when I go out with artists

When I graduated from high school in 1979, I didn't know what the heck I wanted to do with my life. I had been drawing since I was a little kid, but the thought of making it a career didn't sit right with me and it especially didn't sit right with my father. My father was a hard-working, company-loyal, old-school, narrow-minded, Nixon-loving, World War II veteran who woke up early every morning to go to a job that treated him like shit. But, in his generation, that was the way things were. As far as my father was concerned, being an "artist" was no way to make a living.

My mother, on the other hand, was much more supportive. A free-sprit for most of her single life, my mom encouraged my creativity and natural talent — possibly living vicariously through me, silently pining for the carefree days that were stifled when she married my father. My mom let me know that it was okay to take a year after high school to decide the course my career should take. College would always be there, so rushing into things was not necessary. I toyed with various options. I thought about enrolling in culinary school, but tossed that idea aside when I realized that my "cooking skills" were limited to preparing a bowl of cereal and heating up frozen pizza (the latter of which I didn't do very well). I wasn't a very good academic student. Math concepts eluded me. History bored and confused me. I thrived in art classes, despite some of the older art teachers that were burned out and appeared to be going through the motions. I was motivated by a young student teacher who introduced free-form assignments and offered a fresh perspective. But, I still couldn't imagine making "art" my career. So, at my mother's suggestion, I got a job as a cashier in a retail clothing store in hopes of climbing the proverbial "corporate ladder" and making the wide world of retail my chosen profession. Except, I fucking hated that job. It was enough to send me over the edge and enroll in art school. But not just any art school.

Once my decision to go to art school was made, I began to research and determine my options. Philadelphia boasted several well-respected art schools. Some under the auspices of larger universities. Others were stand alone private institutions. Almost all offered a Bachelor of Fine Arts degree after completing a four-year course of study. One four-year school, however, only awarded an Associates degree. This school required no academic subjects, only art classes. No academic classes? Hot damn! That was the school for me! 

I arranged for an interview at Hussian School of Art. I was asked to bring recent samples of my artwork and have transcripts from my high school sent over. No SAT scores were required and they had no interest in what kind of student I was. These were my kind of people! I went to the interview with my mom and I sat across a big desk from the president of the school as he personally reviewed and assessed my work. My portfolio consisted of mostly cartoony drawings along with a few paintings I had done as a high school senior. Mr. Dove, a soft-spoken man in a light suit and flowered tie, quietly examined my work. Finally, with just the tiniest hint of a smile, he told me I would be accepted to join the next class in September 1980. He also added that the school's curriculum would knock this "cartoony stuff" right out of my system. They would teach me to be a real artist. 

Hussian was a very small school. Very small. It was housed on three floors of an office building in center city Philadelphia. They only accepted 80 freshman per year and, as I came to see, almost half would drop out before reaching their senior year. It was a tough school with some difficult assignments and teachers who demanded perfection. Their critiques were often brutal, sometimes sending some of the more sensitive students running from a classroom in tears. I, myself, experienced a smattering of anti-Semitism — some of it from teachers. But everything was done to prepare budding artists for the real world. In my early 20s, I didn't fully understand what exactly we were being warned about. At 62, and after 40 years in this God-forsaken business, I understand. Boy, do I understand!

My class at Hussian boasted a lot of talented artists. There were a wide variety of styles and ideas, mixed with a wider variety of personalities and temperaments. There was a lot of camaraderie and there was a lot of rivalry, bordering on animosity. By the end of four years, my class of 80 was whittled down to 43 — just as predicted. We graduated at an intimate luncheon in May 1984 that my father did not attend. At the conclusion of the ceremony, I was a professional artist. 

I have worked consistently in the general art field for my entire adult life. I've had many jobs and worked for more than my fair share of assholes. Hussian prepared me well. Sure, I have expressed frustration over the unqualified opinions of talentless superiors who couldn't identify a serif with a gun to their head. But, I have also learned that, contrary to my father's beliefs, I could make a living as an artist.

I was surprised to learn how many of my classmates form Hussian chose not to pursue a career in the field of art. Some have successfully gone into such diverse alternative lines of work as home construction, nursing, corporate administration and even music. A handful have followed their chosen course of study and even ended up teaching others. Admittedly, I use very little of what I learned at Hussian in my everyday work, but there is no denying the positive foundation they forged at the very beginning.

from the Hussian website.

