big boss man

I officially entered the "working world" just after I graduated from art school in the spring of 1984. Yeah, I had jobs before that, but my actual "career," if you will, actually began with a series of freelance jobs in the summer of that year forebodingly immortalized by George Orwell. 

In early 1985, I was hired as the art director for a small, but popular, chain of ice cream stores in the Philadelphia area. My boss was a slick, slimy, fast-talking, deceitful, underhanded, arrogant piece of shit named Len. He was the first in a long line of asshole bosses that I would work under for the rest of my life. Len would ignore me most of the time, preferring to keep himself busy with a Pac-Man machine that was tucked into a corner of the employee breakroom. For a good portion of the work day, Len and his two puppet vice-presidents would hover in the soft, colorful glow of the video game — placing bets, cursing loudly and smoking cigarettes. The breakroom was just a few feet from my tiny workspace and I found it difficult to concentrate over their raucous behavior. Every so often, Len would barrel into my office, stinking of nicotine, and order me to bring everything I was working on down to his office at the other end of a long hallway. So, dutifully, I would carry an awkward armful of tracing paper and sketches and scribbled ad copy down to his office, where I would neatly arrange everything on a large wooden table opposite his huge desk. I would begin to point out and explain each ad concept or signage idea, gesturing to drawings I had made as a visual aid. After a few minutes, I would catch Len glancing around the room, looking everywhere but at me and my make-shift presentation. Then, he'd interrupt me and say, "I wish I had more time to teach you the marketing business." He'd follow that by feigning a headache and begin rubbing his eyes. "We'll have to continue this another time." he'd say, waving me off in the direction of the office door. I'd gather up all my stuff and leave. This little ritual would occur every few weeks. I worked for Len for a little over a year until I was let go.

As my career as a full-fledged graphic designer continued and evolved, my bosses grew increasingly difficult and infuriating. I had one that stood behind me and kicked my chair while I worked. At one job, while my immediate supervisor was wonderful, her boss was a terror. She would scream and stomp and demand... for no apparent reason, as the department ran smoothly and efficiently... except for her. At my next job, the owner of the company was a wealthy, out-of-touch guy who appeared gracious and charming, but was, in reality, a calculating, shifty, ruthless know-it-all who ran his business like a cheap conman. He lied to customers. He lied to suppliers. He lied to everyone. When he would review ad layouts I had done, he'd pick up a red pen to make corrections before he even glanced at the ad. Oh, there were going to be changes because he was the boss and that's what bosses do. They change things that don't need changing to constantly show they are in charge. I worked for him for a little under three years.

My next job was in the advertising department of a national retail company. This was a huge corporate setting, with multi-level management — a true example of the proverbial "corporate ladder." Weekly sales meetings were hours-long affairs with category managers duking it out with advertising executives, while the poor rank-and-file (me and my colleagues) scrambled to write down everything that transpired in order to produce an ad. When there wasn't a meeting, it appeared that the "higher-ups" in the advertising department had little to nothing to do. They would often be seen wandering aimlessly through the hallways of the company headquarters or sitting behind their massive desks staring off into space or sometimes even dozing. In the busy production department where I worked, we would often play a little game called "Walk Me Through Your Day," in which we would wonder what exactly these guys do with themselves all goddamn day. How would they keep busy and how could they justify their obviously large salaries? I didn't have a clue. One Advertising VP would often stumble into the production department and amiably attempt to "shoot the shit" with a roomful of frantic graphic artists on tight deadlines. We concluded that this guy was always high at work.

I worked in the marketing department at a law firm for nearly a dozen years. While I certainly had my share of day-to-day complaints, I genuinely liked that job. My boss was great... for a while. After a few years, her superior was replaced by a belligerent loudmouth man who made her workday a living hell. His noxious demeanor could be felt throughout the entire department and morale was at an all-time low. One day, he crossed the behavioral line with the wrong person and was escorted off the premises. His replacement was a shrewish hellion with a superiority complex who took an instant dislike to me. My boss, however, cozied herself up to the new marketing manager and the two of them were thick as thieves — turning herself against me in the process. In the meeting where I was let go, my boss — who at one time I considered to be my friend — sat silently as my work and my attitude were attacked and insulted.

