my city was gone

I believe that the greatest invention in the past ten or so years is the GPS. Sure, GPS technology has been around for a lot longer than ten years, but recently I have become aware of just how helpful and indispensable it really is. Years ago, a trip to AAA was the necessary first step in planning a family vacation to some distant destination. I would order a "Triptik" from the auto club well in advance of our departure date. My wife, who loves to drive, would sit behind the wheel of our packed car and I would man the passenger's seat — or in this case the navigator's seat — as I announced upcoming exits, turns and rest stops as highlighted on our custom, multipage roadmap, as prepared by the good folks at Triple A. The GPS has eliminated this service. It has also eliminated stopping a stranger on the street to ask (or clarify) directions. The ungodly procedure of asking a gas station attendant in an unfamiliar locale for directions has also been eliminated. (Actually, are there even gas station attendants to ask?) Yes sir! with the GPS that is available on nearly every cellphone or downloadable app, directions to anywhere are as easy as plugging in an address. Using your phone's location, directions are calculated in seconds and a nice lady with a pleasant (if sometimes insistent) voice will guide you to your destination. I have even used my GPS to locate a particular gravesite on my various cemetery adventures.

I was born and raised in Philadelphia and I have lived no where else. (Technically, I live in the Philadelphia suburbs, but that's splitting hairs.) I am a Philadelphian and I identify as such. Every morning, for the past two years, I take the same route to work, I drive a short distance through the suburbs to the Philadelphia city limit, crossing into the "Great Northeast" where I navigate my car towards the Tacony-Palmyra Bridge and cross into New Jersey (which is also, technically, a suburb of Philadelphia). It is approximately a forty minute drive that I have compartmentalized in my mind, taking note of where I am on my route, so I know if I am making good time and estimating my arrival time at work. Depending on the traffic, I will sometimes adjust my route — a block here and a block there — to avoid jams, construction, school crossings and other inconveniences that might hinder my commute. Every so often, I turn to my trusty GPS if I find myself on an unfamiliar street, just to get myself resituated.

One day last week, there was an awful lot of construction on a major thruway right at the beginning of my drive. I could see cars slowing down and up ahead, I could make out flashing lights and large, stationary construction vehicles. I quickly turned into the smaller streets of the adjacent neighborhood, hoping to take a parallel street and find my way back to my regular route. Apparently, every street in this neighborhood was blocked with maintenance vehicles from the Philadelphia Water Company. The further I drove, the further I got from the idea of backtracking to my regular route. When I finally came out to a street I recognized, there was a large fenced-in government building smack-dab in the middle of the neighborhood grid. Unhappily, I headed further and further south. I would have to forgo the Tacony-Palmyra Bridge and take the less-traveled Betsy Ross Bridge instead. The Betsy Ross Bridge was constructed between 1969 and 1974, though it did not open to traffic until 1976, due to protests from the neighborhood regarding proposed access routes. It was a beautiful bridge with no way to get on it. The Betsy Ross Bridge — almost fifty years later — is still surrounded by temporary roadways and changing access ramps. I don't take the Betsy Ross Bridge too often (if I can help it), so I needed a little help from my ol' GPS to get me to it. I typed in the name of my place of employment and the GPS sprung to life, instructing me to make various lefts and rights onto streets that, despite being born in this city and living here for 60 years, I was unfamiliar. I was even more unfamiliar with the neighborhood. It was a run-down, obviously working-class area with plenty of boarded-up businesses and grungy-looking auto repair places every five or so feet. I drove fairly slowly as I took my car over heavily potholed streets and past a number of abandoned vehicles. At one point, the GPS voice directed me to "turn left" down a narrow street lined with garages. A woman in her twenties was staggering across the street, reeling like a boxer trying to avoid getting socked in the head. She was unsteady on her feet, but had an enormous grin on her face. She also paid no attention to my car or the fact that it was moving towards her. I touched my brake pedal and waited for her to make it to the crumbling sidewalk, after which I left her in my rearview mirror. My next turn brought me to a large intersection where the street became six lanes. Huge shopping complexes filled with national brand stores rose up on all four corners... just a few feet from an area that looked like a battlefield. Just ahead, I was told to make another left. I did and I followed the street a short way to a giant municipal sign pointing to the entrance to the Betsy Ross Bridge — an entrance I had never seen before. As a matter of fact, I hadn't seen any of these surroundings before. I was a little embarrassed that, as a proud Philadelphian, there I was... driving around whole sections of my fair city that were as foreign to me as if they were in another country.

