dazed and confused

I ordered dinner from the Chinese restaurant that is around the corner from my house. Mrs. Pincus and I have been ordering food from this restaurant on a semi-regular basis for many many years. It's gotten to the point where I walk in and the nice young lady behind the counter says, "You're getting the all-vegetarian order, right?" when she sees me.

So, approximately thirty minutes after I placed my order, I hopped in my car and drove over to the restaurant to pick it up. When I walked though the entrance, the small area in front of the counter was filled with a group of people — which is actually a rarity. For years, I have always been the only person picking up an order, although there are usually five or six neatly packed bags, perfectly lined up on the counter, waiting for a hungry patron — one that I never see — to bring it on home. This particular day, the compact "lobby area" was alive with anxious energy.

The group was comprised of two older women (and by "older," I, of course mean "of  my own age") and two young ladies, perhaps in their late teens or early twenties. (Once you reach my age, people are either "older" or "kids.") The foursome were very busily and very intensely perusing a now-unfolded paper take-out menu. Based on their conversation (which because of my close proximity, I heard every single word), I quickly surmised that these folks had never set foot in a restaurant in their lives and they were completely baffled as to how the ordering process works. The young woman behind the counter was overly and commendably patient as she tried to gently coax a cohesive order out of these... these... um... people. The two women ordered first — hesitantly — stumbling over nearly every word in their brief directive. The two young ladies squinted their eyes and screwed up their faces as they, apparently read words they had never before encountered. Finally, one of the girls announced, "I want chicken and rice."

I have been to countless Chinese restaurants in my life, both pre-vegetarian diet and post. I know, as I'm sure you do too, most neighborhood Chinese restaurants offer — pretty much — the same things, save for maybe three or four "specialties of the house," which are often just a re-working of some other item on the menu. I know — for a fact — that "chicken and rice" is not a standard entrée on any Chinese restaurant menu. A Mexican restaurant's menu, perhaps, or the punchline to a sequence on an episode of I Love Lucy, where the irrepressible redhead is clueless on how to prepare "arroz con pollo" for her Cuban-born husband. But on a Chinese restaurant menu...? Oh, no sir-ee.

The young woman behind the counter tried to clarify the order, as the girl was offering no further explanation. 

"Do you want chicken fried rice?," she asked, as she pointed to the words on the menu. The girl made no attempt to look where she was pointing, instead, she directed her attention to one of the women and repeated "chicken and rice." This time, the tone of her voice grew angrier and more impatient. One of the women asked "Is the fried rice made with white rice?" You and I and every one in the Chinese food-eating world knows that fried rice comes out brown no matter what color it starts out as. We also know that if this girl has her heart set on "chicken and rice" that she ain't gonna be satisfied with anything that doesn't look like the picture of "chicken and rice" she has in her mind — even though she really has not described what exactly she envisions. The young woman behind the counter named all of the components of "chicken fried rice" and the girl frowned at the mention of each ingredient.

One of the women took the menu in her hands and gave it the ol' "once over." She pointed to a photo of chicken with broccoli listed under the heading of "CHICKEN." "Is this what you want? Chicken with broccoli over white rice?," she asked. The girl grit her teeth, now getting very annoyed by the additional questions. She finally spat out, "Yes! That's what I was saying!" Her words were filled with vitriol and she stomped her foot hard on the carpeted floor and folded her arms across her chest in a final gesture of "This conversation is over!" By the way, this was the very first time that the concept of "broccoli" was introduced into the ordering process.

I skirted the foursome and paid for my order. I was not planning to be there when the wrong configuration of "chicken and rice" emerged from the kitchen.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

get out of here with that (boom * boom * boom)