Just this week, a surprise announcement broke in the local press. The University of the Arts, a beloved amalgam of creative intuitions dating back to the 19th century, will abruptly close its doors forever in the wake of losing its accreditation. UArts is the second art school to announce a closing in Philadelphia this year (the other, The Pennsylvania Academy of Fine Arts will close at the end of the 2024-25 academic year). Over the past few years, The Art Institute of Philadelphia closed, The Delaware College of Art & Design closed and the suburban campus of the Tyler School of Art closed, although the program still exists on the main campus of Temple University. I was also made aware of the quiet closing of Hussian School of Art in August 2023. With no fanfare, no media coverage and no announcement to alumni, Hussian's board of trustees determined that they were unable to continue, based on the current financial outlook and declining enrollment.

I maintain that working commercial artists are one of the most misunderstood and disrespected groups. If you are not an actual working artists, you can never fully understand that it is indeed a job. It's a job just like a mail carrier or a waiter or a bus driver or even a doctor. It's not just a "fun extension of a hobby." It is work. It takes concentration and effort and energy just like your job. Artists don't want to be presented with a "fun project." If it's done for commercial purposes, it is work. Do accountants think it's a "fun project" keeping financial records for a candy store? Gee! That sounds like a "fun project, Mr. Accountant! On a daily basis, I deal with two inexperienced young ladies — fresh out of marketing classes at the University of Whatever — in the corporate office of a small chain of supermarkets. In designing their weekly advertisements, I am relentlessly instructed to move a photo of a pile of pork chops to the left a little more..... a little more.... a little more.... a little more. Never mind. Delete it.

It is sad that a city the size of Philadelphia cannot support art education. Art is everywhere. Everywhere. And artists are responsible for that art. Mechanics of art can be taught, but an "artist's touch" cannot. 

You'll be sorry. You'll see. 

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

wind of change

After mulling over my future options, I entered art school in the Fall of 1980.  I had graduated from high school over a year earlier. Although I had expressed interest in drawing at a very young age, I couldn't imagine making it a career. (Forty years later, I still can't believe I made it a career.) I worked in retail for a year while I decided what to do with the rest of my life. I was terrible at math, so that eliminated a lot of possibilities. I wasn't mechanically-inclined, so that eliminated even more. With my choices narrowing, I resigned myself to the pursuit of a rewarding career (?) in the field of commercial art.

Following Labor day 1980, I joined a small group of other budding artists as part of the freshman class at the renowned Hussian School of Art (Well.... "renowned" in Philadelphia, anyway. Well.... sort of renowned.) I met and eventually formed friendships with a majority of my classmates. Just like any school or other inter-personal situation, I didn't get along with everyone. There was one guy in particular who was.... what's the word?.... oh yeah.... an asshole. He was a sullen, angry, insulting, belligerent jerk. He openly criticized his colleagues' work, whether or not his opinion was requested. (It was not.)  He sat in class with arms folded tightly against his chest, head down, surveying his surroundings through strands of greasy hair that hung limply over his forehead, dipping into his line of vision. Mostly he would mutter to himself, huffing a "this sucks" or "you blow" under his breath. Every so often, he would raise his voice to make sure everyone was apprised of his negative opinion. "Sucks!," he'd spew and punctuate his statement by tossing a crumpled piece of paper at the artist whose work was being actually critiqued by the class instructor. Between classes, this guy would walk the halls and deliberately bump into people with the grace and finesse of a hockey defenseman. He'd offer his favorite, all-purpose, all-encompassing "pet name" to any and all that crossed his path. "Shit stain" he'd call them.

This behavior continued for the entire four years that I was a student. It never let up for one minute. After graduation, I figured I never see this guy again.

Nearly a decade into the 21st Century, an effort was made by some of my art-school classmates for an extremely informal twenty-fifth anniversary class reunion. Plans were made to meet at one of our old haunts — a small Irish pub in one of Philadelphia's narrow alleys. In our younger, more rambunctious days, many a Hussian student downed many an alcoholic beverage at this establishment, so it was the perfect venue. (Although I no longer drink alcohol, I myself ended up on the floor of this pub more times that I'd care to admit.) When the designated date rolled around, I hopped a train from my suburban home. I headed for the tiny bar with the hopes of reconvening and reminiscing with classmates and friends I had not seen in a quarter of a century. Many things had changed in that time. I was married for twenty-five years, having tied the knot just two months after my graduation from art school. I had a son that was about to turn 22. I was working in the marketing department of a large law firm in Philadelphia. I was genuinely anxious to see the paths my various classmates' lives had taken.