The next day, things were back to normal. Construction had ended and I was, once again, crossing the good old Tacony-Palmyra Bridge

If this happens again, luckily, I have my GPS to guide me... like an electronic Jiminy Cricket.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

wordy rappinghood

Like most big cities, Philadelphia has its own set of colloquialisms that only Philadelphians understand. Some of these words have become well-known throughout the nation and are no longer Philadelphia-specific. By now, everyone knows what a "hoagie" is, except that Philadephians still pronounce it with that guttural "oh," a sort of "secret handshake" that allows other Philadelphians to identify their homies. The same goes for "wooder*," "Oh-pal**," "Ac-a-me***" and "fil-im****, all common words that true Philadelphians just can't seem to pronounce correctly.

There's another word that is prevalent in the current Philadelphia vernacular. It's an all-purpose word that means many things and is the perfect word for many occasions. Perhaps you've heard it shouted across the Italian Market on 9th Street. Maybe someone said it while they were walking into the Linc. Or maybe you heard it the first place I heard it. In a courtroom in City Hall.

In 1983, I was in my third year of a four-year program at the Hussian School of Art. a small but prestigious art school located on three floors of an office building in Center City¤ Philadelphia. (Yellow Cab occupied several of the lower floors.) One morning, my illustration teacher, a talented and inspirational young lady who allowed the class to call her "Ginny," took our ragtag band of budding artists on a field trip. We assembled and walked as a group to nearby City Hall, a majestic building situated dead center in the intersection of Broad Street and Market Street. Upon completion of its 30-year construction, Philadelphia City Hall was the tallest inhabitable building in the world. The limestone, granite and marble structure is adorned with 250 statues created by artist Alexander Milne Calder, including the massive, 37-foot tall figure of city founder William Penn, which is still the largest statue to top any building in the world. City Hall is the headquarters of Philadelphia's municipal court system and that was the destination of my illustration class that morning. Arrangements had been made by Ginny to have our class observe and draw the occupants of a courtroom during a trial. As a group, we were excited — collectively imagining our work prominently displayed on the 11 o'clock news while Action News anchor Jim Gardner reads a story of some hardened criminal's pending sentencing.

We were ushered into the ornate courtroom by Ginny's legal connection and we shuffled to find seats in the visitors' gallery. A trial was already underway, so we tried our best to remain as quiet and we could. The prosecuting attorney — a novice Clarence Darrow — briefly stopped his questioning as he turned his head to watch us take our seats. When we were all seated, he resumed speaking, only now, it seemed, he was injecting his queries with a more theatrical bravado... after all, he now had an audience. He paced in front of the young man in the witness box as the jury watched intently. The witness, a young African-American gentleman dressed in a popular 80s-style jogging suit, seemed totally disinterested in the proceedings at hand. We had missed the beginning of the case, so we had to figure out what was going on based on current activity. At this point, none of us were drawing. The prosecutor gestured in exaggerated motions and asked his witness, "So, then what you do?"

The witness shifted in his seat and mumbled, "I went and got my hammer."

The prosecutor looked puzzled. "Your hammer?," he repeated, "You got a hammer? A tool to drive nails?"