As a twenty-plus year seller on eBay (Oh for crissakes! NO! She will not sell your stuff!), Mrs. Pincus joined a Facebook group called "eBay For Beginners." She joined to offer her years of experience on the commerce website to those who are just starting out as sellers and are overwhelmed by the whole thing. The membership is mostly comprised of novice sellers, hoping to cash in on the untold riches they've been told are available on eBay. On a daily — sometimes hourly — basis, folks posts questions and scenarios that are filled with a combination of wonder and wrong information. After reading responses to these questions, Mrs. P chimes in with a clear-headed solution, based on a previous experience with the issue at hand. After twenty-seven years, she has seen it all and has become somewhat of an expert on the ins and outs of the mighty online auction and "buy-it-now" website. She has fielded questions about shipping and the head-scratching policies of the United States Postal Service. She has deciphered eBay policies that can sometimes be very confusing to new sellers. She has offered tips and tricks to make for more visible and enticing listings. She has even identified mysterious items that someone discovered while digging through Grandma's attic in hopes of finding some priceless antique that will result in a huge monetary return.

Like this one...

An anonymous member in the group (as anonymously identified by the user name "Anonymous Member) posted multiple images of a particular item. The user asked for assistance in identifying this piece. The item in question — a double ceramic cup decorated with dainty flowers and a large handle joining the two vessels — was like nothing this particular user had ever seen. They came to the good, sometimes helpful, folks in the "eBay For Beginners" group for some help.

In addition to her years of eBay experience, Mrs. Pincus has many more years of experience attending assorted Jewish religious services and practices. Immediately, upon seeing the photos, Mrs. P knew exactly what she was looking at. She explained that this was a ritual handwashing cup that is used before a meal. A blessing is recited and a bit of water is poured from the cup onto each hand to cleanse before eating. The wording on the overarching handle reads "Al Nitilat Yadayim" in Hebrew. It translates to "taking up of the hands." She went on to explain that these cups are made from a variety of materials, including copper, silver, glass even carved wood and some come with a bowl to catch the excess water. Most often they are a single cup with two handles. Mrs. Pincus commented on the uniqueness of this one, adding that, although she had never seen on quite like it, it was most definitely a ritual hand-washing cup. (Curiously, it does not have a specific name, like "sure, that's a piece of clothing, but it's called a scarf" or  "yes, that's a part of a cow's muscular system, but it's called a hamburger.")

The anonymous user thanked Mrs. Pincus for the information. But, because it's the "never satisfied" internet, a few comments under Mrs. P's clear and concise explanation, was a comment from another member of the group who offered a contradictory take on the object, as though this was a game of  The Liar's Club. This person — one Janet Roberta Mahoney — asserted that, and I quote...

"I disagree that it's for handwashing as pouring from one side spills the other. Can't tell from the photo how big it is. Is the open part connected between the 2? If so, I'd say it was a vase."

I'm going out on a limb here, but I'd say that Mrs. Pincus has been to many more Passover seders than Ms. Mahoney. I would venture to guess that Mrs. Pincus has held as many ritual hand-washing cups as Ms. Mahoney has held shillelaghs. While I wouldn't question Ms. Mahoney's knowledge of leprechauns, the Blarney Stone or St. Patrick's secrets of ridding a country of snakes, I would like to know how many times she has sat through the full reading of the Magillah, how many times she kisses the mezzuzah affixed to her door jamb before she leaves the house or  how much cholent she has eaten in her lifetime. If the original post featured a photo of a thurible, I would trust Ms. Mahoney in her assessment and explanation of that piece and its function in the rituals of the Catholic Church. But, alas, it was a photo of a hand-washing cup adorned with Hebrew writing — something with which Mrs. Pincus is intimately familiar. This is a case of staying in your lane, Ms. Mahoney, even if that lane is on the left side of the road.

I have often said that Mrs. Pincus is the nicest person I know. I don't say that just because she is my wife. I genuinely believe she is the nicest person. However, after hanging around with ol' Josh Pincus for over forty years, some of that "Josh Pincus"-ness has unfortunately rubbed off on her. Every once in a while, a "Josh Pincus"-style remark slips through when a more "Mrs. Pincus" reply would be expected. Mrs. P read Ms. Mahoney's comment and replied: "You're wrong."

Kinehora.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

wrong 'em, boyo

I hate to beat a dead horse and tell another story about the tire troubles that seem to be plaguing the Pincus family vehicles, but.... I will anyway.