I arrived and entered the bar through the familiar heavy wooden doors. In the dim light, I immediately recognized some faces that had strangely not changed in twenty-five years. Sure, there were plenty of folks who I did not recognize, but after some awkward guessing I was able to make identification. As for my appearance, at the time, I had been coloring my hair a vibrant and decidedly unnatural red-orange, so I was subjected to a certain amount of scrutiny by those who knew me with mousy brown locks. 

The conversation was lively. I honestly dread events like this (I haven't attended a high school reunion since my first one — a five year milestone), but I was really glad I came. I talked with people who had not entered my thoughts for years... and it was very nice. During the course of the afternoon, a fellow approached me whom I did not recognize. He knew me, though. The first thing he did was offer an apology. As he spoke, hanging his head and expressing regret over his past actions, I realized who he was. It was my belligerent asshole classmate. He looked totally different, but once he began talking, it all came back to me. He acknowledged his poor behavior and asked for forgiveness for his less-than-amiable personality. He explained that he had grown as a person and turned himself around as his life progressed. He never pursued a career in art, but found a satisfying and rewarding vocation elsewhere. I shook hands with this former asshole. I had never shaken hands with him before.

As I became more active on social media, I have reconnected with a number of people with whom I attended art school. I see their vacation activities and their acquisitions of new pets and sad passings beloved ones. I see what they've eaten for breakfast. I've seen the marriages of their children and births of their grandchildren. I have received comments on my various silly posts and welcomed well-wishes on my birthday. Somewhere along the way, I reconnected with my asshole classmate. He has made comments here and there, although Facebook activity does not appear to be a priority in his life. Recently, however, he has made a few comments that harken back to his art school days, each one dripping with the same venomous loathing once so prevalent in those early 80s classrooms. Several consecutive comments — on different posts relating to different topics — smacked of that dismissive "you blow" and "this sucks" that I remember hearing an apology for.

What's that they say about old dogs, new tricks and a leopard's spots never changing?

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

the bleeding hearts and artists

Oops! I am away again this weekend! Please enjoy this entry that appeared on my illustration blog in 2014. It's a story about the beginnings of my formal art career. — JPiC

When I graduated from high school, I didn’t know what the hell I wanted to do with my life. I was working as a cashier at the women’s clothing store that my mother managed. I was planning on a career in the retail business, perhaps one day working my way up to manager myself. But, I hated the retail business and, after a year, I was ready for something else. 

I had been drawing since I was a little kid, doodling little cartoons on any spare piece of paper I could get my hands on. I decided to look into enrolling in art school, to hone and refine my natural ability and possibly make a career of it… much to the consternation of my father. My father was a butcher. He had no concept of making a living with something as intangible as — gulp! — art! So, it was understood that if I wished to embark on this frivolous notion of making a living at being an artist, I would have to finance the education portion myself. 

I got myself an interview at the Hussian School of Art, a respected establishment known throughout the small, commercial art trade in Philadelphia. I was given a brief tour of the facility — a small, cramped, loft-like area occupying three non-consecutive floors of a dilapidated building in one of the seedier sections of center city Philadelphia, situated between a multi-level adult bookstore and a homeless shelter. Afterwards, I presented my thrown-together portfolio to Ron Dove, the president of the school. Although Mr. Dove perused my offerings (comprised mostly of projects from high school art classes) with nary a change in expression, I was accepted and welcomed to be a part of the freshman class beginning in the Fall of 1980. 

The summer preceding my entrance into art school, I spent a week in Florida with some high school friends in one last fling of youth. I was about to enter the next stage of my life, a path towards responsibility and career goals and adulthood… as I tried to convince my parents and myself. 

My first class of my first day of art school was “Graphics,” a sort of catch-all that would introduce printmaking through linoleum and woodcuts, metal etchings, silk-screening and other skills I would never, ever use. I sat at a long table, listening to a long-winded speech from the teacher, matronly Mrs. Spiro, when a guy (later I would know to be “John”) seated across from me asked if I knew the time. I glanced at my watch and answered. That was the first of many friendships I would make at Hussian, kindred spirits all with the same eventual goal. 

