meanwhile, back in the jungle

My wife and I were kind of in a hurry. We had to pick up a prescription for my mother-in-law and then rush back to their house for dinner. And we were already running late. My wife gathered a few requested dinner accoutrements, threw them into a bag and we hurried out the door.

We climbed into my wife's car and she slowly began to back out of our driveway, when suddenly a young man pushing a stroller with a baby and another small girl in tow emerged from the knot of overgrown vegetation that enshrouds and obscures my neighbor's driveway and sidewalk. Mrs. P hit the brakes. I leaned out the passenger side window, smiled and waved the Dad on, assuring him that we were allowing safe passage. He offered a silent wave of thanks, a return smile and they were on their way. The small family were never in danger, but had the sightlines been clear of the Amazonian rain forest that occupies my neighbor's adjacent property, there would have been no issue.

My neighbor is an inconsiderate, self-absorbed jerk. I don't want to say that she has no regard or respect for other people, because, as far as she's concerned, there are no other people. She perceives that she is alone in the world to do what she wants, when she wants, where she wants — with no consequence.

Several years ago, she split with her husband and he moved out. While they were still married, he — an old-school, tree-huggin' hippie landscaper — planted an array of exotic plants in their front yard. They were an odd assortment of growths, most looking like they'd be more at home in a Dr. Seuss book. However, he trimmed them and maintained them and when winter arrived, he uprooted them (or ate them or smoked them... whatever) because they were gone until they reappeared in the spring. Then, the whole ritual started again. The divorce must have finalized during growing season, because he left the greenery (and blue-ery and red-ery and yellow-ery) in mid-blossom. By the time autumn rolled around, those weeds were out of control, creeping along the driveway and making a devious reach across our property line. I was furious, but my wife — the level-headed member of the Pincus family — told me to curb my anger or pick my battles or some other cliche to ease my rising blood pressure. I said nothing and those trees and things grew until my neighbor's tiny front lawn was covered by a mismatched hodgepodge of fauna, wide floppy leaves, narrow twisting stems and and an intertwined tangle of sinewy vines. It is unkempt, unsightly, unruly and unnecessary.

And it all blocks my view of approaching traffic.

Maybe one day, if I wish hard enough, those plants will devour her like the stuff that covered Stephen King in Creepshow. And I hope it takes her barking dog, too.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

it takes a train to cry

It was 4:55 pm. and my regular train lurched into Suburban Station, its wheels emitting a high-pitched squeal as it slowed along the platform. With a pneumatic hiss, the doors opened and passengers exited through a narrow path made by the parting of new passengers waiting to board. I shuffled in behind a lady lugging a wheeled case and I quickly located an empty seat in the last row of the car. I slid in against the window and pulled my current book* out of my bag, opened it up and proceeded to lose myself on the commute homeward. The last few passengers trickled in and the train again chugged to life.

Less that five minutes later, the train pulled into Market East Station and more passengers, finished with the workday, boarded. I had just begun reading a passage, when I was distracted by someone plopping themselves down into the remaining eighteen inches of ass-space available in the double-seater that I occupied. I scrunched myself closer to the window. My new seatmate, a large, broad-shouldered man wielding a well-worn leather briefcase shifted and adjusted with no regard for my personal space.

And he smelled. Bad. Real bad. An elusive mixture of sweat, dirt and the smell that comes from the bulk plywood department at Home Depot.

The center aisle became clogged with passengers left to stand as each seat filled. I was trapped. I was wedged against the window, my head turned away to avoid the stench. I was careful to twist my body away so my seatmate's clothing would not brush up against me. And I had two more stops to go.

I held my breath and read my book, hoping the descriptive text would be a distraction. It wasn't. In my peripheral vision, I could see him fiddling with his iPhone, his elbows resting on his briefcase which was now horizontal across his lap. How could he not know he stinks? I could see the two backpacked students we picked up at Temple University Station standing in the aisle covertly gesturing to each other and giving this guy "the look." They could smell him, how could he not be aware?

Just as the contents of my stomach began to churn, the conductor announced "Elkins Park" — my stop. I mustered up an "Excuse me, please." and the odorous passenger stood and allowed me to exit. I bolted down the aisle, nearly bumping into the woman with the wheeled case waiting to exit herself. 

I walked across the station parking lot and I laughed as I thought that some unsuspecting soul surely took my seat. 

