a whole new world

I met the future Mrs. Pincus in February 1982 and we were engaged to be married before that year was finished. I was attending art school and our plan was to get married after I graduated. There were a couple of years until that happened, so we had plenty of time to make arrangements for the big event. Future Mrs. P made all sorts of plans on her own, as well as with my soon-to-be in-laws.

One of the more interesting parts of planning a Jewish wedding is the purchase of custom head coverings (yarmulkes or kippot as they are alternately called) for the male guests to don at the ceremony. As a show of reverence to the deity above, men are expected to cover their heads in synagogue. Since our wedding ceremony would take place in a synagogue, the tradition is to supply head coverings. The yarmulkes are customarily kept as a souvenir and thus, inscribed on the inside with name of the bride and groom and date of the blessed event. I remember when my parents ordered blue satin yarmulkes for my brother's bar mitzvah. They just checked a box on an order form along with "paper napkins" and "cigarette holders" and "match books." (Yes, there were complimentary cigarettes at each table at my brother's bar mitzvah. "Today I am a Man," indeed!) But when it came time to order yarmulkes for our wedding, there would be no order forms or checking boxes. My in-laws "knew a guy."

One day a few months prior to our big day, my fiancee and I accompanied my future in-laws on a trip up the Garden State Parkway to New York City. My soon-to-be father-in-law navigated his car through the busy streets of the Big Apple's storied Lower East Side, where in 1983, the scenery could have passed for nineteenth century Anatevka. Storefronts were plastered with advertisements in Hebrew. The narrow sidewalks bustled with Orthodox Jewish men clad in heavy black coats and big black hats, their faces covered with long unkempt beards and their ears obscured by curly locks of payos that bounced as they walked. Women with sullen, expressionless faces, their hair covered by opaque cloth, wrangled scads of children — the boys in black with white shirts, the girls in white blouses and long dark skirts. My father-in-law guided his car into a parking space and killed the engine. We all got out and I dutifully followed my father-in-law down the street, leaving Mrs. P and her mother to window-shop — or shop shop — while we menfolk fulfilled a mission.

My father-in-law examined the addresses above the narrow doors as we walked along. We stopped at a nondescript wooden entrance. My father-in-law pressed a button on a panel with names in Hebrew and other buttons. An intercom speaker clicked on and a crackly voice said a few words in Yiddish. My father-in-law replied in Yiddish and we were buzzed in. We climbed a set of steps to another door that creaked when we swung it inward. The door yielded to an otherworldly view of a dusty room, cluttered with huge bolts of folded fabric and dozens of men — some on ladders, some leaning over work tables, some at desks — shouting at each other in Yiddish, their words overlapping other nearby conversation, that was also being shouted.

We approached a makeshift service counter (actually a thick plank of wood straddling a couple of piles of fabric). A man eyed us up and down and asked our business. My father-in-law asked to speak to "Yankel" or "Yussie" or some such similar name. In less than a minute, a small, wizened man appeared before us. He bore the facial features of a turtle and sported the same sort of facial hair that we saw on the men outside. He said a few words in Yiddish to my father-in-law and then waited for my father-in-law to respond with an order. And order he did — although I couldn't tell you what exactly he asked for because, as he pointed and gestured, he didn't say a single word in English. The old man interrupted a few times to ask a question, but for the most part he stood and nodded. When my father-in-law finished, the old man rolled his eyes in thought. Then he said a few final words in Yiddish and shooed us off with a wave of his lanky, wrinkled hand. Realizing our time here was up, we obliged and left the same way we came in. As we closed the door behind us, we could hear the men continuing their shouting.

"What just happened?," I silently asked myself. Then I asked my father-in-law the same question — aloud this time. He laughed and told me he ordered gray suede yarmulkes for our wedding, with our names embossed in gold text on the inside. Confused, I scratched my head and pointed out that the old man  didn't write a single thing down — not a quantity or a fabric identification number or even our names. For goodness sake, he didn't even give us a claim check to present if and (most importantly) when the order is ready to be picked up. My father-in-law reassured me that it was fine and there was nothing to worry about. Still not convinced, I noted that the man was pretty old. "What if he dies between now and our wedding?," I proposed, "He didn't write anything down. How will anyone know the order or anything?" My father-in-law laughed and changed the subject to where we would go for lunch.

Well, guess what? The guy died. Yep. Died.

My in-laws returned to New York a month or so later to pick up the yarmulke order. And it was ready and it was perfect.

Thirty-five years later, that experience still fascinates me. In a time before computers, this old man (who looked as though he was born old) ran a business where he didn't even use a pencil. Think about that the next time your internet connection cuts out for a few minutes while you're watching a cat video on YouTube.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

we now state emphatically it's happy anniversary

Today marks thirty-four years of wedded bliss shared by my beloved (and yours) Mrs. Pincus and me. I was the first one of my friends to get married. When I told my friends that was my plan, they were shocked. Josh? Married? Never! But it turns out that our marriage has outlasted a lot of marriages — and that says something. Something about the strength of my relationship with my wife. And we do have a great relationship. We have often said that we were destined to marry each other because no one would be able to put up with either one of us.

