police on my back

In the summer of 2020, I wrote about the police for what I thought would be the last time. I don't like to get political on this blog, but sometimes a situation becomes so astounding and so outrageous, I feel I have to address it. (I promise to get back to in-depth analysis of old TV shows and things I ate for dinner as soon as I can.) Not that my opinion makes any difference, but it's more like opening a valve on a pipe to let the build up of steam escape. In 2020, a police officer murdered George Floyd in plain sight of a number of people, including other police officers who did nothing. As a result, the nation erupted in outrage and protest in many cities across the country, including my own city of Philadelphia, the alleged "City of Brotherly Love." Watching the protest on television from my safe suburban home was horrify and, at the same time, enlightening. In the following days, I was educated by a few African-American friends, giving me a perspective on the events to which I had previously been blind. I learned — in the most basic of terms — that white people are awful. Just awful. They are unjustifiably scared and have pretty much caused all of the issues they have with people who are not white. White people have always been in charge and have feared losing that status the entire time. It's just terrible and, sometimes, I am embarrassed and ashamed to be white. I thought — and really believed — that after George Floyd's death and the eventual sentencing of his police officer/murderer, things would improve. I believed that white people would collectively realize their past treatment of non-white people and begin to take the road to understanding, equality and better relationships. I thought that police officers would relax their targeting and profiling and stop being bullies. I would have been better off and achieved more favorable results had I focused my optimistic beliefs on the Tooth Fairy.

Tashawn and Michael Bernard

In August 2023, 12 year-old Tashawn Bernard was helping his father wash the dinner dishes in his Lansing, Michigan apartment. Tashawn's father, Michael, asked his son to take a bag of trash out to the dumpster that sat just across the parking lot from their unit in the apartment complex. It was something that Tashawn had done a million times before. After an inordinate amount of time, Tashawn had not returned and Michael became concerned. He left the apartment and came down to the parking lot — only to discover several police cars surrounding the dumpster and his son - in handcuffs - flanked by two police officers and being guided into the back seat of one of the police cars. Both frightened and angry, Michael called out the the officers: "Why is my son in handcuffs?" One of the officers answered back that he would be told "in a little while" and should keep his distance on the sidewalk. With Tashawn in the back of the police vehicle, Michael pressed for an explanation. Another officer explained that they were searching for a suspect in a series of car thefts in the area and Tashawn fit the basic description. As the story unfolded, some disturbing details were revealed. It seems that Tashawn had just tossed the bag of trash into the dumpster when a police car pulled up to him. An officer emerged from the car and unholstered his gun as he began to question the young man. It turns out that the only characteristic that Tashawn shared with the suspected car thief was he was black. Tashawn was a different height, a different build, different age range and was dressed differently. Eventually, Tashawn was released to his father and the two returned to their apartment. (Michael was subjected to disrespectful comments and threats prior to his son's release from custody.) Michael contacted the Lansing Police Department, as well as several media outlets. He demanded an apology, which he did receive a few days after the unfortunate incident. Both Lansing's Chief of Police and Lansing's Mayor offered very standard, very corporate and very cold apologies, with phrasing that would have been more appropriate for a mistakenly-issued parking ticket. Michael has since contacted an attorney for possible further legal action.

When I read this story (that got relatively no national attention), I was saddened, frustrated and angry. I could not imagine what was going through Michael Bernard's head when he saw his son in handcuffs. I thought about how I would have felt if I had seen my son in that situation. But, what would be the chances of that happening? My son is white and police officers would run past a white young man for the opportunity to unjustly harass a black young man. This story made me ask the rhetorical question: "When will this end?"

I got my answer last week. And the answer I got is "never."

David Ryan Harris and his children

On September 15, 2023, David Ryan Harris, a singer/songwriter, got his children up for an early flight from Atlanta International Airport to LAX. It was a six-hour flight and his two boys were understandably cranky from being awakened at 4:15 am, hours before sunrise. As they boarded the flight, a flight attendant became concerned that a light-skinned 7 year-old with curly blond-brown hair was travelling with a black man. The shy young man didn't answer the flight attendant's questions and turned away when asked his name. The flight attendant contacted authorities in Los Angeles. When the flight touched down at LAX, Harris and his two boys were met at the jetway by four Los Angeles police officers and an employee from American Airlines. After some brief public questioning, right at the gate, the police determined that the now-agitated Harris was, indeed, the father of the two boys. A furious Harris noted that his boys are shy and are not obligated to engage in any conversation. Harris unsuccessfully contacted American Airlines customer service before taking his anger to social media.  In a post to Instagram, Harris stated: "If this had been a white dad/mom with 2 little black kids, they would probably been offered an upgrade, not an interrogation." American Airlines later issued an apology to the singer. A company representative contacted Harris, explaining that they were concerned over the possibility of child trafficking. In an effort to "make things right," American Airlines promised an investigation and would credit Harris's account with 10,000 frequent flyer points. Harris pointed out that the airline awards 50,000 points when you open an account, so this is kind of insulting.

