poor poor pitiful me

My dear wife frequents a Facebook page devoted to our small suburban Philadelphia community. This page is sort of a community “town square,” where members can ask their neighbors for recommendations on home repairs or someone to cut their grass. They can look for their contemporary's experiences in local restaurants. The page has also been used to voice opinions about happenings in the neighborhood. The operation – and eventual demise – of a local co-op market was a hot-button topic for a while. I even fueled the fire when I weighed in with my “Monday Morning Quarterback” assessment of the entire situation. 

My wife has used the Facebook page to solicit packing material and boxes to supplement her burgeoning eBay business. On any given day, our front porch can be piled high with discarded cartons, Styrofoam peanuts and various other shipping paraphernalia... along with an abundance of assorted (and unusable) shit that should have been rerouted for collection on the donator's designated trash pick-up day. But, not wanting to look a gift horse in the mouth, Mrs. P happily accepts it all and just adds the useless pieces to our weekly trash. 

Sometimes, the page resembles an online yard sale. Household items are for sale from time to time or, in some cases, offered as donations. Items such as furniture or toys have been available for sale at a nominal – or sometimes exorbitant – fee. Other times, these items are just announced as “first come-first served” to be grabbed from the owner's front porch or “for curb-side pickup,” which has become a more popular practice. 

Recently, a new type of post has appeared. Not content with waiting for someone to offer goods and/or services for free, some folks have taken to brazenly asking for stuff, under the guise of being needy. Yep, they're just skipping the middle man to become their own self-sufficient charitable organization with a single beneficiary. Some requests, I suppose, are genuine – like the ones who find themselves suddenly unemployed and are having difficulty making ends meet until they can find a new source of income. These people have humbly asked for baby toys or a car seat or similar items to comfort a child who couldn't possibly understand that Mommy or Daddy are facing a temporary financial upheaval. Those are the cases that are heart-wrenching, if they are indeed sincere. (I don't trust anyone!) Others ask for wood scraps or leftover building material or surplus fabric for a possible craft project. I guess these requests are legitimate, although I have not checked out the price of pipe cleaners recently.... or ever. 

Yesterday, however, Mrs. Pincus brought this post to my attention. It started off innocently enough....

“Hello. I am in need of a new stroller for my daughter. Someone donated one to us about two years ago and has lasted for a very long time and gone through a whole lot with us. I do not have money to pay for a stroller so I am asking anyone who may have one who would be willing to donate to us. We are going to Disney World at the end of June...” 

SCREEEEEEEEEECH! What? You're WHAT? Are you fucking kidding me? You are going to Disney World and you're begging for a stroller? Disney World! Walt Disney World! In Florida? The most expensive domestic vacation there is? Where a single day admission price is over a hundred dollars? That Disney World? I just want to clarify your level of neediness. 

Where was I? Oh yeah... the plea continues... 

“...and I really need one to take with us. I am looking for one that possibly has compartments at the top by the handle, has a cup holder/place for snack infront od [sic] baby...” 

Hold on just a second there, sister! You lost me at “Disney World,” but now, your tale of woe has taken on the characteristics of a “refining your categories” Amazon search. 

Continuing... 

“...folds semi easily and has a semi large storage at the bottom. I apologize I fell in love with this old stroller that's now falling apart. Looking for one that is very similar. Thanks so much in advance. I apologize for sounding so needy. I'm just really in need. I do have 2 other strollers I can not use and will be posting to give away for free. Thanks.” 

No shame. No shame at all. I hope this person read and re-read this post before clicking the “post” button. I can only surmise that someone who would have the nerve.... the cajones... the chutzpah.... the balls to feel fully within their rights to post this, must be doing so alongside Will Byers from underneath Hawkins, Indiana or from somewhere on the outskirts of Bizzaro World. 

Here's the post.

Let's break down the situation at hand and analyze it. After the shamelessness of making stipulations about particular storage areas and the ease of folding, this person apologizes for sounding needy, but justifies their neediness by adding an off-handed “I'm just really in need.” But then goes on to say that he or she is currently in possession of two additional strollers that could be given away. Two, I suppose, that just do not make the cut of the stringent list of features a proper stroller must include. I'm actually a little bit surprised that a list of acceptable colors was not provided. The sense of entitlement here is astounding.

Well, this particular poster was not treated kindly by the people that frequent this Facebook group. A number of participants left comments berating the poster's audacity. The comments became worse and more graphic than the last. But, that's the purpose of Facebook, isn't it? It was created to bring people together, to interact with each other and to share thoughts and ideas. 

And to point on who's an asshole. 