But how did it begin? Well, I'll tell you...

I was in the middle of my junior year at the Hussian School of Art, a small vocational institution located in Philadelphia. I was a typical budding artist — a strong-willed dreamer with unrealistic visions of fame and fortune filling my head. I footed the tuition bill myself, as my parents made it very clear that if I chose to further my education past free public school, I was on my own. So, at 19, I wandered into a bank and, with no idea what I was doing, applied for a student loan. Then, I had to figure out how to begin to save up to pay that loan back. I got a job at my cousin's vegetarian restaurant located a distant, but manageable, walk from school. Three days a week, I would pack up my art supplies fifteen minutes early and head out of my mostly informal classes. The majority of my instructors said nothing, but for the few that questioned my early exit, I would curtly justify my actions with, "I'm going off to pay your salary." My departure was usually met with a silent nod.

My job was manning the counter of a cafeteria-style eatery that did a pretty brisk lunchtime business, but slowed to a crawl during the dinner hour. To be honest, Wednesday and Thursday evenings were dead. Tony, my co-worker, and I would sometimes stare at each other for a couple of hours before the first customer would breach the doorway. Fridays would be a little busier, but by no means did we ever — ever — experience the so-called dinner rush. With our 10 PM closing time approaching, Tony and I would start to wrap up items that we knew we wouldn't use in the final hour, like salad ingredients and baked potatoes. I'd leisurely begin to sweep, then fill the mop bucket as Tony gathered up serving utensils and nearly-empty casserole pans to carry to our second-floor kitchen and deposit them in a sink of warm, soapy water. At 10 on the button, I'd lock the door and we'd get that place "spic 'n span" in record time.

However, there was that one particular Friday night — February 26, 1982, as a matter of fact — when things went a bit differently...

It was 9:30, a half hour from closing time and Tony and I were at our usual places behind the counter of Super Natural Restaurant, just killing time until I could lock the door for the night. Suddenly, the front entrance was darkened by three late-evening diners — two attractive girls and a guy — and I didn't want any of them there. Begrudgingly, I tightened up the ties on my apron and forced a smile to my face. Tony disappeared upstairs to get a jump on his dish washing duties, leaving me to handle the threesome on my own. The trio first perused the menu board then drew closer to the glass-enclosed counter to examine what was left of the evening's dinner offerings. One of the young ladies — a tall, pretty girl with long dark hair — was the first to speak. She pointed to one of the many recessed metal containers that filled the serving area — each sporting the evening shift's remainder of salad fixings. I followed the direction of her dark-hued, lacquered fingernail, as she asked, "Does the cheese contain rennet?"

I frowned and replied with five words. Five magical words that were flush with charm and allure — effortlessly melting the heart of this young miss. "What the hell is rennet?," I said.

She frowned right back. "It's an animal derivative that is used in the making of cheese. I keep kosher and if this is a true vegetarian restaurant, then you should be serving cheese that is made with vegetable-based rennet." She finished and smiled sweetly.

I dug in for a second salvo. "Kosher?," I asked, "I don't know anyone under 80 that keeps kosher." This conversation was in a downward spiral. The subject of "cheese" was not brought up again, as they placed their orders. As I tended to preparing their meals, they took seats at the first table-for-four in the small dining room. In a few minutes, I presented these diners with their late dinner. And I decided to hang around their table, even though I was not invited. Hey, I was 20 years old and the pursuit of girls was instinctively a top priority. Based on absolutely nothing, I decided that the first girl was too old for me. Instead, I focused on the other girl. She was cute and I brazenly asked for her phone number. I didn't know who the accompanying guy was with... and, frankly, I didn't care. She wouldn't give in, despite my relentless badgering. The first girl looked up from her dinner and interrupted my ploy with, "Do you have an older and taller brother?" Caught off guard, I answered, "As a matter of fact, I do." She laughed and scribbled her phone number on a scrap piece of paper. And still, her friend wouldn't relent. They finally finished and stood to put on their coats, explaining that they were headed to a midnight showing of the movie musical Grease. Just before they left, the first girl double-checked that I had her phone number for my brother and then punctuated her visit by telling me that I was the most obnoxious person she had ever met.

And that was it. They left. Tony and I cleaned the restaurant. He went home and I went home.

On Saturday afternoon, after finishing up a some work for school, I gave my older and taller brother a call. At the time, he was dating the woman who is now my sister-in-law, but a zillion years ago, the Pincus boys didn't know the meaning of the word "loyalty." I told my brother Max that I had met a girl and got her phone number for him. He stopped me before I went any further. "Could you call her first," he said, "and tell her I'm going to call? I hate having to explain who I am and how I came to make this call in the first place."

"Sure," I answered obligingly.

I hung up the phone and then immediately dialed the number written neatly on that little piece of paper. Susan, the girl from Friday, answered on one ring.  "Hello?," she said.

"Hi," I began, "It's Josh... the guy from the restaurant...."