My next class was “Drawing.” Now, we were talking. I could draw like nobody’s business. I placed my required newsprint pad on one of the many easels strewn haphazardly along the perimeter of the open studio. I selected a few slender sticks of charcoal from a box I had purchased as part of a list of mandatory supplies (including a forty dollar box of pastels that I don’t think I ever cracked the cellophane on). The teacher, a fierce little martinet named Mrs. Clement, arranged a bowl with fruit and flowers on a lacy tablecloth at the center of the room. The class collectively began to interpret the setting in charcoal. Mrs. Clement offered the harshest of criticism as she paraded around the room, weaving in and out of easels, careful not to leave any budding artist without at least one insult and proper discouragement. “Holy shit,” I thought, as Mrs. C. gleefully pointed out my artistic shortcomings, “is this what I signed up for?” 

As the semester progressed and we began to fully understand the nature and actual encouraging powers of critique, the drawing class was introduced to the next phase of subject matter. On this day, we arrived for class as usual, setting out our materials and securing a place with a good view of the small riser at the room’s center. Only this time, there was no table, no bowl, no fruit and no lacy tablecloth. Mrs. Clement, instead, silently escorted a tall woman in a bathrobe to the riser. The woman was about the same age as the majority of my classmates. She wore her mousy brown hair pulled up in a loose bun at the top of her head, tied with a small piece of ribbon. With no warning, she dropped her robe and we saw that the ribbon was the only thing on her body she wasn’t born with. A few stifled coughs split the otherwise silent studio. The woman, expressionless, raised her arms above her head and intertwined her hands with her palms to the ceiling. She arched her back and extended one long leg behind her, elegantly pointing her toes. The class stood motionless. This was quite unexpected and quite a change from a bowl of fruit. 

“She’ll be changing poses every three minutes,” Mrs. Clement barked, “so get drawing!” 

Drawing? Oh, right! That’s why I was here. 

We tried to remain as mature and adult as we possibly could, but for goodness sakes!, this woman was standing before us in all her nipples-and-pubic-hair glory, without blushing or batting an eye. Needless to say, there was a reasonable amount of squirming. True to our teacher’s word, she did, indeed, change poses every three minutes to the point where there wasn’t a square inch of that young lady’s body that we didn’t see and, eventually, draw. At one point, she seated herself in a ratty old chair and posed in some of the most immodest positions imaginable. (Didn’t your mother ever tell you “A lady crosses her legs at the ankles when seated.” Obviously, this woman had skipped finishing school.) Finally, we broke for lunch. The model put on her robe and walked to a small dressing (undressing?) room at the rear of the studio. Sue, one of my classmates, turned to me as she gathered up some of her supplies and said “She’s very graceful, isn’t she?” I replied with a nervous, cockeyed smile… as though I had just been caught with a naked woman. 

But, guess what? The naked female body is very difficult to draw, especially for someone like me, who is more comfortable doodling silly cartoon characters. As the time went on, naked women or not, I dreaded that class. Mrs. Clement was a tough and demanding instructor and the realistic drawing style that was expected of me proved very challenging. I equated it with another scenario in my life. 

During the time I attended art school, I worked in the buffet room of a dinner theater. Prior to the evening’s performance, patrons would line up to fill their plates and stuff their faces with a wide array of food. Salads, vegetables, casseroles and roast beef — which was carved by yours truly. When dinner time concluded, we closed off the buffet room and my co-workers and I began the task of cleaning up. Workers in the buffet were permitted to take as much of the leftover food before returning it to the kitchen. When I first got the job, it was a benefit to end all benefits! I piled a plate to overflowing capacity, as though I was a condemned man offered his last meal. And I did this every night. For a week. Until the novelty wore off and I never wanted to see or eat that shit again. 

That’s how I came to feel about the nude models. What started out as “Oh my God!” soon became “Ugh! Not again!?”

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

when we was fab

I love The Beatles. I grew up on The Beatles. I certainly understand their influence and contribution to popular music. I am aware of their impact on pop culture and the innovations they introduced to the recording process. They were The Beatles, for goodness sakes!