Mrs. Pincus and I were all set to meet some friends for dinner. We climbed into my wife's car and she started up the engine. Just before she slid the transmission into reverse, I saw the dreaded "tire pressure" indicator light glow angrily amid the illuminated gauges on the driver's side dashboard. I pointed the light out to Mrs. P and then I hopped out of the car to assess each tire individually. They looked okay to me. None of them seemed to yield to a frim pressing of my fingers. None of the tires looked the least bit flat. But, just to be safe, we took my car to the restaurant. On the way, I made an appointment for service at a place near my house that was conveniently open on a Sunday. The tire place's website was very intuitive and making an appoint was a snap. I even got two — two! — confirmations for my appointment. One emailed and one via text.

The next day, before I left for my appointment, I asked my wife about the last car inspection. I recalled having to purchase four tires just a few months ago. She confirmed the purchase. I didn't want some hard-sell corporate stooge eager to meet a company quota trying to sell me four new tires once they took a look at my wife's car. One tire.... maybe. But, I wasn't going to fall for any of their "upsell bullshit."

 

Guess where I went.

I drove over to the tire place a little before my noon appointment. When I entered the small waiting room/reception area, I was met with an unmanned counter. The room had that distinctive, yet unclear smell of rubber, grease and despair. A few customers were scattered about the room, fidgeting in their uncomfortable chairs and and fiddling with their phones to bide the time. After a minute or two, a young man burst through the door leading from the "off limits to customers" work area. He greeted me with a "hello." I started right in with the time of my appointment and the reason I was darkening his doorstep. He asked if I tried putting air in the tires. I told him I did not and  I did not know which tire was causing the indicator to light up. He asked me to pull my car up to the closest garage door and he would meet me out there. Dutifully, I followed his instructions.

It's magic!

The young man appeared with some sort of grime-covered electronic device. He asked me the make, model and year of my car, then he adjusted the buttons and dials on the device's face. He then dropped down on his knees and — I assumed — connected the device to the front tire of my wife's car. I couldn't exactly see what he was doing. He could have had an official Harry Potter magic wand for all I know about cars. Suddenly, he stood up and, with a frown on his face, told me that the tire pressure sensor on that tire was not working. He checked another tire and his magical tire-checking device reported the same result. He told me that the tire pressure was fine on all of the tires, but the sensors were not working. He went on to say that he could replace them, as he had them in stock. They cost $89 each. I asked if the tires were safe to drive on right now. He assured me they were. I told him I may be back. I drove out of the lot.

$89 each

I discussed the scenario with Mrs. Pincus on the phone as I drove. It was decided that I should go back and just get the sensors replaced. So I turned around and headed back to the tire place. I was greeted at the counter by another guy. I explained what had transpired earlier, as the first guy showed up. I told him that I returned to get the tire sensors replaced. He explained that, while he could do the work, it may take some time. He also admitted that they really didn't have the sensors in stock and he arranged for the second guy to run over to a nearby auto supply store to pick them up. In the meantime, I appropriated one of those uncomfortable chairs and settled in for a long, long wait.

Is this it?

After an hour in the waiting room, I turned to see my wife's car was still parked in the space where I had left it. During this time, the customers who were waiting when I came in had left and new ones had taken their places. After two hours, I spotted my wife's car through the big window that looked out on the work area. After two hours and thirty minutes, the first young man came out to the waiting room to ask me where the wheel lock key was. I shrugged my shoulders. He growled, "Oh, come on man!" I told him to check the back where the spare tire was or the glove compartment or the console between the two front seats. He shook his head and invited me into the "customers are forbidden" work area to find it for him. I maneuvered my way over to my car, avoiding an obstacle course of wrenches and metal tool boxes and hoses that litter the floor of the work area. I opened the driver's door as wide as it could, as it was partially blocked by the metal arm of the hydraulic lift on which the car was parked. I opened the lid of the console between the two seats and — among two lipsticks and a couple of quarters — was a big piece of metal that I vaguely remember being told was the wheel lock key. I raised the piece and displayed it for the first young man. "Is this it?," I asked, as I spun it on my index finger. The young man's mouth fell open. "I swear I looked there," he exclaimed and then he profusely apologized, multiple times, as though he had run over my dog. I returned to the waiting room. To wait.