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

* This time, it's comedian Jay Mohr's 2004 memoir Gasping for Airtime: Two Years in the Trenches of Saturday Night Live.

psychedelic shack, that's where it's at

Although I am the progeny of two Jewish parents and come from a long, Jewish lineage, my family was hardly what you would call "observant." Actually, we were hardly what you'd call "Jews." I was effectually aware of the popular Jewish holidays — Passover, Rosh Hashanah, Yom Kippur and the lesser, though way more fun, Chanukah. As far as I was concerned, these were justified days off from school. Evidently, my people's struggle under a sadistic and malevolent Pharaoh earned me a couple of skipped sessions of third grade. There were other holidays, too — Simchat Torah, Shemini Atzeret (and maybe Ramadan... maybe not). If it meant a day at home watching cartoons and Let's Make a Deal, then I was all for it. 

I rarely attended synagogue. We had a single box of matzo on Passover, but the ubiquitous loaf of bread still maintained its rightful place on our kitchen table. We exchanged Chanukah gifts on December 25. But, we knew we were Jews, and not just because it was regularly pointed out by some of our anti-Semitic neighbors.

When Mrs. Pincus stepped into my life thirty-one years ago, I was introduced to the deep-rooted customs of traditional Judaism. I'm talking two sets of dishes and silverware, no pork chops, shrimp or cheeseburgers, Friday night candle-lighting followed by Ha Motzi (blessing) over wine and challah and you didn't turn the TV on during yom tov (holidays). My new in-laws weren't fucking around, either. They followed some pretty hardcore rules! It was a bit intimidating — coming from my background. My father-in-law went to synagogue any chance he could, without even being told! And not just on holidays! And he enjoyed it! And, he knew all the proper litany and accompanying gestures without the aid of a prayer book. Holy crap (no pun intended), what was I in for? But, as the years went on, I became more accustomed to the practices, even intrigued and fascinated by the history and origins connected to the rituals. I learned far more than I ever did from a yearly viewing of The Ten Commandments on television.

In the fall, as the weather moved from warm to cool and Rosh Hashanah was a memory, preparations are made for the observance of Sukkot, The Feast of Tabernacles. The seven-day festival (eight, if you live outside of Israel — out amongst the English), commencing on the fifteenth day of the Hebrew month of Tishrei, celebrates (according to the Book of Exodus) "the end of the year when you gather in your labors out of the field." It's essentially a week-long harvest party. The celebration includes eating your meals in a sukkah or "booth". Contemporary Jews erect a temporary structure that mimics the fragile dwellings inhabited by the Jews as they traipsed across the desert as freed slaves. My in-laws annually build a sukkah on a tract of land adjacent to their house that draws visitors from across several suburban municipalities. Sitting at the top of a sloping lawn and visible from the street, their sukkah evokes comments ranging from "beautiful" and "inspiring" to "ugh, they're putting up that friggin' shed again!"

For over twenty-five years, I actively and dutifully participated in the construction of the sukkah. My father-in-law fashioned an ingenious "sukkah kit" out of stockade fence sections, metal mending plates and several dozen carriage bolts. The fence-piece walls are fastened together with the mending plates and bolts until they formed an oblong enclosure reminiscent of a frontier U.S. Cavalry fort (like the one on F Troop, but smaller). With a construction crew that has changed and evolved over the years (brothers-in-law, children, cousins and the occasional neighbor), the sukkah goes up in just under ninety minutes, sometimes slowed by a misplaced wrench, a power-drained cordless drill or in-fighting among the help. 

Once the structure is shored-up with sturdy two-by-fours, the real work begins. Mrs. Pincus works her magic and transforms that eight foot by twelve foot overgrown dog run into a breathtaking collage of fruits, leaves, flowers, lights and an array of decorations acquired over a span of many years. She does this almost single-handedly and the result is a labor of love that is truly evident and truly spectacular.

The first few years of putting up the sukkah were novel for me. I had never seen one before, let alone participated in its assembly. Once completed, and Mrs. P's astonishing metamorphosis finalized, I was proud to flaunt photos to my then-boss and co-workers. At the time, I worked at a small graphics studio that was owned and operated by a very nice woman who, had she not gone into the printing production business, would have — no doubt — become a nun. I often referred to her as "Sister Mary Graphics." One October morning in the early 1990s, I arrived at work with a stack of glossy photographs of the newly-built and decorated sukkah with which to educate and even show off. Sister Mary and an equally-Gentile co-worker examined the snapshots with wide eyes as I described the scene. Had the pictures not displayed a colorful burst of autumn foliage and produce subtly illuminated by carefully placed spotlights, you'd have thought they were viewing an autopsy.