So here I was, 56 years old and back on the streets, looking for work. I was getting too old for this. After six weeks of collecting unemployment, I got a job at a small company that printed take-out menus for restaurants across the country. After a lifetime of working under the watchful, sometimes unjustifiably suspicious, eye of a boss... I was now in my very first supervisory position. I was officially the "Design Coordinator" and my staff consisted of three graphics designers. One worked at a desk across the hall from me, where he sat in a darkened office and produced beautifully-designed menus. He had little to say and gave off a very menacing vibe. I would assign work to him and he would silently listen to my brief instruction — never questioning, never nodding. He'd take the paper work from my hand and it was just understood that I would get the first drafts of designs when he was damn good and ready. I never gave him a deadline for fear he would kill me if I did. The other two artists were in Ukraine. That's right. Ukraine. I never met nor saw either one. We corresponded via Skype and exchanged assignments by FTP file transfer. The process took a bit of getting used to, but it worked fine. It was understood that I was their boss.

I made the conscious decision to be a different kind of boss than those I had worked for in my past. I believe I truly was. I allowed my staff to create at their own pace. I offered no criticism unless it was asked for. I offered no assistance unless it was requested. I never ever asked "What are you working on?" or "When will this be finished?" I sometimes made a list of current projects in order of priority, but never did I make unreasonable demands. I figured that these people were adults and they were hired based on their ability. They knew their jobs and didn't need someone to constantly tell them what to do. They knew what to do. And I let them do it. 

To be honest, that company was barely keeping itself afloat. Every day I came into work, I thought would be the last day. After a year the company was purchased by a larger commercial printer and suddenly this shitty little job became a really good job. Until the new owners didn't see the monetary return on their investment they hoped for and I was let go.

In my current job, I'm back to being a staff artist. I am no longer in a supervisory position. That's just fine. I know what is expected of me. I do my work and no one leans over my shoulder. My immediate boss is my son's age.... and he's got his own work to do.

And I really don't think about who my horrible bosses are irritating today.

Well.... maybe I do a little.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

oh no, I said too much

Last week, we got a new laminating machine at work. Without going into too much unnecessary detail, a laminating machine laminates (duh!), that is applies a protective barrier to the 54" wide sheets of self-adhesive vinyl that is an integral component of my job. 

Mmmm...kay?

One morning, I arrived at work to find an unfamiliar man assembling the new laminating machine in the warehouse area. I greeted him with a friendly "good morning" and he nodded in my direction, paying more attention to the task at hand. I opened the door to the Graphics Department and made my way to my desk. An hour or so later, the man wheeled the new machine into the graphics workroom to the space previously occupied by our old laminating machine. My boss and I joined him in the workroom for a training session. The three of us gathered around the new apparatus like the townspeople of Anatevka marveling at Motel Kamzoil's new sewing machine. The man — who resembled Mike Judge as he appeared in Office Space — nervously tugged at his company-required tie, cleared his throat and began his overly-rehearsed training speech.

Actually, before Mike Judge started, he asked: "Which one of you will be taking notes and which one will be taking pictures?" My boss and I looked at each other. Neither one of us had any plans for note taking nor could we imagine what part of the training would need to be preserved with photographic evidence. I obligingly grabbed a legal pad and took my cellphone out of my pocket, clicking open the "camera" app in the process. I suppose this little display of interest satisfied Mike Judge, as he commenced.

I was told to take this picture.

The tone of his instruction was very stilted. He spoke to us as though we were bewildered elementary school students who had never laid eyes on a commercial laminator before. In reality, our old laminator — the one my boss had been using for the last fifteen years and had just trained me to use — was still just a few feet away. He pointed to the buttons and dials on the control panel — explaining in repetitive detail — the purpose of each one. Several times, Mike Judge told me to "write that down" without specifying exactly what he wanted me to write down. He hefted a roll of laminating material onto one of the aluminum receiving rollers and fit it into the proper position. Again, Mike Judge stopped and asked, "Did you get a picture of that?" "Of what?," I thought to myself, snapping a picture of nothing in particular.

Suddenly, in the middle of threading the laminate through the specified path in the machine, Mike Judge turned to tell my boss and me that he was awarded "Salesman of the Year" and honored with his photo on the cover of a trade publication. (Laminator Monthly, perhaps?) Then he quickly switched back to "training mode." My boss and I silently exchanged confused looks. 