The witness looked at the prosecutor like the guy had three heads. He frowned, shook his head and answered, "Nah, man. My hammer!" He raised his hand, popped up his thumb until it was perpendicular to his extended forefinger, creating a right angle. He waved his digital approximation of a firearm in the prosecutor's direction and then spoke the word.

"Y'know, man. My jawn!"

The room fell silent. Then a low murmur rippled through the visitors' gallery. "What was that?" "What did he say?" "What does that mean?" The witness shrugged, as though he uttered something as familiar as "Happy Birthday to You." Realizing that his statement was not understood, he leaned forward, his lips almost touching the microphone and said, "My gun.," and leaned back in his chair, lifting the front legs off the floor. The prosecutor was obviously startled, so he changed the direction of his questioning and just let "jawn" go on... unacknowledged.

And I never heard the word again, until some months later.

I was working in my cousin's health food restaurant with a nice guy named Tony... although sometimes he preferred to be called "Gary." One evening, after we closed, Tony was in the kitchen of the restaurant, washing some pots in a sink overflowing with suds. I was carrying the unused portions of casseroles into the kitchen to wrap and pile up in the refrigerator. Tony was working steel wool in perfect time to some awesome jams blaring from the radio Tony kept on the window sill. I asked Tony about the song, one I had never heard before. Tony extracted his hand from the sink and pointed a soapy finger at his boombox.

"That's the jawn!," he said with a smile. In the following weeks and months, Tony said "jawn" a lot. Everything was a "jawn." A casserole in the oven was a "jawn." A serving utensil was a "jawn," My car was a "jawn." My bike was a "jawn." A movie Tony saw the past weekend was a "jawn," too. "Jawn," it seemed, was whatever you needed it to be. An all-purpose word that served all purposes. 

And it was purely Philadelphia.

More recently, "jawn" has hit mainstream Philadelphia vocabulary. It's used on local radio, on local television, in local advertising. Some Philadelphia businesses have embraced and even hijacked "jawn" to give themselves an air of "street cred," thinking it makes them automatically cool. I've seen "jawn" on local billboards for organizations like the Philadelphia Visitors Bureau. And, you know what, I'll give them a pass. They do great things in the name of promoting our fair city. 

But this one, I believe, officially marks the decline — and eventual death — of "jawn."

Oh "jawn," we hardly knew ye.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

*water

**opal

***Acme

****film

¤ Another of Philadelphia's charming colloquial terms, this one for the downtown area of the city.

wonder of wonders, miracle of miracles

I have seen many interesting sights and scenarios in the short daily walk I take from the train station to the office building in which I work and back again at the end of my work day. Today, however, I witnessed something that could only be described as extraordinary.

After passing through the revolving doors that empty out on to the 16th Street sidewalk, I made my way towards the intersection at Market Street. Here, as I do every evening at this time, I would cross and head down the staircase that leads to the underground railroad station that offers train service to the surrounding Philadelphia suburbs. At the corner, a crowd of briefcase-toting men and women gathered and impatiently waited for the light to change, allowing pedestrian traffic to safely traverse the street. 

I stood in the center of the crowd. Above the horn honks and general city noises, I heard a distinctively male voice. And it was yelling. And it was a pretty loud yell. I looked towards the source of the yell and saw a low, silver, sporty-looking car waiting for the light to change. It boasted very dark tinted windows on all sides and its front bumper was well into the pedestrian walkway that was boldly painted on the blacktop. A man in an electric wheelchair was stopped directly in front of the car's bumper. He was close enough to touch the car's hood. And, taking full advantage of his proximity. he began to beat his clenched fists on the aforementioned hood. The man screamed indistinguishable words, emphasizing several sounds with another pounding on the car's front end. From the few words I could to make out, I understood that the car was blocking the wheelchair ramp that is built into the curb, denying the man unimpeded access to his sidewalk destination.