"You eat your meals in this... this... room?," began Sister Mary, her head cocked to one side, her sensibly-short blond hair tousling about as she shook it from side to side. "And you decorate it with fruit and vegetables hanging on the walls?" Her face twisted into a dismissive scowl, as though I had just vomited on her shoes.

I countered, forcing a mock-puzzled look across my face. "You mean to tell me that every December, you drag a tree into your living room and put lights all over it and presents underneath it? Hey, at least we Jews have the sense to leave our trees out in the backyard where they belong!"

She failed to see the humor.

Over the years, my once-resolute feelings towards organized religion have waned. I no longer attend (and actually scorn) synagogue or services of any kind. I question the validity of so-called miraculous occurrences and the authenticity of Biblical parables that I can't discern from children's fairy tales. My faith and beliefs have given way to the cynicism brought on by habitual mistrust and the lack of consideration I see exhibited by my fellow human.

I will say, however, that Mrs. P has outdone herself on this year's sukkah.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

iron, like a lion, in Zion

This is an email from a friend's sister, concerning a true household crisis: 

Just listened to a voicemail from the cat groomer who Bob met this morning when he dropped Archie off for a 9 AM appointment. The drop-off alone left Bob speechless but not as much as her message left me without words, "Archie is primped, polished and primed in front of the birdcage ready for pickup when you are. Your photo album of Archie head shots is also ready and included in today's visit."

It seems that Archie, the family cat, is shitting all over the shag rug in Bob's home office. Their family veterinarian suggested that ol' Archie be groomed because sometimes the accidents happen when long hair is matted around the anal area. (But, of course you knew that. Everyone knows that! It's common knowledge, right? Who among us hasn't completed extensive studies of the feline anal area?)

Not knowing where to begin, Sister had to find a place that would groom a cat. Petsmart, the national chain of pet supply stores, wanted no parts of it. So, on recommendation, the family took Archie to an establishment in the affluent Philadelphia suburb of Paoli called "The Main Lion." This is a "cats only" salon.

And this is what The Main Lion did to Archie:

Archie is ready for his close-up, Mr. DeMille.

Sometimes, I'm embarrassed to be white.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

take a letter, Maria

My wife has been selling on eBay, the top online auction website, for years. Many years, as a matter of fact. In addition to regular auctions, she maintains an eBay "store" with an inventory of several thousand items. She makes trips to our local post office several times a week. Basically, she sells a lot of stuff.

For the most part, Mrs. P specializes in pop culture collectibles. That's a fairly broad term for a category that encompasses advertising memorabilia, sports team logo items, rock and roll merchandise and TV and movie related items. Various items emblazoned with logos representing Coca-Cola, McDonald's, M&Ms and other internationally-recognized companies are especially popular and particularly consistent sellers. A lot of these items in her eBay store and those offered for auction, had limited availability in their original distribution. Most were only available to company employees for a short time, either through brief distribution or from an employee-only store or catalog. Small promotional items — such as pens, t-shirts, mugs or figural likenesses of a company mascot — are highly sought-after by collectors of a particular company's memorabilia.

Last week, she sold and closed a sale for a promotional notepad from the headquarters of Pep Boys, the national chain of auto parts stores. Pep Boys, with their familiar mascots of Manny, Moe and Jack, produces a lot of promotional tchotchkes for their employees. Their aim is to boost employee morale and to maintain the company's branding. They have created and circulated key rings in the shape of cars and various automotive tools. Employees were treated to coffee mugs promoting a variety of company goodwill policies. Logoed pens and notepads were a staple throughout the company's Philadelphia-based main operations facility. (I should note that I worked in the Marketing Department of Pep Boys for four years and I managed to acquire more than my fair share of promo items.) The notepad that Mrs. P sold for $4.99 plus shipping was used to promote a specific employee initiative in the late 1990s. The top of each page displayed the smiling visages of Manny and his pals along with some sort of cheerful motivational slogan. The rest of each page was left blank to allow for the quick jot of a phone number as it sat by your desk phone at the ready. The very fact that most of these note pads were completely used or most likely trashed over the course of nearly twenty years, makes the one my wife sold a pretty rare commodity and a great find for a collector.