After he passed the material under and around several rollers, Mike Judge stressed the importance of safety regarding the operation of the machine. He explained that most accidents on this machine happen to women, because they are not paying attention to what they're doing — always talking and distracted by something else. He emphasized "women" in this statement. Once more, I traded an uncomfortable glance with my boss.

At the end of our training, Mike Judge told us that his company's machines are designed to accommodate people with handicaps. "Y'know," he expounded, "there are people in wheelchairs and some with amputated or deformed hands and arms...." I blotted out the rest of his sentence. I wasn't interested in where he was headed with this.

Mike Judge asked which one of us would like to take a spin at a solo run on the machine, he gestured to my boss first, deeming him the less experienced member of the graphics department. Actually, my boss has been employed here for over twenty years and I just started this job a few months ago. But, since I have white hair and am older than my boss, Mike Judge just assumed..... Once the confusion was cleared up and we each got a chance to demonstrate our prowess on the new machine, Mike Judge packed up his belongings — his narrow-minded, antiquated, inappropriate, sexist way of thinking — and headed for the exit.

Once Mike Judge was gone, my boss asked me, "Are you thinking what I'm thinking?" Then he added, "Sure you are."

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

highway patrol

For nearly twelve years, I took public transportation — specifically the Philadelphia Regional Rail line — to work and I was admittedly spoiled rotten by the convenience. I hate to drive, so letting someone else do the driving — while I read or slept or took pictures of people blatantly ignoring the policy of keeping bags off of seats —was perfect for me. I got a discounted rate on a monthly transit pass and my car sat in front of my house six days a week, only taking it from its curbside resting place to pick up dry cleaning on most Saturday mornings. Well, my daily train commute ended when I was unceremoniously separated from my center-city employer. After a long absence, I was thrust into the nerve-wracking, white-knuckle world of driving to work.

I started a new job in August 2019. My office is located just ten miles north east of Trenton, New Jersey, in a small community called Robbinsville. It is not in close proximity to any single mode of public transportation. So, I have no choice but to leave my house at ten after seven and navigate through unpredictable traffic to arrive at work for an 8:30 start of day. In the first week of my new employ, I tried several different routes, including a stretch of the New Jersey Turnpike that collects a six dollar toll in both directions. I finally settled on a course that costs a dollar in only one direction and takes me past the 6100-seat Arm and Hammer Park, home of the Trenton Thunder, a Double-A affiliate of the New York Yankees. I also see an alleged homeless guy, displaying a handwritten plea scrawled across a piece of corrugated cardboard, wandering in and out of the traffic waiting to make a left turn on to Route 29. He wears different clothes and a different baseball cap everyday, leading me to believe that he is no more homeless than I am.

I am actually getting used to driving. I have mentally broken down my commute into sections, checking my dashboard clock and figuring what kind of time I am making based on where I am at a particular time. Sometimes, I ignore the clock and just happily listen to the radio.

Then, of course, there are those times when the traffic comes to a grinding halt. It's these times that makes me hate driving. If I am stuck in bumper-to-bumper traffic for a period of time longer than a few minutes, I get anxious and antsy and frustrated. I hate inching along, closing up the gap between my car and the car just ahead, as though those few extra millimeters are accomplishing something. And, when the traffic snarl finally breaks and the pace resumes to regular speed, if I don't see a twisted hunk of sheared metal that used to be a car or a mass of bloody, mangled bodies littering the blacktop with severed limbs, I am genuinely disappointed. If traffic is stopped, there better be a goddamn good reason for it.

Damn this traffic jam!

Just this week, I was tooling south on Route 1, hitting my each of my regular milestones at the times that let me know I would be parking my car in front of my house at the usual time. Suddenly, just ahead, I could see the faint illumination of brake lights. As I approached and decelerated, the steady glow of brake lights increased as more and more cars were slowing and stopping across both lanes. I tensed up, my hands gripping the steering wheel tighter. I moved a tiny bit outside of my lane, trying to see if I could identify the cause of this slowdown, but I was too far back from the cause. So, I sat. Sat along with a crush of other folks who just wanted to get home in a reasonable amount of time. The knot of cars slowly... slowly... moved forward. After a few long minutes of crawling an inch at a time, I spotted the top of a large, electric sign parked in the far left lane. It was flashing a large, electric yellow arrow, obviously indicating that all traffic was to divert to the right traffic lane. This was quite a request. It was approximately 6 PM, the peak of the evening "rush hour" on a piece of highway that is heavily traveled by both cars and trucks. Big trucks. I could see exasperated drivers craning their necks as they jockeyed their vehicles out of the prohibited lane. I could see truck drivers leaning out of their cab windows checking their massive mirrors to see if they were clear to merge. After a few more long minutes, I finally reached the source of the obstruction.