I also have a sense of humor about pretty much anything and everything. Nothing is sacred — especially the things that you and I hold dear. The angrier someone gets when something they love is made the butt of a joke, the funnier that joke becomes. Exponentially funnier.

If you have followed me on various social media outlets, you are aware of my sense of humor and a series of running jokes which seem to infiltrate my assorted feeds on a regular basis. There's my nearly daily chronicle of Ambrose the cat. There's my documentation of the various food that literally litters the streets of my neighborhood — free for the taking.... while supplies last, of course. And, then there's my on-going disdain for Beatles drummer Ringo Starr.

Peace and luv.
Peace and luv.

I'm not going to explain the origins of my online feud with Mr. Starr. If you have to explain a joke, it immediately ceases to be funny. Just accept it. If you think it's funny, fine. If you don't quite "get it," maybe you will in the future... or maybe you just won't. That's okay. Move on. Maybe something not as subtle or esoteric will make you laugh. My humor runs the gamut from blatant to exclusive (as in "For my amusement only"). I'm sure, if you stick around long enough, you'll find something funny. Or not.

Recently, I reconnected — on Facebook — with a classmate from art school. I have not seen this guy since his graduation (he was a year ahead of me), save for the few times we ran into him at a local flea market where he was hawking used record albums from the confines of a dusty booth in the sweltering summer heat. I remember that he was a huge Beatles fan, Like HUGE! Like no other band mattered. No other band existed! As far as he was concerned, everyone shared his love of the Fab Four and no one knew as much about or cared as much for those four loveable mop tops from Liverpool. According to his recent Facebook posts, that still stands. Except now, it is over half a century since the band's last studio album and two of the band members have passed away. Plus, a lot of music has come out since the demise of the Beatles and an awful lot of people don't really hold them in such high reverence anymore. The ones that do are showing their age and showing the sad grip that they are trying to maintain on a youth that has long passed. They can't be content on just liking The Beatles and remembering the feeling evoked by their music. No, they must badger subsequent generations into loving The Beatles just as much as they do and denouncing the current crop of musicians as vastly inferior. That is their goal, their mission, their function as their own mortality looms large. The fear that no one will be left to carry the Beatles mantle is their motivation.

My new old Facebook friend doesn't like my playful ribbing of Ringo Starr. Not. One. Bit. He has commented with great fervor. He has berated me and justified Ringo's (alleged) talent. He has enumerated the Beatles drummer's numerous (debatable) successes. He has gone back to comment on months-old posts I made, long before we were connected. He had to make sure that every single post about Ringo was addressed and properly disputed.

Happy birthday.

Yesterday (June 18), was Paul McCartney's birthday. Not restricting my jibes to Ringo, I have made it an annual tradition to wish the celebrated bassist a "Happy Birthday" and accompany my greeting with a current photo of actress Angela Lansbury, to which Sir Paul, in his advanced years, bears a striking resemblance. It's funny... at least in my opinion. I have garnered many "thumbs up" accolades to these posts, so, obviously, I am not the only one who sees the similarities in the looks of these two British icons and I am not the only one who finds it funny.

My new old Facebook friend found this particularly offensive. Acting as the self-appointed official Keeper of All Things Beatles, he left a seething comment, in ALL CAPS no less, affording me a hearty "FUCK YOU." He addressed me by my birth name (the one he knew me by when we attended art school together, long before the advent of "Josh Pincus")... and he spelled it wrong.

I almost deleted the comment, unfriended him and blocked his account from seeing any more of my posts. But I didn't.

I couldn't.

This is just too funny.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

the bleeding hearts and artists make their stand

When I broke the news to my parents that I decided to go to art school (and they subsequently didn't give a rat's ass), I was very discerning in my selection. First and foremost, since I was such a terrible student through twelve years of public school, I sought a curriculum that was purely art — no math, no science, none of that useless shit that I struggled with and would never, ever reference in my adult life, save for the random viewing of Jeopardy!. Second on my list was... well, I really didn't have a second... or a third, for that matter. All I wanted was art-related classes and nothing on which I would be tested.