A few days after Mrs. P sent the Pep Boys notepad to the buyer (in a batch of a hundred or so other packaged shipments that went out that day), she received an email of a decidedly disappointed nature. The notepad had arrived and the buyer was not at all pleased. My wife prides herself on customer satisfaction and does her very best to ensure that her customers are content and that all wrongs are righted quickly. The email, angry and accusing in tone, proclaimed this as "the worst transaction in her history with eBay." The buyer dismissed her purchase as "not worth 49 cents let alone four-ninety-nine!" She demanded a refund. Calmly, my wife composed her standard "I'm sorry you are not happy with your purchase" email and inquired about her dismay. Mrs. P explained that this notepad was a limited-run, company-only item, out-of-print for nearly twenty years and then available only to employees in the main office.

A day or so later came the reply. The buyer said that she didn't really care what was printed on the individual pages, she merely needed a notepad.

My wife and I scratched our heads and tried to fully understand the "fucked-up-ness" of the situation.

This particular buyer lives in Sweetwater, Texas, the county seat of Nolan County. It boasts a population of a little over 11,000 people and sits approximately 35 miles west of Abilene, the 25th most populous city in the United States. Sweetwater is home to many independent drug stores, as well as outlets of national chains like CVS. I've been to a fair amount of drug stores in my life and I believe that most have a small section devoted to household items like light bulbs, adhesive tape and, um, notepads. In addition, right there on Interstate 20 (locally known as Georgia Avenue), there is a K-Mart (with convenient hours of operation; most evenings until 9 PM) and, less than a mile away, is a WalMart SuperCenter that is open TWENTY-FOUR-FUCKING-HOURS-A-FUCKING-DAY! You're telling me that this numbskull, in search of any ol' notepad to write a goddamn message to whatever other inbred moron to whom she needs to impart precious documented information, can't get up off her lazy, cheap beer-swillin', barbecue-munchin' ass and get on down t' th' WalMart to purchase a notepad for half-a-buck? No! Her first thought to obtain a notepad was to turn to eBay, search "notepads," and click "Buy It Now" on a listing for a notepad for four dollars and ninety-nine cents plus the cost of shipping it to her double-wide trailer. (By the way, in case she is doing some travelling, there are two more WalMart SuperCenters just up the road a piece in Abilene, as well as a Staples and an Office Depot. I'm fairly certain that they sell a variety of notepads. Many priced well below $4.99 with no collectible value whatsoever.)

Texas leads the nation in state-sanctioned executions, but obviously they are not working fast enough.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

old man, look at my life, I'm a lot like you were

I had lunch with my friend Steve this week.

I met Steve when we were both employed in the Marketing Department of a national aftermarket auto parts distributor whose corporate mascots are three Jewish guys with out-of-proportion heads, one of whom smoked a cigar until it was unceremoniously removed in 1990. But I ain't naming names. Steve is a copywriter and I am a graphic designer. ( I used to be an "artist," until the corporate world reassigned me.)

Steve and I have commiserated about the trials and tribulations (and assholes) we have encountered during our collective years in the intriguing, yet utterly ridiculous, industry known as "marketing." While neither of us are in the employ of those unnamed retailers any longer and have moved on to other jobs, we still manage to get together, though not as often as we'd like. A few years ago, after a lengthy stretch in the freelance world, Steve began working at an ad agency just three blocks from my office. We meet for lunch frequently, but still, not frequently enough.

On Monday morning, an electronic whistle from my cellphone alerted me of an incoming text message. I unlocked the screen and read:

("Liberty" refers to the food court at Liberty One, a 61-story high rise building that houses offices, retail stores and the aforementioned food court. Liberty One holds the distinction of being the first skyscraper to break the decades-old agreement that no building can be higher than the statue of William Penn that sits atop Philadelphia's City Hall.)

Having no plans for lunch (actually, I never have plans for lunch), I rode the elevator down to street level. Steve greeted me at the corner of 16th and Market, just across from where the Preacher was delivering his daily midday message. We immediately began catching up as we made our way to the street entrance of Liberty One. Inside, Steve queued up for a big, Styrofoam plate of Japanese-prepared tan meat and cabbage. I opted for pizza, but when I discovered a darkened and stripped-bare location that — until recently — served that beloved Italian quick-bite staple, I settled for an overpriced egg salad sandwich. We reconvened at one of the many small, metal tables that populate the seating area and began eating and conversing.