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

give a little bit

Believe it or not, I'm a pretty charitable guy. You'll just have to take my word for it because one of the most sincere and most meaningful forms of charity is anonymous contribution. And that's exactly how I contribute to the worthy causes that I support — organizations dedicated to furthering the greater good. 

On a personal level, I don't mind helping people, but I do have specific criteria. I will not give money to someone begging on the street. Ever. I see them every day on the bustling streets of Philadelphia and I don't trust any of them. I don't believe their sob stories, their tales of woe or whatever you want to call them. There are facilities set up to help these unfortunate individuals so they do not have to resort to sticking their intimidating empty hand in the faces of passers-by. I believe there are always more options to investigate before giving up and panhandling. But, most people (perhaps dictated by human nature) choose to take the easiest and laziest option. Maybe that's how they ended up in this situation to begin with. And, if you do need to beg for money, you better not have a dog by your side or a cigarette in your mouth. If you are so destitute that you need the assistance of your fellow man, you need to give up luxuries (and they are luxuries). My wife and my mother-in-law have employed a method of not just blindly handing over cash to a total stranger. They have, on several occasions, offered to purchase a meal for someone who has asked for money. Sometimes, the offer is accepted and other times further negotiations ensue... and then, the ungrateful recipients are just looking a gift horse in the mouth, thus (in my opinionated opinion) revealing their true level of poverty.

A slight level up from the poor folks huddled in a tattered jacket with hands extended in silent need, are those who have taken advantage of the recent GoFundMe preference. GoFundMe, established in 2010, is an internet fundraising website, allowing users to create a "campaign" to raise money (usually with a goal) for a specific purpose. Independent bands use it to self-finance a record, offering perks and rewards to supporters at different levels of contribution. Organizations have kicked off efforts to send an athlete to the Olympics. Individuals have hoped to raise funds for victims of floods, fires and other life-changing disasters. Community groups or extended families pushed for money to save the elderly from home foreclosure. All worthy causes, I suppose, but there's always someone who comes along and ruins a good thing. Someone whose laziness and selfishness skews their self-awareness so much, they see themselves as a poor victim.

GoFundMe has become the internet spot for panhandling. An acquaintance, who has been out of work for a few years, was hung out to dry by a stream of veterinarian's bills from on-going procedures for her aged dog. Now, let's analyze that for a second. She's been out of work for years and can barely pay her month's financial obligations. Her dog is old. (I won't even go into the fact that she shouldn't have a pet if she can't support herself.) The vet bills were crippling financially. So instead of A.) looking for a job or B.) eliminating all of the unnecessary spending in her life, she chose the GoFundMe route as her first option. I know a young lady who wanted to take an educational trip overseas. Her family is in no position to pay for said trip. Instead of making an attempt - any attempt - to raise money on her own (baby-sitting; dog walking; car-washing) she chose instead to start a GoFundMe page and then plopped her ass down on the sofa to fool around with Snapchat while the dough rolled in (it didn't). I've seen GoFundMe pages for honeymoons, baby showers and birthday parties. All set up by the people who would reap its benefits.

Most recently, a campaign was started to purchase a failing local farmer's market that, at one time, housed my in-law's business. They closed their place ten years ago and we expected to see the place shutter for good soon after. It limped along for nearly a decade, but now, it's up for sale by the off-site, out-of-touch owner for seven million dollars. A starry-eyed market patron, with no clue how a business operates, started a GoFundMe campaign to raise the money. His pitch, while fraught with spelling errors, was an erratic and non-nonsensical plea that veered into berating territory. Upon a second read, it was actually a pretty compelling testimony for why the market should close. My wife composed a rather lengthy inquiry email to the guy asking if he had considered the cost of regular maintenance to the building, in addition to pay for the staff and other expenses like paving the parking lot and taxes and insurance. However, she decided that her comments would be wasted on someone who was not aware of what is involved in running a business, so she did not send the email. To date, the guy hasn't raised a cent.

I'd like to think that GoFundMe was not established for those folks who think that their problems are the world's problems. These are the people who emphasize the "me" in GoFundMe.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

i got the music in me

I walk the same way to the train station almost every evening after work. I exit the rear of my building, turn right and head down 16th towards Market Street. At the corner, I cross and head down the steps that lead to the underground train station.

Beginning a month or so ago, I noticed a man sitting on the sidewalk adjacent to the entrance of the stairs. He held a battered paper cup in one hand and gripped a corrugated cardboard flap from a packing box in the other. Across the brown surface of the flap was written, in neat printed letters, a plea for monetary donations. Although I didn't stand there and read the message word-for-word, it did include the words "homeless," "help" and "God bless." The man sat on the ground, motionless, his hand with the cup extended. I, along with everyone else in the crowded evening rush, passed right by him. No one slowing down, just making haste to a train to take them home.