Screwed.

After three and a half hours, the customers in the waiting room had turned over several times... except for me. A different young man appeared in the waiting room. He was holding a grime-covered plastic pouch that, at one time, may have been clear. It held a paper job order. "Mr. Pincus?," he announced and craned his neck to search for me. I identified myself. He pointed to the job order and asked, "Why do you think your car needs tire pressure sensors?" I cocked my head and looked at him. I noticed the first young man was behind the counter, wrapping up a transaction with another customer. I pointed to the first young man, about to reveal him as the source of the prescribed work. Instead, the first young man jumped to the side of this new mechanic, telling me that he diagnosed the problem. Well, the new mechanic proudly confirmed that all of the tire sensors are fully functional. They show a lower-than-normal pressure in the passenger side rear tire. He turned to the first young man and stated that he undoubtedly had the settings on the magical checking device wrong. He turned his attention back to me and said, "Ill check the tire and see what the problem is." as he head back out to the work area. The first young man slunk sheepishly behind him. Within a few minutes, the new mechanic popped his head into the waiting work through the work area access door and reported that he had discovered a metal screw in the tire. He said he would fix it as quickly as he could.

After four and a half hours, my wife's car was ready. I would be leaving with a freshly plugged tire and the same four tire pressure sensors I had come in with. The first young man finished the transaction. He did not look me in the eye and he did not apologize for his misdiagnosis, making me waste four and a half hours in the waiting room, almost making me spend $356 and lying about having the sensors I didn't need in stock. I don't remember if he even said "Thank you." I don't believe he did.

In hindsight, my first mistake was making that appointment.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com 

get it right the first time

I recently wrote a story about an age-old incident that has been lingering over my family for years… actually decades. The details of the story – as I recall – have been hotly debated by my brother and me. Since we are the two survivors of the story in question, that debate shows no signs of being resolved. The other two main characters in the story – my mother and my father – have since passed away, so, in the waning years, this tale has been reduced to a “he said-he said” among siblings. Not wanting to stir up an argument with my brother, I have been very careful not to bring up this incident in his presence, as my version of the story differs greatly from his. So, I have told my take to my family over the years and – with no other account for reference – that’s the version they have come to know and believe. I published this story on It’s Been a Slice, with the comforting understanding that my brother never reads my blog. He has better, more productive, things to do than read about my antics in cemeteries and my overblown analysis of The Partridge Family. Knowing that my brother wouldn’t see my “official” published narrative of the notorious Pincus Family “cake-dropping” incident, I was free to make my version the version among the handful of followers who read (and inexplicably look forward to) my posts every Sunday morning. 

I was wrong. And it turns out, I was wrong about a lot of things. 

The pre-disagreement
Pincus Boys

My brother Max, four years my senior, has been enjoying the life of a retiree. He goes to the gym. He reads. He plays card with other retirees. And every once in a while, he casually peruses Facebook. Last Sunday, while wading through the political posts, speculation on the Eagles’ chances of taking the Super Bowl and notifications of the birthday of a long-forgotten co-worker, my brother came upon a photograph that piqued his interest. It was the stock image of a smashed cake that I used to accompany my story of the afore-mentioned incident. Seeing my name associated with the picture, he figured I must have written about "the incident." 

So, with plenty of time on his hands, my brother clicked on the link, arrived at my blog and read my most recent entry. 

I don’t think he was angry. I think he was more confused, if anything. You see, he never thought there was any sort of disagreement over how the events played out. As far as he knew, the story happened one way – the way he remembered it. He never knew that I had a completely different memory of the incident and that I had been telling my version for years. 

Well, Max was about to take matters into his own hands and set the record – and his brother – straight. 

As the time stamp confirms, I published the post on my blog bright and early on Sunday morning. 5:00 o’clock AM, to be exact. Somewhere around lunchtime, I received an alert that a comment had been left on my blog by one “Max Pincus.” I held my breath and thought: “I can’t believe he read my blog. He never reads my blog!” Admittedly, there were a few stray butterflies doing loop-de-loops in my stomach as I began to read my brother’s rebuttal. 