I wonder how soon until I read another one of these stories. I wonder when it will end. I wonder when I will stop hearing people say "Blue Lives Matter" as a response to "Black Lives Matter." 

White people, I mean.

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

oh say can you see

On Tuesday, I went to my first general admission concert since the world went into seclusion from the onslaught of the COVID-19 pandemic. I went to a show in July, but this was at a reserved seating venue, where staying in your seat (or at least by your seat to do a little awkward dancing) was strictly enforced by the staff of flashlight-wielding, credential-wearing martinets employed to patrol the aisles and keep order. 

But Tuesday's show was different. It was held at Philadelphia's beautiful World Café Live, a two-stage venue that I have been to many, many times since its opening in 2004. I've seen a wide variety of musical acts there, as well as special movie screenings and a fair share of dance parties sponsored by the radio station that employs my son (which is, by chance, housed in the same building). While a handful of shows at WCL offer reserved seating, most are general admission, allowing attendees to stake out a spot on the large open space in front of the stage or in the smaller area surrounding the bar at the rear of the venue. I have seen shows that were poorly attended, with sad little clumps of patrons gathered haphazardly on the floor. Conversely, I attended a free performance by 80s icons The Pretenders where the audience appeared to be doing their best approximation of a sardine can. 

To be honest, I would prefer a sparsely attended show. I don't like crowds. I don't like the way crowds behave. Large groups of people tend to think that concerts are interactive events where they are free to scream and try to engage the performers in one-on-one conversation. Others feel that the music is merely background noise for their very important conversations, often raising their voices above the volume of the PA system in order to tell their partners what they had for lunch that day. Then there are those who seem to think they are in a room all by themselves for a private recital with a band, regardless of how many or how few other people are there to see the same show. These folks roam freely, flailing their arms in joyful dance and regularly obscuring the view of the stage for a number of well-behaved concert-goers.

The Baseball Project - Scott McCaughey (bottom left),
 Linda Pitmon (center) Steve Wynn (bottom right),
Mike Mills (top left) and Peter Buck (top right).

On Tuesday, my son and I saw The Baseball Project, a so-called "supergroup" currently on a multi-city tour promoting their latest release Grand Salami Time, the quintet's first new album in nearly a decade. What? You've never heard of them? Well, the band is comprised of members of other bands. There's Steve Wynn, guitarist and leader of 80s indie rockers The Dream Syndicate. On drums is Steve's wife Linda Pitmon, who has kept a strong driving backbeat for The Filthy Friends as well as Alejandro Escovedo's band. Also on guitar is Scott McCaughey, who plays with his other bands The Minus 5 and Young Fresh Fellows. Scott has popped up on and contributed to recordings from everyone from Liz Phair to The Monkees. He was a studio and touring member of alt-rock darlings R.E.M. Rounding out the band are Mike Mills and Peter Buck, both former members of R.E.M. and proud inductees in the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. These five musicians joined up over their common love of rock and roll and the National Pastime, producing four albums (and a couple of EPs) of baseball-centric tunes that are decidedly different from the standard novelty songs of the past like "I Like Mickey" and "Talkin' Baseball." I've seen The Baseball Project several times (including a show in — very fittingly — Cooperstown, New York, home of the National Baseball Hall of Fame). They are fine musicians and songwriters and always present a rollicking (and informative) evening of entertainment.

Following a quick dinner of tacos, my son and I entered the near-empty World Café Live around fifteen minutes before showtime. I secured a spot at the back of the main floor while my boy ran up to the bar to grab a beer. Returning quickly, he handed me a tall cold can of something called "Liquid Death," which, despite its foreboding name, turned out to be plain water. (I don't drink alcohol and he knows it.) He placed his beer on the line of tables immediately behind us. I chose this spot specifically so there was no chance of anyone standing behind us, thus eliminating the possibility of getting pushed forward by some overzealous fan "caught up in the moment... maaaaaan!" As showtime ticked closer, the venue began to welcome more guests, but, it was - by no means - anywhere near its capacity of 700. Not even close. I had high hopes of a well-behaved crowd who would optimistically keep their distance.

Buck.

The lights dimmed and the band members filed out to the stage, grabbing their instruments and acknowledging the crowd with waves and smiles. Linda, seated behind the drums, shouted off a traditional "1-2-3-4" and the band launched into "Erasable Man," a rocking ode to the legacy of Negro League powerhouse Josh Gibson. The crowd bobbed their collective heads and pumped their collective fists and made all the other patented actions executed at concerts by old, uncoordinated white guys. Of course, the darkened audience area was dotted with the glow of raised cellphones, snapping a few photographic souvenirs for perusing and showing-off at a later date. In my peripheral vison, I could see a hulking, white-haired gentleman cradling a small digital camera (not a cell phone) in his palms and aiming in the direction of Peter Buck. Buck was the only member of the band not outfitted with a microphone. He stood silently and nearly immobile for the entirety of the show, plucking his guitar of choice and staring down his bandmates. He rarely, if ever, turned his glance towards the audience. The white-haired gentleman to my left was on a mission to capture every move — or in this case non-move — that Buck made (or didn't make).