After researching art programs at area universities and stand-alone art schools, I settled on the Hussian School of Art. In 1946, respected Philadelphia commercial artist and lecturer John Hussian founded the school after encouragement from the prestigious Philadelphia Museum of Art (long before Rocky ran up the front steps and ruined the regal mystique for everyone). Mr. Hussian hoped his school would assist returning World War II veterans in securing more career opportunities. Soon, the school earned national recognition and respect. Hussian offered an array of art classes — both fine and commercial , eventually being approved by the Pennsylvania Department of Education to offer graduates an Associate Degree in Specialized Technology. That's right, despite being a four-year school, its lack of academic subjects barred Hussian from awarding a Bachelor's Degree. Nevertheless, Hussian was my choice. I'd be damned if I was gonna sweat though another calculus problem or tinker with vials of sodium bi-who-gives-a-shit ever again.

In the summer of 1980, along with 79 other fresh, budding artists, I was accepted to Hussian. By the time four years passed, the class was whittled down to a mere 43, many of whom (I learned later) didn't pursue a career in the arts — fine or otherwise. I obviously did follow my dream (or goal or...whatever you want to call it... curse, perhaps), although, after 30-plus years, no one has ever asked to see my diploma or inquired about my degree. My ever-changing, ever-evolving portfolio has always been my qualifier.

Hussian tradition has been to have the seniors host a showcase of their work one evening just before the May commencement ceremony. Members of the local, professional art community are invited, as well as alumni. I have attended nearly every one since I graduated (except for that conflicting date in 2001 when Ken Griffey Jr. made his National League debut with the Cincinnati Reds in a game against the Phillies — it's baseball, for goodness sakes!). I love to see the work on display, especially new takes on projects I, myself, was assigned thirty years earlier.

At last year's showcase, I ran into a teacher who taught when I was a student. He was going to announce his separation from Hussian at the end of that semester. He explained that the school had been purchased by two entrepreneurial brothers as an investment, adding it to their roster of restaurants, bars and other non-educational businesses. Without exact words, he expressed his dismay — nay, anger — at the situation. He also hinted that, in his opinion, Hussian's days were numbered.

This week, I received a solicitation postcard from Hussian. In a burnt ochre banner (I still remember my colors!), spanning the card were the words "NEW BACHELOR'S DEGREE!," in a reversed-out bold, sans-serif font (look at me, using cool graphic arts terms!). For 68 years, Hussian sent scores of artists into the world, some more successful than others, but not a single one wielding a Bachelor's Degree. And they all seemed to do just fine.

Sadly, it looks like Hussian is grabbing for a life preserver and possibly going down for the third time.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

she's a very kinky girl, the kind you don't take home to mother

 

I grew up in the protective cocoon of Northeast Philadelphia - mostly white, mostly Jewish, mostly middle class. Aside from a few family vacations to Atlantic City and a trip to Florida with some friends, I rarely ventured south of Cottman Avenue. My whole existence remained within the confines of a six-mile radius. It was a skewed reality that I didn't realize was skewed until I graduated from high school.

Once I left the Philadelphia Public School System, I was on my own. I chose to attend the small, but respected, Hussian School of Art in center city Philadelphia. The thought of me following my childhood dream of becoming a professional artist didn't exactly thrill my father. So, I had to pay my own tuition (which meant obtaining student loans on my own). I had to find my own transportation to school. Since I didn't own my own car, I opted for public transportation and was expected to pay for same. After my first solo ride on the subway, I found the world outside of the so-called "Great Northeast," was an adventure. I saw people of all shapes, ages, colors and races, some that I had been shielded from in my previously-sheltered life. At art school, I instantly became classmates with a wide variety of young men and women from a full range of backgrounds. There were hippie holdovers, mohawked punks, other-worldly New Wave disciples, flannel-clad greasers (whose style, in another decade, would be called "grunge") and Madonna-wannabes. I did my best to fit in with the mix of personalities and I succeeded, for the most part.

The school was tiny, with a student body of just over 300. Graduates were awarded an Associates Degree*, despite the course of study requiring four years. The catch (read: benefit) was there were no academic subjects offered. No math, no science - it was a dream come true... ask any artist. And because of the school's small size, upperclassmen mingled freely with lowerclassmen. We were one big, happy, eccentric bunch.

A week or so into my freshman year, a girl named Debbie took an unprovoked interest in me. She was tall, blond and four years my senior (my brother's age). She was not particularly attractive, but compared to the Semitic sameness of all the girls I knew from twelve years of public school, she was compelling. Plus, the fact that she was the same age as my brother... well, the possibility of pissing him off was irresistible. Oh, and when she wasn't sitting in class at art school, she was a go-go dancer. That pissed my brother off even more.