Let me interrupt my own story for a second. Not that I have to justify my actions to anyone, let me say, I am a charitable guy. I give regularly to my local volunteer fire department. I am a longtime supporter of  several Philadelphia-based charities. I give old clothing (when I remember) to those places that call and say that a collection truck will be on my street. And I have a tendency to over-tip in restaurants. (That's being charitable, isn't it? Well, I think it is.) But, people begging on the street? No, thank you! I don't trust them, Based on their appearance and method of asking for money, I suspect they are all full of shit. They concoct elaborate scenarios as to how they ended up in this predicament and write their tale of woe on a torn piece of cardboard for all to read. Or sometimes they cop an attitude like it's my fault that they have to beg and it's my obligation to just hand money over to them. 

First off, I would never, ever, ever give a cent to anyone who is smoking. Smoking is a luxury, not a necessity. If you have to beg for money for food, cigarettes should not come before eating. You need to get your priorities straight. Once you have secured a steady income, then, by all means, buy and consume all the tobacco you wish. But, until you get to that point, at least make an effort to help yourself — and that includes staying healthy and viable. 

Same goes for anyone begging with a pet. If you can't afford to feed yourself, then you have no right to deem yourself responsible for the well-being of an animal. I don't care how cute it is. 

Those are my personal rules of charity. Am I a jerk? Maybe, but, I work hard for my money and I will determine who shares in it and the first ones up for consideration are those who exhibit an effort to help themselves. I would sooner consider giving money to the guy who plays his off-key guitar and warbles out versions of pop songs he has obviously never heard before or to the old man who plays the same three tunes on his battered old accordion. At least they are doing something other than sitting on their asses and holding a cup. (I said I'd consider giving, but I know I probably won't.)

And now, back to our story....

So, one day last week, I saw the guy with the cup and the cardboard sign again. He was sitting in his usual spot, with his usual accessories. And, as usual, he was silent. But, there was something different about him. He was wearing sunglasses. Nice ones, too. Frameless, with a designer emblem on the temple piece. That's right, a designer emblem. As I got closer to him, I saw something else. He had earbuds jammed into his ears. Is that what he was collecting money for? And you know those earbuds were plugged into something. Something electronic that plays music, like an iPod or similar music-storage and playback device. Those devices require access to a computer to acquire songs and to load them onto said device. And, for the most part, those songs need to be purchased. (Sure, there are plenty of ways to get "free" music, but that would make this situation more infuriating — and you'd still need a computer) Now, remember what I said about smoking being a luxury? Guess what category an iPod falls into? Here's this guy — making an appeal for money from people who are working everyday while he sits on his ass on the sidewalk and listens to a selection of his favorite tunes. Not that I would have ever considered giving him any money,  but I certainly wouldn't give him anything now. And I better not see this guy smoking with his dog!

Personally, I have a pretty crappy set of ear buds, but I do have food at my house.

* * * * UPDATE * * * *

I just saw this guy talking on a cellphone. Still holding the sign.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

waist deep in the big muddy

When we signed up to be a part of MuckFest 2014, I made it very clear that I don't like to get dirty. Let me tell you, MuckFest is no place for someone who does not like to get dirty.

Mrs. P and I accompanied our neighbors, Rae and O., as they (they, not me!) participated in the 5K run to support the National Multiple Sclerosis Society. Now, I am all for supporting a worthy charity, especially one that benefits from 100% of the funds that are raised (sorry, Susan G. Komen "Race for the Cure"), but, a 5K run is a particularly daunting event for me. Actually, a 5 foot run is pretty fearsome. And 5K (a little over 3 miles to those of us who have not yet adopted the metric system) through rivers of mud is something I don't even wish to think about. The mental image itself has me running for a bar of soap.

We assembled for a pre-run breakfast on my neighbor's back porch, then set out for the site in separate cars. We lost them within seconds of leaving our neighborhood, but met up again at the parking facility in Newtown Square in the southwestern Philadelphia suburbs. We walked as a group — Mrs. P and me, along with Rae and O., their three children and their assorted friends — toward their dirt-clotted fate, passing earlier participants who were coated and caked with the remnants of wet earth — the bulk of which still clung fast despite a thorough hosing down. I gingerly sidestepped the clumps of sludge that trailed behind the filthy and weary runners.

The actual race site was a friggin' pigsty. There was mud everywhere, on everything and on everybody. While my neighbors went to register for their start time, I marveled at the amount of mud surrounding me. I stood by the course's finish line as wave after wave of muck-soaked runners stumbled and slid to completion, some enveloped in so much mud, it was difficult to determine their sex. 