Now, don't move.

As the show progressed and The Baseball Project tore through their musical catalog, I noticed that the white-haired photographer was inching his way towards me with each new song. By the time "The Voice of Baseball" (a loving tribute to late Dodgers announcer Vin Scully) began, the white-haired gentleman was right in front of me. I mean right in front, the back of his head a mere inch or two from my nose. Without regard for anyone around him — specifically me — he focused his camera in his raised arms, blocking my once-clear view of the stage even more. Because I was close enough to him (by no fault of mine), I noticed the image in his camera's viewfinder never changed. It was centered on Peter Buck. Exclusively. He did not move to snap a photo of any other band member. He just took photo after similar photo of Peter Buck. And Peter Buck rarely changed position. He switched guitars a few times, removing and replacing an instrument in a nearby rack, only to return to the exact same position on stage left (his right), just behind the energetic Scott McCaughey, who bopped and swayed to the rhythm of each new tune. Nevertheless, the white-haired budding Ansel Adams continued to take what was essentially the same fucking picture while relentlessly encroaching on my personal space. I turned to my son, pointing at the oblivious white-haired gentleman and miming a shrug with my upturned, outstretched palms. My son laughed, leaned into me and said, "Did you miss going to concerts?"

Fifty or so minutes into the show, the band announced a quick break (that they identified as the end of the first game of the double-header). They would be returning for a second set and the house lights brightened in the meantime. Surprisingly — and even better — thankfully, the white-haired gentleman exited the venue and did not return for the second set. I suppose he captured every non-movement that Peter Buck didn't make to his satisfaction. Perhaps he was just one of the many devoted R.E.M. fans in attendance, still hanging on to the vivid memories of the band and trying to relive the Athens rockers' glory days. Perhaps he was gathering research and reference material for a proposed tribute to the R.E.M. guitarist in the form of a painting or even a sculpture. Perhaps he was a member of the extended Buck family, tasked to provide a pictorial chronicle of the celebrated cousin/brother/uncle on the second wave of his stellar career.

Or perhaps I was just happy that I could see the stage again.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

welcome to my world

Remember that guy I told you about last week? My co-worker who stinks? Well, I have another co-worker who also stinks... but in a different way.

I have been in and around the commercial printing business for approximately 40 years. I have worked for printing companies. I have designed for printing companies. I have dealt with printing companies as a customer. In my nearly four decades of experience, I can safely say, with certain small exceptions, that people in the commercial printing business are some of the dumbest people I have ever met. The frightening majority of folks in the commercial printing business are ignorant, narrow-minded lunkheads who, aside from operating a printing press roughly the size of a battleship, can't do much else. And the sales force in the commercial printing business don't posses the skills to operate the presses, so they are even dumber. Salespeople who sell commercial printing services are a special kind of dumb.

Here's my most recent encounter with one of their representatives.

In my current job, I design ads and other promotional materials for the supermarket industry. I work closely with a guy who sells the owners of these supermarkets on the idea that their store needs these items in order to drum up business. After lengthy in-person or phone conversations with the customer, the salesman hands me scribbled pages of notes and rudimentary drawings and it's my job to translate these hieroglyphics into something "pretty." After submitting a design idea, the salesman runs it by the customer and it goes though several more rounds of changes, edits and additions until an approval is given and it goes to print. The changes are usually transmitted via email . But along the way. some of those changes are delivered verbally, in the form of the salesman sitting behind me as I guide my mouse cursor around my computer monitor, telling me "Move that there." and "Change this to that." 

The salesman in question is a slick little motherfucker with a Mephistophelian beard, French-cuffed shirts and a vocabulary like a longshoreman. An uneducated longshoreman. He complains about the stupidity of every single one of his customers. He second-guesses his customer's changes and often directs me to make changes contrary to their changes... only to have those changes changed back to what they originally requested.

Just this week, I was working on a door hanger for a supermarket grand opening in the South Jersey area. (You know what a door hanger is. It's a long cardboard advertisement with a slotted hole cut in it that... you know... hangs on your doorknob.) This particular piece had gone though an inordinate number of changes over a period of a couple of days. (I generated nearly eight unique proofs, only differentiated by a few insignificant changes — none of which would ever be noticed by a potential recipient as he tosses it from his front door into the pile of the week's recycling.)

Late on Friday afternoon, the salesman stomped into my office, grumbling something about "more changes." He plopped himself into a nearby office chair and asked me to pull up the pending door hanger-in-progress on my computer. As I searched my folders for the proper version of the InDesign file, the salesman said: "The first thing the customer wants, is to add 'Black Lives Matter" to the front, under the logo."