Here is Max’s statement. Read along with me… 

Your blog certainly is amusing. Unfortunately, it also happens to be inaccurate. Here is what actually happened... 

I was asked to pick up a birthday cake, although I do not recall whose birthday was being celebrated. Once I got the cake, I returned home in my white 1963 Buick LeSabre, which cost me $325 and got about eight miles per gallon. As always, I parked on the street directly in front of the house. I got out of the car with the cake, took a few steps and somehow dropped the damn cake in the street. 

My mother -- NOT my father -- saw me park the car in from the of house and was on her way outside to greet me. When she saw what I had done, she pretty much lost her mind. She bounded across the lawn to confront me and began screaming -- in a loud enough voice to attract the attention of several neighbors (who gladly will confirm my version of the story) -- "How do you drop a cake? How is that possible that you dropped the cake?" She bent down and picked up the smushed cake out of the street, then began pushing it into my arms, all the while yelling, "Show me how you drop a cake. I wanna see how you dropped the cake." As I made my way into the house, Mom was following close behind, loudly requesting a demonstration of how I managed to drop the cake. 

Fortunately, for the sake of everyone's sanity, my mother was laughing about the incident before she went to sleep that night.

One final note: The notion that my father, who I do not recall being present when I lost my grip on the cake, "knelt down and awkwardly gathered up the cake box in his hands" is absurd. I never saw him clean up a mess of any kind, regardless of the circumstances. Ever. 

I’ll tell you this. He makes a darn good argument. Darn good! With the finesse of a seasoned attorney (he is not), Max presents a detailed description, complete with specific bits of information and precise chronology. He even cites possible witnesses who could corroborate his story if, say, this thing went to trial. Honestly, if it did go to trial, I might be brought up on charges of perjury. 

We agree that a birthday cake was purchased, although neither of us recall who was the honoree. We also agree that said cake was indeed dropped and that Max was indeed the party responsible for the cake’s unfortunate date with gravity. After that, our stories split and split wildly. 

I will say, however, that Max’s story does make a lot of sense. I can absolutely envision my mother’s behavior as my brother describes – at first furious and then jovial as time pacified her anger. I also wholeheartedly agree that my father would never ever make any sort of attempt at cleaning anything up. Ever. That was women’s’ work and it would cut into his cigarette smoking time. Max also elaborated on the subsequent reaction of a neighbor. I could picture that happening, too. 

One of my mother’s favorite adages was: “The six most important words you could ever say were – I admit I made a mistake.” My mother was a very smart person. I will happily – and humbly – repeat those words with respect to my brother. 

Hey, I'm sure I’ve been right about other things. I guess.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

back in time

Actual, unretouched photo of Facebook

Well, I blocked another one.

In 2008, I reluctantly — very reluctantly — joined Facebook. I really had no interest in connecting (or in some cases, reconnecting) with names from my past. And anyone I wanted to currently interact with, well... I just did. I'd call or text or email. I didn't need to know what they were doing every second of the day. I didn't need to see a picture of the sandwich they had for lunch or the bowl of soup they were about to eat before their dinner's main course. I didn't need to see a picture of their kid not wanting to have his picture taken. And, by the same token, nobody was particularly interested in the day-to-day minutia of my life. Nor did I see the point in sharing.

But things change... right?

Now, my days and nights and hours in-between are filled with many of the things I just listed. My Facebook feed is filled with photos of sloppily-decorated cakes and wide expanses of unmarked highways and pictures of rash-cheeked children that I have never met and who, most-likely, never want to meet me. In addition, I read dozens — no, make that hundreds — of examples of misinformation, incorrect movie quotes, inaccuracies about historical events, skewed, opinionated and largely irrelevant commentary regarding how good a particular restaurant's hamburgers are and which classic rock groups suck. Yes sir! Facebook is a swirling, bubbling, stinking, festering, garbage-filled shithole. And.... I'm here for it!