Once we got past the awkward re-introductions, our conversation touched on a wide variety of subjects. The next thing we knew, three hours had whizzed by as though they were mere seconds. "Damn!" I said, about to get brave, "Forget my brother! I'm going to ask you out myself!" She laughed. I laughed. And we went out on our first date the very next weekend. And then we went out the weekend after that. And the weekend after that. I never went out on a date with anyone else ever again. Susan and I were engaged before the year was over.

I still wonder, after 34 years of marriage, if I'm still the most obnoxious person she ever met. That's a title I don't want to lose.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

honeymoon with B troop

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

We silently finished our packing and headed to our car.

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

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

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

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

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

For instance...

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

Those two crazy kids.

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

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

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

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

come on, Virginia, show me a sign

Our destination was a family wedding in Virginia Beach, a seaside resort town with a population of just under 450,000, making it the 39th largest city in the United States. (If a few more people vacate Mesa, Arizona, VB, as it is affectionately known to locals, will move into the coveted 38th spot.)

My wife has family in Virginia Beach and she takes the six-hour drive south several times a year. During the planning stages of these trips, she obligingly asks if I'd like to accompany her. My usual answer is, "They want to see you. They don't want to see me." That is the true consensus, although on the surface, that feeling is vehemently denied. This time, however, I thought I'd take the trip, after hearing that so many people Mrs. P met over the course of these visits were a bit skeptical that there even is a "Mr. Pincus." I'd show them!

The wedding itself presented an interesting situation. The groom (my wife's cousin) is a field reporter for the local NBC affiliate in Virginia Beach. The bride is the weekend news anchor for the competing CBS affiliate. They are a terrific — and extremely photogenic — couple, who swear their union is based on love and not at all on "out-scooping" the competition. (I would add that he's Jewish, she's Roman Catholic and they were married by a Methodist minister, but you'd probably think I was making the whole thing up. So, in order to keep what little credibility I have — I'll skip that part.) The ceremony was lovely. I was introduced to several of those who doubted my existence. Though they gave me the ol' narrow-eyed once-over, some were still not convinced — despite my insistence that we've been married for almost 30 years. Meanwhile, the newlyweds and their friends partied hard into the night, eventually ending up at a bar in the lobby of our hotel. The next morning, a few of the groomsmen showed up for breakfast in the same clothes they wore when they escorted wedding guests to their seats. They either each rented several of the exact same suits or they had a really, really good time.

Ariel needs constant
supervision.

On Saturday morning, we were afforded some free time before the wedding. My wife was determined to take in some of the famous Virginia Beach sunshine. I was determined not to set foot on sand of any kind.  I shun the beach in any form. I don't like the water, especially when other people are in it. I don't even own a bathing suit. As an alternate activity, I trekked up the "Boardwalk" to see what this resort town had to offer. When I heard "Boardwalk," my head was immediately filled with memories of the Atlantic City Boardwalk of my youth, its perimeter lined with cotton candy, balloons and ferris wheels, its splinter-filled planks daring bathers to tread barefoot. The Virginia Beach "Boardwalk," however, is actually a three-mile stretch of concrete, totally uncontaminated by boards. The jewel in the crown of the cement promenade is a 31-foot tall bronze statue of King Neptune, a shirtless, gray-green behemoth that looms malevolently over the gawking tourists, keeping close watch on adjacent Neptune Park and the awkward teenage cover band that was rocking its small bandstand. The figure is both stunning and frightening. There are other assorted memorials and sculptures that dot Virginia Beach's Boardwalk, lending just enough reverence and history to the otherwise jubilant atmosphere. There's the Norwegian Lady, a nine-foot, forlorn-looking patinated lass erected to commemorate the wreck of the Dictator in 1891. (A duplicate statue stands in Østfold, Norway.) Nearby is the recently-installed Naval Aviation Monument Park, featuring a quartet of statues honoring the history of ... you guessed it ... naval aviation. (This particular weekend hosted a massive "sand soccer" gathering, with scores of colorfully-clad youngsters kicking up the sand and clamoring for a beach's worth of pizza and lemonade. "Learning" didn't rank high on their list of priorities.)

WTF?

On my walk back to my hotel, I discovered the real draw of Virginia Beach. If you like beer, pancakes and henna tattoos, this is the place for you! For nearly thirty blocks, I passed enticements in varying sizes and establishments offering endless brands of barley brew, unlimited buffets of flapjacks and modestly priced, hand-applied temporary body art. This place is a one-stop shop for the beer-drinkin', hotcake consumin' disciple of self-expression. As long as your self-expression does not include foul language. In the 1990s, a "No Swearing" law was passed in Virginia Beach. The Boardwalk and the beach block of Atlantic Avenue are punctuated by these humorous-looking, yet no-nonsense, signs reminding revelers to "keep it clean."  So, please, drink to your heart's content, but drop an F-bomb and you're subject to a $250 fine and 10 days community service. I shit you not!

Virginia Beach is not unlike any one of a hundred little resort towns that dapple the length of the Eastern seaboard. Though some are big and some are small, Virginia Beach has something that those other municipalities lack.

Family.

Oh, and grass beach mats - 2 for 5 bucks.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com