I froze.

I slowly turned around, something I rarely do, as I prefer to accept dictated changes while I face my computer screen. "Really?," I asked. Customer changes of any kind never surprise me. Store owners have been known to make any number of unusual requests ("unusual" in my opinion) for what they want added to their advertising in the name of the dangerous combination of "promotion" and "community awareness."

He laughed heartily. "No," he clarified, "I'm just kidding."

This made me angry. Very angry. First of all, as the "new guy," I was in no position to say anything about anything. I couldn't reprimand him. I couldn't explain how I found his callous comment offensive. I couldn't tell him how his belittling of the BLM movement was dismissive of an entire race that has been dismissed for years and years. I certainly understood his derisive remark. The supermarket is located in a predominantly black neighborhood. In his narrow little mind, he saw me — a white guy with gray hair — as a comrade. A compatriot. A confederate. An ally. A reflection of his own way of thinking. He even repeated his little racist comment to the real stinky guy behind me — who chuckled with his acknowledgement.

The salesman continued dictating the actual changes he wanted and I made them to the document. I generated a PDF proof and emailed it to the salesman, hitting the big "SEND" button as he exited my office. I stewed for sometime until I gathered up my jacket and left the office myself, as it was the end of another work week.

Over the weekend, I thought (on and off) about my few options. I decided — reluctantly — to do nothing. Not to say anything to my supervisor at work. Not to say anything to the nice lady in Human Resources who I have not seen since my first day of work seven months ago. I decided to let it pass. Racists will always be racists. I can't change that. Stupid people will always be stupid. I can't change that either.

The best I can do is blog about it.

So I did.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

let's call this song exactly what it is

Four jobs ago, I used to ride the train every day to downtown Philadelphia. I'd see a lot of the same people at the train station (which is just a few feet from my suburban Philadelphia home). Of course, I didn't know any of these people. They were just commuters, like me, on their way to work. In my mind, I'd make up little stories about them to amuse myself while I waited for the train to arrive. I had a lot of time to let my imagination wander, as the train was rarely on time. 

There was one guy who I saw on an almost daily basis. I don't like to pass judgement on people (who am I kidding? yes I do!) whom I don't know. But, as human nature would have it, I formed an instant opinion about this guy from the moment I saw him... and I didn't like him. He always sported a smirk on his face and swung his large briefcase nervously as he expounded some long-winded explanation to a small group of similarly-dressed men in way-too-loud a voice.

The job to which I referred — the one that was the destination of my train ride — was working at a mid-sized law firm. While my position didn't require me to interact with lawyers regularly, I did have several encounters with attorneys over the course of the dozen years I worked there. Some of them — not all — were arrogant and nasty. The ones that fit into that category all exhibited the same hubris in their conversation, demands and actions. Sure, there were plenty of lawyers who were nice and personable, but still, there was this over-arching air of "I am better than you" that one could feel hanging heavy in the course of any verbal exchange — no matter how brief or lengthy. In my personal experience, I concluded that those who attended law school were convinced that the certificate they received upon graduation assured expertise in the field of law — as well as every other profession. Even ones in which their course of study did not cover. I don't remotely profess to know anything about the legalities of anything, but I have had attorneys point out all the things I was doing wrong in graphic design.

The guy at the train station, I discovered via a long-time friend and travelling companion, was a lawyer. I revealed my instant, though admittedly baseless, dislike of this guy to my friend. My friend vehemently dismissed my assessment of the guy, telling me, "No! You've got him all wrong! He's a sweetheart!" Granted, my friend is an eternal optimist, always seeing the sunny side of pretty much everything. She likes everyone. I can't understand how we've been friends for so long.

Sometime after my friend's reprimanding of me, I overheard the train station guy again. It was tough not to overhear him, as he spoke loudly. Very loudly. Way too loudly for the other person in his conversation. He spoke as though he was addressing the entire train station assembly. Perhaps he was. All he was missing was a podium. He spoke of how he was running for a position on the local school board and talked about all of the plans he had once elected. 

(Get ready for another opinion)

I have lived in my house for 35 years. I love this neighborhood, but there is a very elitist attitude among some of the more  — shall we say  — "affluent" citizens. Their houses are bigger than mine. Those big houses sit on more property than I own. And their "say" in local matters is more influential than mine. This little coterie likes to serve on committees and tell other people what to do. Makes 'em feel important and a contributor to "the greater good" — their own personal "greater good." The train station guy is one of those "I like to serve on committees" people. He won a spot on the school board and, subsequently, became the head of the school board of my district.

I don't take the train to that job anymore. As I mentioned, I have had three jobs since then, so I don't see the train station guy anymore. Until this week.