Against my better judgment, I accepted many, many Facebook friend requests from a number of high school acquaintances, as well as some that went back to my elementary school days. Of course, those little schoolmates of mine — the ones I ran around with at recess, in addition to the ones who taunted me with contentious catcalls of "Jew!" and "Kike!" — are now approaching Medicare age and have, no doubt, faced the joys and adversities that life dealt them. And now, letting bygones be bygones, we share stupid jokes and silly pictures and sanitized memories. I have also become "friends" with folks who, to be honest, I do not remember from my youth. These are people with whom I have a dozen or so mutual friends but, for the life of me, I have absolutely no memory of meeting them, interacting with them or even ever hearing their names before. I had to look a couple of them up in my high school yearbook (after dusting it off) to try to jog my memory. Even then — nothing.

One woman — I'll call her "Terri" — sent me a friend request, which I accepted. We allegedly went to high school together. There were 1100 in my graduating class and I only knew a fraction of them. Her recent photos on Facebook showed a woman who, I would have guessed, was ten years my senior. She did not look familiar at all. When I tracked her down in the pages of my yearbook, she looked nothing like her recent pictures and still she did not ring a bell. In the days and weeks that followed, I saw lots of photos of her dog and her "amazing" husband. More pictures of her dog (whom she identified as her "best friend," leaving her "amazing" husband to occupy second place ...or maybe lower). I saw pictures of celebratory dinners at Olive Garden and IHOP (where the food is "amazing." As "amazing" as her husband was not made clear). Terri would regularly post memes about how dreadful Mondays are and how Friday is almost here, baby! I caught glimpses of her filthy house when the real focus of those pictures was her "amazing" son, who appeared to be less-than-excited at having his photo splashed across Mom's Facebook page and who did not exactly fit my vision of "amazing." I found Terri's posts to be annoying, while at the same time, highly entertaining. 

But, alas, Terri had to be blocked. And not for the reasons you might think.

As we have already established, Facebook is a disgusting, squalid wasteland brimming with volatile and extreme opinions on every subject from healthcare, government, television, music, life, parenting... you name it, someone on Facebook will gladly offer their opinion on it, whether or not it was requested. And, of course, no one — and I mean no one! — apologizes for their statements, especially if they have been proven wrong (sometimes just a short Google query away). There is more "doubling down" on Facebook than in Las Vegas. 

Most of the memes that Terri posted were benign, filled with unauthorized usages of Peanuts and Disney characters accompanied by a message about working or family or — gulp! — some vaguely religious sentiment. But recently, Terri crossed the line. Say what you will about your political convictions or some wild conspiracy theory. I will even let a thinly-veiled anti-Semitic remark slide by. But what Terri did was... was... downright unconscionable! She posted a blatantly inaccurate meme referencing Back to the Future, the globally-acknowledged, indisputable Greatest Movie Ever Made.

Heavy.

Now, I've seen my share of memes using stills from the beloved 1985 science-fiction comedy starring Michael J. Fox and Christopher Lloyd. They range from a bewildered Doc Brown and the single line "Great Scott!," which can be used as an all-purpose response to any number of astounding statements made on social media to more topical takes on the COVID-19 pandemic and uncanny similarities between future Biff Tannen and a certain 21st century president. In 2015, a new batch of memes flooded the internet displaying a wide array of manipulated dates on a screenshot of the digital readout of the DeLorean time machine featured in all three films of the trilogy. As every true Back to the Future fan knows, Marty McFly left present day 1985 on October 26. He landed in the 1955 of his parents' high school days on November 12, just prior to the "Enchantment Under the Sea Dance." (You know, the one where George and Lorraine had their first kiss.) In the final scene of Back to the Future, Doc Brown, in his now-ultra modernized DeLorean, returns from the future with a warning to Marty and girlfriend Jennifer. The teens hop into the time machine, their destination being October 21, 2015 — because, according to a rattled Doc Brown, something has to be done about their kids! For the few who do not have these events committed to memory (you know who you are), a quick Google search will confirm everything — dates, sequence, everything! However, any idiot with rudimentary Photoshop skills can produce a somewhat convincing version of that iconic shot of the DeLorean dashboard with the dates of their choice. And because most people take what they read on the internet as gospel (despite multiple warnings), these fake images are passed off as real and a vicious cycle begins. I thought that everything would have come to an end when the actual October 21, 2015 came and went, with numerous news outlets proclaiming the real-life arrival "Back to the Future" Day and even USA Today reproducing the newspaper front page as featured in Back to the Future II. But no! It was not to be. The inaccurate memes kept right on coming, thanks in part to a rogue website that allows visitors to plug in any dates they like to create their own version of the DeLorean control panel.