There was a crew of a dozen or so workers, decked out in florescent vests and scrambling around like beavers all over the highway. They were installing shiny new pieces of the guard rail that divides the northbound traffic from the southbound traffic. AT 6 O'CLOCK IN THE EVENING! RUSH HOUR! Someone who works for the Department of Transportation must know that this is rush hour. Yet, it was determined that this was the optimum time to replace the guard rail. Was it decided during a road maintenance meeting that it was much better to disrupt the busiest traffic time of the day than to wait until a time when the road was relatively empty, when it wouldn't inconvenience too many people?

The next morning. I passed the part of the road —from the opposite direction —where the guard rail was replaced. It was beautiful — gleaming silver and expertly installed.*

I still hate driving.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

* That there is what you call your "sarcasm."

closing time

For our second date, the future Mrs. Pincus took me to her parent's store in the rural town of Gilbertsville, Pennsylvania. Gilbertsville was a place that time had forgotten. Just an hour west of Philadelphia, the fifth largest city in the country, Gilbertsville was a tiny farming community inhabited by characters from a John Steinbeck novel — folks that can only be accurately described as "salt of the earth." The men were weathered and grizzled, with far less than the standard adult issue of teeth. Most were clad in well-worn overalls caked with and stinking of farm animal excrement. The womenfolk were meek and reserved, dressed as though they were the stand-by female model for Grant Wood's "American Gothic." And, for some reason, they cowered behind their spouses. This was 1982 and when these people said they were headed to "The City," they meant Reading, Pennsylvania. They'd never set foot in Philadelphia. You could get murdered there.

This populace comprised the customer base of my future in-law's store — an amalgam of hardware, housewares, novelty items and anything on which my father-in-law thought he could turn a quick profit. The store was one of many that occupied Zern's Farmer's Market, a weekend-only commerce center that was a regular gathering place for the aforementioned locals for almost a century. Alongside the store was an array of vendors that offered fresh produce (well, fresh at least until early evening on Saturday), unusual configurations of processed meat identified on hand-written signs by angry-sounding Teutonic names, prepared food (like the popular chicken gizzards in a Styrofoam cup of, what appeared to be, motor oil), as well as sturdy, double-stitched clothing suitable for plowing the fields and a wide assortment of antiques, curios, collectibles and what-nots. But Zern's was more than just a place to buy things. It was a social outing, along the lines of a square dance or a barn raising. (I'll have you know that I refrained from saying "cross burning" as a second example, so I'm pretty proud of myself.)

Mr. and Mrs. Hardware
in their natural habitat.

How am I so intimately familiar with Zern's Farmer's Market? Well, by my third date with Mrs. P, I was working there. That's right. This naive kid from Northeast Philadelphia, who got lost outside of the comfortable boundaries of the city limits was now employed as a stock boy under the tutelage of my soon-to-be father-in-law. In addition to a concession in Zern's Farmer's Market, my father-in-law owned a stand-alone store directly across the street from Zern's that was open an extra day longer than the market. Here he sold, what he referred to as "the serious hardware" — professional-grade trowels and hammers and other implements of construction with which I was not familiar at the time but would come to be well acquainted. Despite years of experience in other retail establishments, I was not permitted to operate the cash register. That privilege was enjoyed by only one person and his name was emblazoned on signage throughout the store. Instead, I was relegated to schlepping cartons of merchandise from the storage area — a large, dirty, poorly-ventilated barn-like structure that had been attached to the existing large, dirty, poorly-ventilated main building. Boxes were piled high and my job was to bring them up to the selling floor, empty them and, at my father-in-law's behest, make all of the contents fit in a space that was way to small for proper accommodation. In the summer, during which I spent many a weekend stretch, the heat was stifling. In winter, the building could be used to keep meat from spoiling. Days, no matter what the weather, were grueling marathons that monopolized entire weekends, including the hour-long ride to and from Gilbertsville. Don't get me wrong, I am grateful for his generosity, affording me employment while I sought a job in my chosen field. I just have a funny way of showing my gratitude. 