It's graduation time and, as head of the local school district, the train station guy offered some words of inspiration to the high school graduating class of 2021. Clad in an honorary cap and gown, a pair of comically-large glasses perched on the bridge of his nose, the train station guy delivered a speech in which he quoted — although misinterpreted — from a blog post by an acknowledged hero of his, Professor Heather Cox Richardson, a professor of American History at Boston College. The train station guy related anecdotes about abolitionist Frederick Douglass, saying that Douglass had a "pretty good position" relative to other black slaves.  He also said that his escape to freedom in 1838 was — and I quote — "ridiculously easy." The majority of the student body of the high school is African-American. Murmurs rumbled through the audience and graduates as the words echoed through the public address system. The train station guy is just another white guy in a long line of white guys who don't know when to shut up about things they don't know about. Oh... wait.... there isn't any subject they don't know about.

A very short time after his speech, an official announcement from the school board was released. It explained that the train station guy was stepping down from his position as school board head. It also related an apology for his insensitive expression and inappropriate use of the forum. The story made local, national and international news. A YouTube video of the commencement ceremony was edited and carried a newly-inserted disclaimer at the beginning.

I can't understand how the speech got as far as being actually spoken. Didn't the train station guy run it by a few close friends or family members or colleagues or anyone who isn't white before saying "Yeah, this sounds right. This is what I'll go with."? In all of the wisdom which he flaunted at the train station, couldn't he see the insensitive and hurtful nature of the words he deemed appropriate for a high school graduation speech? I suppose not.

But it looks like my first impression of him was spot on after all.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

easy like a sunday morning

I think I started watching CBS Sunday Morning, the venerable weekend extension of the CBS early morning news program, when my son was in college. We'd wake up early on Sunday and watch together... surprisingly on his suggestion, not mine. I'm not sure why a 20-something year-old would want to watch a show that was obviously geared to an older audience, but, who was I to argue. So, we watched. Together.

At the time, the show was hosted by the avuncular Charles Osgood, who was well into a decade of hosting after taking over the reigns from the equally-avuncular Charles Kurault. Osgood was a friendly, folksy fellow, nattily dressed in a comfortable tweed suit and a hand-knotted bowtie at his throat. He introduced relatable tales of regular folks tending to home gardens or feisty grandparents who had formed a rock group or proud World War II vets being honored by their small-town neighbors with a very homemade-looking parade. It was ninety minutes of a Norman Rockwell painting come to life. There was weather and fun facts interspersed among the stories, as well as a not-too-heavy editorial, a movie recommendation and maybe a humorous piece or recognition of a notable passing. The whole thing was capped off with a nearly-silent bit of footage of some wildlife cavorting in their natural habitat, like coyotes in the desert or penguins waddling across a snowdrift. Credits would roll and I'd change the channel, interrupting a scowling Bob Schieffer as he announced the day's topic of Face the Nation.

Even after my son moved out — first with roommates, then to his own house — we continued to watch CBS Sunday Morning together, making our comments to each other via text messages instead of a nudge on the sofa. We'd offer each other observations about Charles Osgood's piano playing (of which there was a substantial amount) or the antics of prairie dogs popping in and out of holes in the sunbaked Badlands of South Dakota like a real life Whack-a-Mole game. 

Suddenly, Charles Osgood announced his retirement, handing the mantle over to regular correspondent and former NBC Today Show host Jane Pauley. At first, we were, of course, disappointed in the pending departure of Charles Osgood. The guy had served the show well, but he was 83. He earned the pleasure of retirement after a long and illustrious career. As longtime fans of the show, we felt Jane Pauley was a fine choice to continue the tradition of gentle stories to accompany our coffee and (sometimes) schmeared bagels — not that CBS ever asked our opinion. On October 9, 2016, CBS Sunday Morning opened with a smiling Jane Pauley at the helm.

It was all downhill from there.

Within the first few weeks of Jane Pauley taking over as the host of CBS Sunday Morning, the show began to take on a noticeably different tone. Where the program once steered clear of most things political — leaving that subject to be dealt with during the weekday news reports or by the talking heads on Face the Nation — they were now kicking things off with some serious, often trouble-invoking, piece about the turmoil in Washington. The reports would run way too long and way too in-depth and seemed out of place in the Sunday morning timeslot usually reserved for a gray-haired woman offering a lesson in canning your own fruit. or a wizened gent carving bird-shaped whistles from the wood of a tree that grew in his front yard, recently felled by a thunderstorm. I, like most of the audience who tunes in to CBS Sunday Morning, come for a respite from spin doctors and other members of the politico. Soon, even non-political stories took on political characteristics, especially when every new episode led with a story about the COVID-19 pandemic. Sure, it was important, but information — real, usable information — about the pandemic could easily be obtained by any number of other outlets. CBS Sunday Morning went from being an oasis to being part of the glut.