Soon, O.'s family joined the queue for their pre-selected one o'clock start. The crowd teetered anxiously in their muddy shoes until an official ordered the participants down on their asses, as this particular leg of the race would begin with runners inching out of the starting gate butt first — muddy butt first. To add to the "ooziness" of the situation, a shower of water drenched the group as they made their way uphill to the first obstacle. Oh, did I mention there were obstacles? Well, there were.

I stepped back, so not to get splashed. The knot of runners slogged up the muddy incline towards a mass of bungee cords stretched and tangled above a thick pool of chocolate-brown slop. After negotiating a clear path through the mire, they collectively hung a left and disappeared into a wooded area.

They were gone from sight for a long time. A very long time.

Just under an hour after they were last seen, the members of the teenage contingency emerged from the brush — a little sweatier and a little dirtier (okay, a lot dirtier), but still filled with frenetic energy. I was there to snap a few pictures and cheer the youths on as they raced to the last few obstacles and, eventually, the finish line. It would be another hour until I saw their parents.

O. finally appeared, a little winded. He was helping Rae, who looked as though she had had enough of this about thirty minutes ago. But, they soldiered on, pushing their weakened, muck-swathed bodies to the end. Still ahead of them was a mud-filled tunnel, a mud-filled ditch and a mud-covered swing over a trench filled with... you'll never guess... mud.

O. and Rae dragged themselves across the finish line. They caught their breath and headed over to the communal rinsing-off station, taking advantage of some of the free products offered by event sponsor Redken. As we walked to the picnic area for some post-muck refreshments, I noticed that I got a small splash of mud on the bottom of my jeans. 

Ecccchhh!

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

give a man free food and he'll figure out a way to steal more than he can eat 'cause he doesn't have to pay

Mrs. Pincus is, by far, the nicest person I've ever known (and — I swear — that is not a biased opinion). She is kind and helpful, always willing to offer a ride or run an errand. She expresses genuine concern for her fellow human. She is hospitable and really enjoys doing nice things for people. She is a direct contrast to her husband (yours truly), who distrusts and has contempt for nearly every person on the planet. 

Getting a jump on the upcoming gift-giving holidays (another of her many virtues), Mrs. P was on her way home from a day filled with shopping. She stopped at a Wawa Market (a chain of local convenience stores, some of which feature gas stations) to fill up and pick up sandwiches for dinner. She stood by her car and busied herself with her cellphone as the gas pump administered gallon after gallon of fuel into the car's tank. A car pulled up alongside Mrs. P's car and the driver's window slid down into the door.

"Excuse me.," a woman's voice said.

My wife didn't look up, continuing her mobile post to Facebook.

"Excuse me, ma'm.," the woman repeated.

Realizing that the woman was trying to get her attention, my wife answered. She expected to soon be delivering directions to a nearby address or, at the very least, a secluded street.

"Yes?"

The woman hesitated slightly, but then summoned her courage and made her plea. "I'm so sorry to ask this. This is very difficult to ask. I am on Welfare and I'm waiting for my check and I don't have any money for groceries for my family... for my children. Do you think you could spare some money so I can buy something for my children to eat?"

My wife was touched, however, she explained that she had no cash at all. (She really didn't.) But, she offered to go into Wawa and purchase sandwiches for the children.

The woman was stunned at my wife's generosity. "Really?," she asked, "You'd do that?"

"Sure. I sure will."

The woman cautioned, "I have four children. There are four of them."

My wife stepped closer to the car as the woman waved her open palm over the tops of her children's heads like a model on The Price is Right gesturing towards a washing machine. Mrs. P. saw four children in the car — three in the backseat, one in the front passenger — ranging in age from teen down to eight or nine. None of them looked up, as they were all thoroughly engrossed in the activity playing across the screens of their iPhones.

That's right. iPhones.

"You have got to be kidding me!," my wife exclaimed, "They have iPhones?!? I don't even have an iPhone!"

The woman countered. "Their father bought them. I have no control over what he buys for them."

"Yeah," Mrs. P replied, "but someone is paying the monthly bill for them... and it sure isn't gonna be me!" With that, she returned the gas nozzle to the pump, got into her car and drove away.

My wife is nice, but even "nice" has its limits.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

brother, can you spare a dime?

Today, on my way to the train station, I saw a homeless guy, sitting on the sidewalk, leaning against a newspaper box. He was eating something out of a Starbucks take-out bag.

While I consider myself a charitable person, as a rule, I don't give money to people on the street. I can't afford to support their Starbucks habit.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com