On Fridays and Saturdays, the logistics of the operation were slightly altered, as my future spouse and her mother would come to open and run the stand in Zern's. I would work with my father-in-law at the hardware store across the street, the two of us coming up much earlier in the morning. While he was a sweet, pleasant man at home, he would succumb to a lycanthropic transformation somewhere around Schwenksville when he would be come a ruthless martinet bent on uncontested ruling over his retail empire. On Saturday evenings, I would head over to Zern's to help Mrs. P bring things to a close for the day. Those were my favorite times. First, I was sprung from the sometimes unreasonable demands of my father-in-law. Second, I got to spend time with my fiance (Mrs. P and I would marry in 1984). We would steal away from the "satellite stand" for a few minutes (this is probably the first time my father-in-law knows about this) and walk thorough the market to see what we could see. Sometimes we'd wander outside to the weekly flea market, where a glance in any direction looked like a living Dorothea Lange photograph. Here we would peruse the unusual (and unrecognizable) items offered for sale. Then we'd quickly rush back, grabbing a soft pretzel or a bag of old-fashioned penny candy, just in time to start the task of closing up the stand for another week.

For twenty-five years, I worked at Zern's. In my younger days, I fearlessly scaled rickety shelves to retrieve that one elusive gizmo that was missing from a customer's life. I was there to help bust through the back wall when we expanded our selling space. I assisted in the arrangement and promotion of special sales when my wife slowly, but diligently, transformed the one-time hardware/housewares store into a treasure trove of pop culture collectibles, bringing in cool memorabilia to join the (ever-shrinking) mix of screwdrivers and extension cords. Mrs. P creatively spearheaded an annual Coca-Cola Festival, offering more Coke branded items than you knew existed. During the summer, she turned the store into an indoor beach party, displaying everything needed for a rural summertime soiree. She single-handedly introduced "Mardi Gras" to the heretofore sheltered population of Gilbertsville.

Throughout my nearly three decades of employment, we would regularly hear customers tell us that Zern's was closing... for good. Every weekend, a growing number of shoppers — many of whom had it on good authority* — would explain confidential details of the fate of the venerable market. "Oh yeah," they would smugly cluck, cocking a thumb confidently around a faded overall strap, "this place was sold to [insert local land developer here]. I heard they're gonna tear the place down and put up a [bowling alley, amusement park, car wash, supermarket, housing development, apartment complex, golf course, multiplex movie theater]." Yep, every week, according to our loyal customer base, Zern's was a goner and would soon become any number of decidedly un-Zern's-like domains. I came to learn that Gilbertsville was "ground zero" for wrong information. They never got anything right. But, that was part of the charm. I suppose.

A fond(ant) farewell

In early 2007, my wife's family made the difficult, but realistic, decision to close their store in Zern's. It was a tough decision, but with many contributing factors (declining sales, my in-law's advancing age, a fucking Walmart within spitting distance), it was the right decision. We mounted an almost year-long liquidation sale — slashing prices, moving merchandise, clearing shelves and wondering what we would do with our weekends. Just after Thanksgiving of that year, my father-in-law contracted an auctioneer and the remaining merchandise was practically given away for pennies on the dollar. (My father-in-law was not happy with the auctioneer or his meager results. He still grumbles about it to this day.) At the end of the day, we closed up shop for the very last time. We left the Zern's parking lot like Lot's wife fleeing Sodom and Gomorrah, never looking back for fear of being turned to pillar of fasnachts.

And then we never had to go to Zern's again. Mrs. Pincus remained in frequent contact with some former employees, as well as fellow merchants (some of whom are regular readers of this blog and may have been understandably offended by many things I've written, especially in the first, second and a little bit of the sixth paragraphs of this entry). Mrs. P has even returned to Zern's for a visit on several occasions. However, she went as a solo. I have not been back since the day we closed our doors. Recently, though, through my wife's Facebook page, I have been privy to the same rumor-mongering about Zern's that I heard in the past. Misinformation for the electronic age. But, this time, uncharacteristically, they got it right.

Zern's announced it was closing... for good.