Then, more changes in mood crept into the program. It took on a very elitist and condescending tone — a very uppity, very exclusive, very clique-y, very white (if you will) attitude. It's target audience was becoming very clear. Sure, I understood who the show was geared towards in the past, but now there was no mistaking the show's intent. It now featured regular cooking segments hosted by the Queen of Out-of-Touch Lifestyle, Martha Stewart. Comfortably sauntering around a kitchen that is bigger than my house, Ms. Stewart offers impromptu instruction for preparing some French-named dish using exotic-sounding ingredients that she grows on her farm — you know, just like the one which you grow your exotic ingredients.

Most of the stories contain interviews with white people by white reporters. If, on the off chance that a person of color is the focus of a report, it is assigned to a black reporter or it is treated like a quaint little novelty, as though this portion of society is something that regular viewers will never ever experience outside of the setting for a movie or, possibly, the very segment they are watching. Steve Hartman does a weekly report — a feel-good story about people just being nice to one another. The subject is usually someone who is down on their luck or suffering from some sort of ailment. I can just imaging the typical home viewer watching and thinking: "Oh, those poor people. I'm glad they don't live near me."

Recently, they brought in Ted Koppel, a one-time respected television journalist. I thought Ted had retired years ago, and, by the content of his reporting, he should have. His reporting style is dismissive and his reports are condescending. He is resting on his thirty-year old laurels and those laurels are no longer applicable to today's issues. But, no one, apparently, has the guts to tell Ted this. Instead, he treats the current story — the one on which he is reporting — like it pales in comparison to the sorts of thing he covered in his heyday. 

Even their lighter pieces carry the same, overarching attitude. Recently, I saw a piece about how Wayne Coyne and his band The Flaming Lips are dealing with the pandemic. Coyne and company have been together, in one form or another, for around thirty years. The band was presented as a bunch of upstarts that CBS just found out about. However, a week later, Crosby, Stills and Nash were showcased as though they are the most relevant band on the planet. (Spoiler alert: They are not.)

All during the pandemic, the Sunday Morning staff felt that America — especially their target audience — craved a weekly check-in with Jim Gaffigan. Gaffigan, a popular comedian who tours regularly, was sidelined during the pandemic, like the majority of his fellow performers. Gaffigan took this time to film his innermost feelings about how much he dislikes his family. This became a weekly thing. A thing I don't believe I asked for.

I will watch pretty much anything on television, including shows I hate — Gilligan's Island, I Love Lucy, Mork & Mindy. Last Sunday, I snapped off my weekly viewing of CBS Sunday Morning in favor of mopping our kitchen floor.

That should explain things fairly well.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

your racist friend

A few days ago, Mrs. Pincus had to make a drop-off at a local UPS Store, something she has done countless times as a part of her eBay business. (I said 'NO!' She will not sell your stuff for you! Please stop asking!)

The closest UPS Store to our suburban Philadelphia home is just a short drive away, but it is situated as the end store in a strangely-configured strip center. After delivering the bulk of her thrice-weekly shipments to the post office, my wife will drive to the UPS Store and enter the parking lot through the more convenient back lot entrance. You see, the front parking lot — the one accessible from busy Old York Road — employs a one-way cattle chute, allowing cars to only enter from the busy four-lane highway. The narrow entrance is flanked by high cement retaining curbs and sort-of lazily snakes into the parking lot to insure that drivers maintain a single-digit speed limit. There is a small parking up in the front and a larger one behind the building. Once patrons are ready to leave the lot, the only exit is in the back. It is still a bit tricky, as all exiting vehicles must turn left (onto Wyncote Road)  and towards Old York Road. 

Here's a map so you can follow along....

The exit to the street labeled "Wyncote Road" is sometimes blocked by a trailer truck  (as the red circle indicates) unloading new automobiles for the car dealership across the street. So, navigating your way out of a routine stop at the UPS Store can become an ordeal. The day that Mrs. Pincus was there most recently was an ordeal, all right... but not for logistical reasons.

As she was coming up Wyncote Road, she spotted  a car attempting to exit via the cattle chute roadway at the front of the building. Sometimes, drivers try to buck the rules and sneak out this way, if there are no other cars around. It's wrong, but people do the wrong thing all the time. In this case, however, another car was coming in to the parking lot, correctly using the cattle chute. Since the road was constructed to purposely allow just one car to use it, a problem was occurring. Mrs. Pincus pulled into the parking lot at the rear, grabbed her shipment from the cargo area of her car and approached the building. She could hear some horns honking and the sound of arguing, though no actual words were discernible.

In these current days of social distancing, Mrs. P took her place in a queue line that had formed outside the rear door of the UPS Store. Soon, she was joined by a man who fell into formation six feet behind her. The man began to speak out loud, to no one in particular. He was complaining about the drivers in the small parking lot. Soon, it was revealed that he was one of the two drivers involved in the standoff in the cattle chute at the front of the building. ("Standoff in the Cattle Chute" sounds like the title of a 1940s Western from the John Ford canon.) The man exhibited his frustration at the driver going the wrong way and his difficulty in getting the fellow to understand he was going the wrong way. My wife nodded her head in approval, adding something like "Yeah, I know..."