Did you jump ship?

Well, obviously Terri didn't know about this Back to the Future custom generator. Instead, she used a poorly-doctored version where some of the numbers weren't even digital numbers. They were plain old Arial. She posted her little wrong picture with the comment "As a die-hard Back to the Future fan, this is pretty cool." The picture displayed the date January 22, 2023 and the explanation "Today is the day the Marty arrives in the future." I saw this and began to fume. I couldn't restrain myself and I left a comment. Look, say what you will about the Bible or the government or the way I live my life, but don't you dare — dare! — mess with Back to the Future! "Terri," I began, "while this may be cool, it is wrong. Marty arrived in the future on October 21, 2015." Look, I may not know much. I cannot do math. I don't understand astrophysics. I don't know what goes on under the hood of my car. But — goddammit! — I know the entire series of events in the remarkable life of Marty McFly as though I experienced them myself. And I know that not only did Marty arrive in the future on October 21, 2015, but that the year 2023 plays no part in any of the three Back to the Future movies.

Terri, replied to my comment, saying: "In the second movie, he goes to 2023. They say it in the first one." What? What does that even mean? And that, as a matter of fact, was my reply to her nonsensical attempt at clarification. Almost instantly, I received a private message from Terri. She said:" You know everything. Please don't bother me any more."

No apology. No "are you sure?," leading to a continuing open dialogue allowing either of us to present evidence and prove our respective points. Nope! The internet won't have any of that! The internet would prefer that we behave like spoiled children who have just been told they cannot stay up another 30 minutes to watch a TV show they've seen a hundred times. The internet wants us to solve disagreements with name calling, sarcasm, insults and ultimatums. The internet encourages us to hold our breath until we turn blue and take our ball and go home. I am 61 years old. I stopped acting like a child when I stopped being a child.

But, this is Back to the Future we are talking about. Terri had to be blocked. What choice did I have?

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

wake me up before you go-go

Like most Americans who live near a large body of water edged by some sort of beach. Mrs. P and I spent the long July Fourth weekend at the location that fits that description nearest our home. In this case, we chose Atlantic City — the one-time jewel of the  Jersey shore, now showing more tarnish than shine in the aftermath of four shuttered casinos in the past year. My wife's casino activity has dwindled to non-existent over the past year, but I think that it is pure coincidence and she is not to be blamed for those closures. Nevertheless, we found ourselves with a weekend starting on a Friday and 72 hours of free time ahead of us. 

I don't know if I ever mentioned it before, but I hate the beach. I hate everything about the beach. First off, I dislike the misnomer of "beach." Face it. It's dirt. That's right. D-I-R-T — Dirt! And don't even talk to me about the (shudder!) ocean. I marvel every time I see someone gingerly wade into that fucking cesspool. And those that cheerfully splash around in that giant piss puddle with their kids! Yeesh! They should be brought up on charges of child abuse. But, I love my wife. And my wife loves the beach. So, I put my disgust for the beach aside for a few hours and sit beside her. Happily. Well, as much "happily" as I can muster.

On Friday, at a time when I am normally at work, Mrs. P and I made our way across the Atlantic City beach, laden with folding chairs, a couple of towels and some snacks and drinks. The Mrs. had plans to soak up some early summer rays. I had plans to cover my thinning pate and stick it out time-wise for as long as she could. 

We found a suitable spot and set up our temporary camp. Mrs. P leaned back and began her sunning process. I draped a large towel over my head and tried to pretend I was anywhere else but on a beach. I closed my eyes. With the murmur of a gentle wind and low whisper of the nearby surf, I began to doze. Hey! Whaddaya know! I was actually relaxed and  — dare I say  — enjoying this time on the beach. I drifted off in to a deeper sleep.