In a lengthy Facebook post, the current owner cited a number of reasons for the proposed September 2018 closure, but the real reason is: Zern's is a relic. A dinosaur whose concept has long overstayed its welcome. A folksy, genial, single-proprietorship retail operation cannot survive in the world of big box mega-stores and internet shopping. It just can't. Even in a place like Gilbertsville that's several years behind the trends. The business is offered for sale, but I doubt there will be any takers. If there are, it will be to level the structure and build one of the previously mentioned options about which customers had speculated.

Do I have have memories of Zern's? Sure. There was no place like it. It was like a visit to Twilight Zone's Willoughby every weekend, if the citizens of Willoughby attempted to "jew down" the merchants. Do I have fond memories of Zern's? Few. It certainly gave me fodder for stories that made it to blog entries over the years. Will I ever stop talking about and thinking about Zern's once there no longer is a Zern's? 

Never.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

* he said sarcastically 

all hail caesar

One evening this week, Mrs. Pincus and I went to pick up a pizza for dinner, something we do quite often. It may come as a surprise to you, but we regularly go to a Little Caesars location not far from our house. Unlike most people, we don't really have a single location pizza place that we swear by. We are not connoisseurs or "pizza snobs." We happen to like cheap, crappy, chain-store pizza. We just do.

My wife pulled into the parking lot of the strip center where the Little Caesars occupies the end storefront. I hopped out of the car, like I had done countless times before, and walked up to the front door and entered. The place rarely, if ever, has a welcoming vibe. Through the wire racks of stacked pizza boxes at the rear of the narrow service counter area, I could see several workers — all decked out in branded Little Caesars regalia (hats, shirts, aprons) — busily preparing pizzas at a large work table. Behind them, another fellow was monitoring the business-end of the large oven, extracting finished pizzas by gripping their pans with a pliers-like device and deftly shaking them into a waiting, pre-assembled box. They all appeared to be working in a predetermined rhythm, like the proverbial "well-oiled machine."

However, the young lady at the front counter, the "face" of the "Little Caesar's experience" for this particular location, did not exactly fit in with the rest of the apparent work ethic practiced by those in the nerve center of the establishment.

When I entered the store, to my right, was a man — in a Little Caesars hat and apron — stocking single-serving bottles of soda in a tall refrigerated display case. A few customers (maybe two, actually) were scattered about the open area, obviously waiting for their individual order to be served. Behind the counter, seated on a low object (perhaps a small carton?), was a young lady — I would guess still in her teens — with her back to the wall adjoining the business next store, paying extremely close attention to her cellphone. As I approached the counter, she slowly rose — though not exactly tearing her attention away from whatever was dancing across the small screen in her hand. She was wearing a sweatshirt emblazoned with the named of a local high school. No where on her person did the name or logo of Little Caesars appear. Nowhere. She finally turned her attention to me and asked, "Mmmnnnmmnnmmm."

At least, I think it was a question. Only because the inflection of her utterance went up in tone, slightly, at the end. I honestly has no idea what she said, but I can assume it was along the lines of "Can I take your order?" I asked for a pizza and an order of bread sticks and passed over my credit card to her her limp, waiting hand. She swiped it through the slot on the credit card reader, removed the receipt, handed me back my card and said, "Mmmnnnmm." Then, she promptly returned to her original perch, concentrating, once again on her electronic device and blotting the customers out.

A fellow from the back of the store placed a stack of pizza boxes on the wire rack from behind. The young lady rose slowly, grabbed the boxes and announced "Mmmnnnmm" in the general direction of a woman with short dreadlocks in a dark blue coat who was waiting, patiently, with her arms folded across her chest. The woman accepted the boxes and no more words were exchanged by either party. The young lady repeated this same procedure with the other customer who was waiting for an order to be filled.

Offer not valid where invalid.

After about eight minutes (the "Hot & Ready" promotion as presented in a series of Little Caesars commercials and in-store signage seems to be invalid at this location or in this realm), the young lady muttered her signature, unintelligible grunt at me and offered me a pizza box with a bag of bread sticks resting atop of it. I took it from her hands, thanked her and wished her a good evening. I really did. I headed towards the door, which was held open for me by a new, incoming customer — who would, no doubt, be subjected to the "Little Caesars welcome" that is standard operating procedure at this location.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com