealed by the distinctive way they dress, are Orthodox Jews. We have seen small children playing in the large yard. The boys sporting kippot (head coverings) securely attached to the crown of their skulls, their tzitzit (fringes on their prayer shawls) flopping at their hips. The girls clad in plain, nearly shapeless dresses. Sometimes we spot a woman watching the children. She is dressed in a similar, fashionless frock, an awkward sheitel (wig) perched upon her head.

Today, we saw a father in a plain white shirt and black tie with his pre-teen son — both wearing a customary kippot atop their respective heads. The "clicking," we discovered, was made by the pump action of two pretty imposing looking rifles — the kind I've seen countless gangsters in countless movies use to carve out an escape path from a precarious crime scene. Father and son were, apparently, cleaning their weapons outside in the cool evening temperatures.

My wife and I watched in disbelief, as every stereotype we ever had forced upon us shattered as though the victim of a well-aimed shotgun blast.

Don't be fooled by throngs of tattooed, shaved-head, camouflage-clad "rednecks," waving their Confederate flags, screaming about their God-given rights and the Second Amendment. Am I stereotyping? 

Maybe... 

Maybe I'm stereotyping a couple of times.

www.joshpincusicrying.com

walking to new orleans

My wife and I just returned from New Orleans, sneaking back from the 60 degree weather to the Philadelphia area in between two winter storms. It was our first trip to The Crescent City and, while we had a good time, I will be the first one to admit that we don't vacation like most people. Mrs. Pincus and I do not drink. As far as eating, I am a vegetarian and although Mrs. P eats meat, we observe the laws of kashrut, so no meat unless it is certified kosher*, no shellfish or any other shit-eating bottom-feeder, thus eliminating a good portion of the cuisine for which The Big Easy is renown.

One evening, after a full day of exploring a couple of New Orleans' famous cemeteries, Mrs. P was bushed. She headed back to our hotel room. I offered to go out to pick up dinner. I had read about a place called The Gumbo Shop that offered a vegetarian version of the signature Creole dish. The restaurant was close by, just off of Jackson Square. Mrs. Pincus curled up under the blankets and I set out on my mission.

I'm going to make a confession. I am not the most patient person that ever lived. Especially when I am walking. I am a determined walker. I do not stroll. I do not meander. I do not saunter. In the morning, when I exit my train, I proceed with a purposeful gait. I am not on a happy jaunt with a Straw Man and a Tin Man towards The Emerald City. I am headed to work. I don't like to get behind someone who is weaving unsteadily across the sidewalk like they are already drunk at 8:30 in the morning. You wanna take your morning constitutional? Save it for the early dawn hours on a beach somewhere.

I crossed over to Canal Street making my way towards Bourbon Street. I dodged a few of the many homeless that littered the narrow thoroughfares of the French Quarter. The sidewalks were beginning to fill with inebriated tourists, reeling all over the pavements, some stopping indiscriminately and for no apparent reason. Grrrr! Sidewalks should be treated like highways. Move to the right lane if you're going to move slowly. The left lane is for passing. Look, I realize that the New Orleans tourist area is filled with tourists and that tourists are in no rush because they are on vacation, but please! How about a little courtesy for other types of tourists. Like me.

I made a right onto Bourbon Street. I immediately thought, "So! This is where they moved Sodom and Gomorrah!" I was practically the only person who wasn't currently draining a container of alcohol. Don't get me wrong. I don't mind if people drink and make merry. But do they have to do it while they imitate a ball in a pinball machine? The French Quarter sidewalks are narrow, but, luckily the street was closed to motor vehicles. Pedestrians (those that could still walk), taking full advantage of the traffic situation, staggered and careened from one curb to the other.

I weaved in and out, carefully avoiding bodily contact with the hoards of drunkards. Just ahead, I spotted The Gumbo Shop's sign and located the entrance. A long queue line of potential patrons had clogged the entrance way. I cut an uncompromising path to the hostess podium and inquired about placing a take-out order. After a brief wait, the smiling bartender appeared with a plastic-handled bag stuffed with steaming, fragrant gumbo and a full, crusty baguette. I exited and rerouted myself to the wider, yet just as congested, Decatur Street parallel to the Mississippi Riverfront. I threaded my way through the tipsy crush of people, none of whom were moving in anything close to a straight line.

The foot traffic thinned out as I crossed Poydras Street. I could once again walk my normal walk. Quick. Straight. Determined.

Yeah. I know it's me.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

*Please don't even start with that "blessed by a rabbi" bullshit. You have the internet. Look it up.

walk this way

For the better part of the last year, I've been walking. To work, to concerts, to dinner, and so on. It began as a way to become more active without actually becoming more active. Truth be told, it takes the same amount of time for me to walk from my house to my office as it did to take any combination of public transportation options (although that's less a reflection of my physical prowess as it is an indication of just how badly fucked SEPTA, the Southeastern Pennsylvania Transportation Authority, is these days). What started as a half-assed way to work off my morning Franken-Berry has become more than just a regular part of my day, it's become an ever-unfolding adventure.

Though I mostly stick to the same 30 minute route to and from work each day, the very nature of living in a city as large and bustling as Philadelphia has meant that no two days' walks are ever the same. Or boring. I see sleekly designed houses spring up from long vacant lots. I see the sad, well-dressed masses of Philadelphia's businessfolk emerge silently from cramped subway staircases. I see whimsical set-pieces for a touring revival of The Wizard Of Oz unloaded from semi-trucks like common crates. I see women dressed head-to-toe in anachronistic glamor that even Norma Desmond would find tacky. I see a city hum faintly with activity in the after-hours. I see where a young man lost his life one bright morning.

In this most recent winter, I braved several snowstorms just to walk. Not out of pride or spite, but out of habit. When it came time to renew my SEPTA pass for the spring months, I opted out. The money I had previously put toward a guaranteed, slow, late, inconvenient ride found better use elsewhere. Like getting the soles of my boots replaced.