Suddenly, the man ended his angry rant with "Y'know, Black Lives Matter and all that crap..." before trailing off.

SCREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!

WHAT?!?

My wife blinked and, if her mouth wasn't covered by a cotton mask stretched between two elastic bands secured around her ears, her jaw probably would have fallen to the ground.

"What does someone's poor driving habits have to do with the 'Black Lives Matter' movement?," she asked the man.

He readily answered. "Well, y'know, they all want their rights now and they all do what ever they want. The whole 'civil rights' thing has been blown way out of proportion. Once they got their rights in the 60s, things have been going downhill. And now this whole 'Black Lives Matter' thing.... awful. Just terrible."

Mrs. Pincus was speechless. This is 2020. In the United States of America. She finally said, "I didn't see if the other driver was a man of color, but it doesn't matter."

The man, who was Caucasian, replied, "Well, he was and they think they can do whatever they want now." This guy wasn't letting up.

Mrs. P announced, "This conversation is over." It was her turn to move up in line. She dropped off her package and headed to her car. The man called out to her, "Stay safe!"

I have no conclusion to this story, except that our society still has a long way to go. Sadly, it's a very long way.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

song sung blue

Let me preface this story by saying I really dislike "tribute bands." While I certainly am a fan of live music, I draw the line at bands that feel it's okay to ride the coattails of an established and beloved (by some) act by imitating every last move, note and lyrical inflection for a few bucks (actually way more than a few bucks). Even if the object of "flattery" is a band I like, I feel angered by and embarrassed for the performers, as well as the actual band. A few years ago, Mrs. Pincus and I were given tickets to a Queen tribute band — the "ultimate" Queen tribute, if I recall correctly. We broke our promise of staying until the end of the show. I loved — loved — Queen in my youth and still hold a soft spot for them (except for my recent contempt for Brian May). However, I couldn't stomach any more of their "America's Got Talent" caliber of prefab presentation. A former co-worker regularly cajoled me to see a Genesis tribute band that plays almost monthly at a nearby venue. He constantly sang their praises, to which I constantly rebutted. "Not only wouldn't I go to see them," I would explain, "but the fact that they performed Wind and Wuthering in its entirety, my least favorite Genesis album, was absolutely not helping the argument." He eventually let up when the company let me go.

Let me also preface this story by saying that I will rarely turn down free tickets to anything. Case in point: my wife and I have seen Donnie and Marie, Tony Orlando and suffered through numerous bad experiences at the now-notorious (by way of this blog)  Movie Tavern — all for free. But, free is free and, as a good friend likes to remind us: "If it's free, it's for me." Words and sentiment couldn't ring truer.

Let me offer one final preface to this story. I love..... no wait..... let me rephrase that. I marvel at people's public behavior. I think since the advent and prevalence of social media in people's everyday lives, most folks have forgotten simple rules of public decorum. They have forgotten that there are other people in the world and sometimes their pursuit of a good time can impede on other's pursuit of a good time. Also, I believe that nobody owns a mirror anymore.

That said....

Free.

Mrs. Pincus obtained two tickets to Jay White's performance at the Xcite Center showroom in Parx Casino, a gambling venue just outside of Philadelphia. Parx's showroom has surprisingly attracted some fairly big names. Not the current superstars that could easily fill a stadium, but headliners in, what I would call, the "twilight" of their careers. Acts like Air Supply, John Fogarty and Reba McEntire — all recognizable, but perhaps no longer at the height of their popularity, yet still popular enough to fill a 1500-seat venue. Well, fill it three-quarters of the way anyway. Between the actual name acts, are scattered several "tribute" acts, including the noted Australian Pink Floyd Show, allegedly blessed by the remaining members of Pink Floyd (Hmm, there's one thing they can still agree on.) and the aforementioned Jay White. (I also saw ads for something called "Ian Anderson presents Fifty Years of Jethro Tull." I'm not quite sure in which category that show falls.)

Jay White calls himself "America's Diamond" and performs songs made famous by popular (dare I say "legendary") singer-songwriter Neil Diamond. (Technically, this moniker makes zero sense as the real Mr. Diamond was born in Brooklyn, New York... and you don't get more American than that, baby!) Not only does Jay White sing with a very, very close approximation of Neil Diamond's imitable Sprechgesang style, but he looks uncannily like Neil Diamond to boot. I can just imagine White marching into the office of a record executive and belting out a few tunes, only to be halted with suspect scrutiny. "Mr. White.... you're okay, but we already have a guy who sounds and looks like you." "Fuck it," I imagined White's growling retort, "I'll do a goddamn tribute show then!" And that's exactly where Jay White's career has brought him, playing such illustrious towns as Gulfport, Mississippi, Kokomo, Indiana and a week-long residency in Delavan, Wisconsin.