Debbie was — shall we say "aggressive" — and wasted no time. She invited me to spend a weekend at her apartment. Alone. For three days. For a naïve nineteen-year-old, this was the stuff you only read about in Penthouse Forum. We always thought those stories were made up, but here it was happening to me. In my elation, I managed to spit out a "Sure!" over my tied tongue. She gave me instructions for the train to her house and folded a single key into my palm. I anticipated the argument with my parents about my (Debbie's) plans, but it didn't really matter, because my mind was made up. I was not spending this weekend at home. My mother was not pleased. Not pleased at all. She was even less pleased when I didn't phone for three days. (This predates my first cellphone by quite a few years.)

When Monday morning arrived, I took the train into Philadelphia with Debbie. I went through the day at school in a fog, as I had just experienced a weekend with out much sleep. At the day's end, I took the subway home. When I wearily shuffled through my front door, my mother greeted me with a stern "Where have you been?," which she delivered through clenched teeth and a long pause between each word. My mom was not someone to be messed with. She didn't have time for anybody's bullshit and this little episode fell squarely into the Mom Pincus "Bullshit" category. We exchanged words, although her word output was nearly triple mine. When my father got home from work, dinner was nearly silent. My parents were angry and (speaking now as a parent myself) they had every right to be. When you're a nineteen-year-old boy, you don't think about things like responsibility and accountability. Nineteen-year-old boys mostly think with their penises and penises don't have much capacity for deep or rational thought.

Things eventually calmed down at the Pincus house. My parents realized that their little Josh was growing up and, although they had a difficult time with it, I spent several more weekends with Debbie.

One day, Debbie asked to come to my house. WHAT?, I thought, MY HOUSE? YOU? AT MY HOUSE? MY MOM MIGHT SEE YOU! I dispatched every possible excuse I could come up with, but Debbie wasn't buying. She insisted and was relentless about it. I told her I'd discuss it with my parents (a very childish thing to say, I felt). I explained that I couldn't possibly come and pick her up, that she'd have to find her own way to my house.I thought that would be the clincher, but no — she agreed to take the train, the subway and two buses. When I got home, I broke the news to my mother. My mom, used to the nice, manner-conscious girls I dated in high school, thought nothing of the request. Next Sunday, Debbie would come to my house. This was not gonna be good.

My mother was the manager of a women's discount clothing store. She was a hard worker and she often logged sixty hours in an average week. She relished her days off. Debbie chose one of my mother's precious days off to pay a visit. I got an early morning call from Debbie saying that she was leaving her house. I sweat bullets from the time I hung up the phone until I answered the knock on my front door nearly three hours later. There was Debbie — in all her tight-skirted, see-thru top skankiness — right there in my living room. The living room where I had my fourth birthday party. The living room where, every year, my mom set up a large aluminum folding table to accommodate extra guests for Thanksgiving dinner. I knew that allowing this slut to breach the sanctity of my home was an exercise in poor judgement. The poorest.

My mother entered the living room, smiling,  in her fluffy pink bathrobe. It was her day off. She was going to be comfortable after sixty plus hours on her feet dealing with bargain-hungry customers. My mom extended her hand as I introduced Debbie to her.

Debbie parted her painted red lips and asked my mother, "It's nearly one in the afternoon. Aren't you going to get dressed today?"

Time froze. I cringed.

My mother, in pure Mom Pincus fashion, coolly replied, "I worked all week. Today is my day off. I will get dressed whenever the fuck I feel like getting dressed." Then, my mom cocked a beckoning finger at me and, through those familiar gritted teeth, asked me to join her for "a word" in the kitchen. We excused ourselves. The "word" my mom had for me was "I don't like her very much." 

I spent the next weekend at Debbie's apartment. It would be the last time. Debbie received a letter which she didn't really try to hide from me. She left it out and open on her kitchen table. It was from her boyfriend. He wrote how he missed her and they would be together soon. Debbie never invited me back to her place again. In school, she barely talked to me. I realized that she was just biding her time with me until her boyfriend returned from where ever. I had been used.

But, it was a blessing in disguise. A short time later, I met the future Mrs. Pincus. 

Where is Debbie now? Who cares.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

*In thirty years, no employer has ever asked to see my diploma.