Steve had been travelling for work non-stop since the beginning of June. As he related the whirlwind itinerary that included such exotic foreign locales as Paris and Lyon and such mundane domestic territory as Pittsburgh and Morgantown, West Virginia, he reminded me that it was strictly business. He was not there to leisurely stroll the romantic banks of the Seine. He was there to supervise the grueling production of a television commercial and put up with non-productive producers.

A subsequent leg of Steve's work tour took him to Austin, Texas... and that's where the real fun* began. Steve woke up in his hotel in the worst, excruciating pain. Soon, he found himself a stranger in the emergency room of a strange Austin hospital, just one buffer seat from a Mom and Dad trying to comfort their gunshot-wounded son — and trying to keep his obviously-disliked boyfriend at bay. Eventually, Steve was diagnosed with a kidney stone.

"I've been there.," I said, knowingly.

With that, we commenced on a tangent, trading tales of kidney stone episodes for the next twenty-five minutes. We consoled and sympathized over vivid memories of not being able to sit comfortably and fearing an addiction to Percocet. We nodded solemnly and re-experienced the pain. We began a lot of sentences with "Well, when it happened to me..." When, suddenly....

"Listen to us!," I said, "We sound like we're 80 years old! Is this what it has come to? This is what our conversations have been reduced to?"

We stared blankly at each other for a second.

We quickly changed the subject.

To something younger.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

Originally published 8/15/13. 

* and by real fun, I mean no fun.

It's only words and words are all I have

I was twenty-four the first time I said "fuck" in front of my parents. I suppose it was a "respect" thing, but something must have pissed me off so much that the heretofore unspoken "F" word finally breached our dialogue. However, I was already married for two years and I no longer had to abide by the unwritten rules of my parents' house — so saying "fuck" was fair game. I mean, they couldn't very well spank me or ground me or send me to my room! My room was at my house and I lived in it with my wife! So, with no fear of repercussions, I allowed "fuck" to enter the conversation.

Which brings me to a question that has been the topic of many a discussion at the Pincus house: "How well do you have know someone before "fuck" is introduced into the verbal exchange?"

Now, I am not prudish by any means. I acknowledge the fact that my speech tends to be "colorful" and is peppered with an overabundance of salty language — especially during baseball season, when, in the course of a Phillies game, it can get particularly vulgar. My wife and I made a conscious decision to watch our phraseology around our son as he grew up. For years, we never uttered anything more crude than "darn" within range of his young and impressionable ears. But, somewhere around his sixteenth birthday, all heck broke loose. The gloves were off and the "fucks" were flying. I don't know what specifically triggered the transformation, but almost overnight, our house went from a convent to a day of working down on the docks. Despite the freedom of expression I employ in my vocabulary, I am still taken aback when a total stranger speaks that word I so liberally use myself.

Last year, my wife and I were at an invitation-only dinner hosted by several celebrity chefs from The Food Network. We were seated at a large round table with four other couples — none of whom we had met before. To my immediate right was a couple who were close to our age. (In reality, the other couples were closer to our parents' age!) We struck up a very benign conversation with them, when suddenly — on sentence number three to be exact — the gentleman allowed "fuck" to compromise the conversation's security. My wife and I were briefly startled, but after several more "fucks" were sprinkled throughout the next few sentences, we were becoming desensitized and eventually more comfortable. I may have even spoken a couple-a "fucks" myself — just to let him know we were on his side. Hey! What the fuck!

This past Sunday, Mrs. P and I attended a particularly tedious Phillies game. Our hometown boys were getting their sorry butts kicked by the pathetic Miami Marlins and the game grew more painful as the innings ticked away. To bide the time, my spouse amused herself by playing a few distracting rounds of the addictive, online game Candy Crush Saga on her smartphone. The unmistakable digital sound effects from the game caught the attention of the couple sitting in the row directly in front of us. We have been Phillies season ticket holders for eighteen years, but we have never seen this couple before. The woman turned around and asked my wife the updated version of the mid-70's standby "What's your Sign," and that's: "What level are you on?" And those were the last words we understood her to say — except for "fuck." She slurred her words and talked fast and guttural, but "fuck" came through like an obscene beacon, loud and fucking clear. My wife nodded and smiled as the woman's speech just became a barrage of sentences of "fuck" after "fuck" after "fuck." The fellow she was with was totally unintelligible — even his "fucks," if he was indeed using the nasty word.

So, have I reached a definitive answer to my question?

How the fuck should I know?

www.joshpincusiscrying.com