I was a little apprehensive about going to this show, but, as I said earlier, I won't turn down free tickets to pretty much anything. And this show had all the promise of "pretty much anything." Mrs. P and I had nothing to do and the venue was air-conditioned, so... what the heck! Besides, Neil Diamond has announced his retirement from the stage, giving Jay White the opportunity to perhaps fill a void that I was not aware needed filling.

...and then there's this guy.
(That's Jay White on the right.... or left.
I'm not sure.)

We drove the twenty or so minutes to Parx Casino and located the venue at the rear of the bustling gaming floor. We were a bit surprised by the configuration of the showroom. It was flat, not sloped at all, and was reminiscent of my elementary school auditorium, except the stage seemed to be built unnaturally high. (A Trip Advisor reviewer seems to agree with me.) The pre-show music piped in over the PA was a standard mix of songs that would appeal to the decidedly older crowd. (classic light rock and a smattering of country). Just before the lights dimmed, however, Lee Greenwood's chest-pounding, flag-waving, heart-stirring "God Bless the USA," came blasting through the venue speakers, offering just the right blend of nauseating, rabble-rousing, redneck faux-patriotism and faux-religion to an all-white audience, all of whom apparently had checked their handguns and MAGA hats at the door. A woman a few rows in front of us stood at her seat and dramatically waved her arms at the audience as though she were the choirmaster at a school recital. The room erupted in thunderous applause at the song's conclusion — a recording from thirty-three years ago by an artist who was not in the fucking room!

The crowd loved it... especially the old guy
 with the two-foot braid.

In the darkened theater, I could see a number of musicians filing in and tuning up. Still in the shadows, they launched into the opening bars of "Soolaimon," a popular, but lesser-known song from the Neil Diamond canon. Jay White, clad in a sparkly shirt and high-waisted tuxedo pants, his helmet of hair fashioned into the signature Neil Diamond 'do, strutted and posed and pointed his finger for the next ninety minutes, as he bounced around from "Cracklin' Rosie" to "Cherry Baby"  to "Holly Holy"... all executed with the dead-on precision of the respective recordings. The band was comprised of obviously talented musicians and White is definitely in possession of a strong set of pipes. But, there was still something that didn't sit right with me. While I do love and appreciate cover versions of songs, someone making a career out of someone else's act is no different than an artist duplicating the Mona Lisa or a writer plagiarizing Hemingway. If you have talent and creativity, then use it and be creative. Don't sell yourself short and take the lazy route. I know I was in the overwhelming minority. The crowd that evening, much like the audience gathered at the "Ultimate Queen Tribute," was eating it up like candy-coated candy. They thought they were actually seeing Neil Diamond at a fraction of the cost of a Neil Diamond concert ticket. They stood. They swayed. They sang, They cheered. One woman was welcomed stage-side while the pretend Mr. Diamond offered a personal and seductive serenade with "Girl, You'll Be a Woman Soon." It was greeted with palpable adoration. I found it embarrassing.

The evening closed with a participatory "Sweet Caroline" punctuated by the recent obligatory "so good so good so good" chorus that has ruined that song for me. Thank you Red Sox fans. I hate you even more. The last song was an epic rendition of "Coming to America" from the soundtrack of the 1980 version of "The Jazz Singer." My wife noted that if the crowd realized that this song was about a Jewish cantor emigrating to the United States, they may not be singing along with such gusto.

The house lights went on and the audience filed out — some still dancing as out of rhythm as they were clapping.  Jay White was in the lobby, cheerfully posing for pictures with his adoring fans. We passed.

If I learned anything from this experience, I realized that I know a lot of Neil Diamond songs. More than I thought.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

they're all precious in His sight

I suppose Liv has to be Facebook friends with Mary, her son-in-law's mother. I guess it's the polite thing to do in the Internet Age. So, Liv accepted the friend request and continued to go about her Facebook business — viewing family pictures, playing Candy Crush, you know — just like anyone.

One day, on a daily check-in on Facebook,  Liv received an invitation from Mary. It was for an event called "Son Rise Music Festival," a celebration in song featuring performances and bands with a decidedly (nay, overtly) Christian slant. Liv, who is Jewish, declined the invitation. Mary responded, curious as to why Liv would not be attending. This is the exchange that took place:

Mary: Why aren't you going to Son Rise?

Liv: It's my grandson's birthday the same weekend, besides — I'm not really interested in a Christian music festival.

Mary: What do you mean?

Liv: I'm not Christian, Mary. I'm Jewish!

Mary: You believe in God, right?

Liv: Yes.

Mary: Well, then you're Christian!

Liv: No, Mary, Jews believe in God, but we don't believe that Jesus was the Messiah and we don't believe that Jesus was the son of God.

Mary: You don't? I thought everyone believed that.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com