Suddenly, I was jarred awake by something akin to broken fingernails dragging the length of a blackboard. I shot up and fumbled for my glasses that I had folded and hooked in the neckline of my T-shirt. 

At first, I looked around for the source of the disturbance. It was shrill and grating. "Ooooh!," it wailed, "The Grateful Dead are playing this weekend in... in... somewhere!" Ugh! That voice! It squealed in an annoying raspy creak. I raised the towel up and my eyes adjusted to the sunlight. The voice continued, "I saw The Grateful Dead at Veterans Stadium the day before they tore it down."

About twenty feet away, a woman in a tie-dye beach cover-up was addressing a group of people spread out in their own beach campsite. Her unkempt hair blew about her in all directions as she related her story in a loud tone, too loud for the close proximity of her chosen audience. Her voice was at a volume more suited to clearing the area because of a fire or an impending air raid. As a matter of fact, her voice had the same tonal quality as an air raid siren.

Well, now I was awake! And mad. Mad because I was unnecessarily awakened, especially when I was just getting used to fact that I had spent more than five consecutive minutes on a beach. And mad because I hate when people dispense wrong information. I don't mean a mistake for which they will soon correct themselves, I mean flat out wrong information that they insist to be right and proclaim as gospel. Let's start with the fact that The Grateful Dead never played Philadelphia's Veterans Stadium. They did, however, play, what turned out to be the final show at Philadelphia's JFK Stadium, "The Vet's" neighbor. Six days after Jerry Garcia and his bandmates played JFK in 1989, the crumbling, sixty-six year old venue was condemned by the city. It was demolished three years later. Veterans Stadium, home of the Philadelphia Phillies and Eagles for thirty-three years, was imploded in 2004, twelve years after JFK Stadium bit the proverbial dust. While Veterans Stadium was host to numerous concerts, The Grateful Dead did not number among them. But the inflection in this shrew's voice told otherwise, especially when she drove her point home with a smug sneer and a defiant folding of her arms across her tie-dye swathed chest.

Plus, she delivered the misinformation in that voice!

I hate the beach after all.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

potatoes are cheaper

See those big, unusual vegetables piled up and ready for market? Do they look familiar? I didn't think so, because you have probably never seen them before. Those things are called "yams." 

Look at my giant yam!

Yams are part of the species of flowering plants called "monocots." This group of over 59,000 species includes orchids, lilies and tulips, as well as wheat, sugar cane and bamboo. Yams are native to Africa and Asia. They can grow to up to four feet in length and weigh in the neighborhood of 150 pounds. They have a rough skin, which can be difficult to peel and tough white flesh, which softens when cooked. They are rarely sold — or even seen — in the United States.

So, what are those neon orange things surrounded by mini-marshmallows, brown sugar and a boatload of butter that Grandma prepares every Thanksgiving? Um, they're sweet potatoes. I don't care what Grandma says, or what you've been told. They are sweet potatoes.

Sweet potatoes aren't even in the same plant family as yams. Sweet potatoes are related to the morning glory and the popular Asian vegetable water spinach (not actually spinach) and come from the plant species of "dicots," as opposed to "monocots."* The oranges ones, the yellow ones, as well as the exotic purple ones — they are sweet potatoes, too. Hell, sweet potatoes are only distantly related to other varieties of potatoes. 

Bruce doesn't know
what he's talking about.

When did the confusion start? When slaves from Africa were brought to the United States, they called the misshapen potato with the orange flesh "yams" because they resembled the true yams from their native land, though much smaller. Over the years, the name stuck. In order to reinforce "truth in advertising," The U.S. Department of Agriculture requires that commercially grown and marketed sweet potatoes labeled with the term "yam" must also be accompanied by the term "sweet potato."

This week, when you are filling your shopping cart with all the fixings for a traditional Thanksgiving feast, know that those things that you're passing off to your family as "yams," are nothing more than sweet potatoes. No matter what you or the signs in the produce section or even Bruce® says. They ain't yams.

Good luck trying to convince Grandma, though.

* If you are really interested, you can read more about dicots and monocots here. Or you can invite a botanist to Thanksgiving dinner.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com