Suddenly, I saw something I had only heard about. Something referenced in many books of religious worship and stories passed on from generation to generation. Something that is the basis for average men and women to be elevated to the exulted position of "Pope" or even "Saint." I watched, along with a stunned crowd of my fellow office workers, as the man slowly — but steadily — excised himself from his captive wheelchair. He rose up, gripping the armrests with his large, clamped hands. He removed his feet from the footrests and placed them flatly and firmly on the black macadam of the street. He stood. He actually stood. I think I heard an angelic choir lift their voices in jubilation. I swear the heavens opened up and a bright beam of light illuminated the formerly incapacitated gentle soul. Once a prisoner in that wheelchair, now he stood strong, certain and unencumbered. He walked with deliberate strides in the direction of the driver's side of the car as the crowd silently marveled at the divine exhibition on display right before our eyes. The newly-healed blessee opened his mouth. I expected words of praise and devotion and gratitude. Instead, I heard him holler: "You're in the fucking crosswalk, you motherfucking pussy."

A miracle indeed. Hallelujah.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

farm livin' is the life for me

I grew up and currently live in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. Philadelphia, situated in the southeastern corner of the state, is the fifth largest city in the country. On the other side of Pennsylvania is the industrial city of Pittsburgh. Known for its steel industry and its rabid allegiance to football, Pittsburgh is the sixty-second largest city in the country. The 305 miles that separates these two metropolises is comprised of, what we big-city dwellers affectionately, though disparagingly, refer to as "Pennsyltucky."

This past weekend Mrs. P and I, once again, ventured out to see how the other half lives. We hopped on the mighty Pennsylvania Turnpike and, a mere 90 minutes later, found ourselves in Harrisburg, the state capital, and the perennial site of the Pennsylvania Farm Show, The show is a sprawling exhibition covering 24 acres across eleven individual (though connected) buildings. It is the largest indoor agricultural event held in the United States... and it's right here in Pennsylvania! Not Alabama. Not Kansas. It's here in a state that fought on the winning side of the Civil War.

Hay!

We entered the aptly named Pennsylvania Farm Show Complex and Expo Center and were immediately greeted by a huge display of hay and the unmistakable smell of cow shit. I began to snap pictures like a tourist at the Eiffel Tower. I moved in for a closer look and I began to ponder the subtle differences between First Place hay and Honorable Mention hay. I decided that I am not qualified nor would  I never understand the nuances having never actually grazed.

Mrs P and I moved through the massive complex, marveling at the amount of people that this show draws. And how many of those people are clad in camouflage. (Most.) We saw enormous displays of apples, potatoes, honey, pumpkins and many more farm-related commodities. While Mr.s Pincus perused the various arrangements of prize-winning baked goods and handicrafts, I consulted a schedule of events for the day. I didn't want to come all this way and not see at least one animal. I noted that the celebrated Draft Horse Hitched Competition was coming up in a few minutes. Having no idea what that was, but excited just the same, I hustled my spouse through a maze of buildings towards the area. We passed dozens of pens of rabbits, stalls of immense cows and some other animals which, upon first glance, I could not identify. We planned to investigate and give them more attention on our way back, but, for now, we didn't want to be late for the 10:30 showing of whatever it is that draft horses do... or are.

A horse is a horse, of course, of course.

We found seats in the arena. We sat and watched as a tractor raked and primped the dirt for the morning's presentation. The air was filled with the sounds of piped-in twangy guitar and the smells of some undetermined animal excrement. As the place filled to minimal capacity, we noticed that we were the only ones not appropriately dressed for a day of deer hunting. Suddenly, the PA crackled to life and, before a single hoof trampled the dirt, we were instructed to stand for a recitation of the Star Spangled Banner. Many eyes grew misty by the time the "bombs were bursting in air," and when the "home of the brave" was proclaimed, we were ready to begin. A rumble began below us and a team of six oversize equines burst into the arena, rousing clouds of dirt with their hulking hooves. The team pulled a shiny, lacquered wagon with the driver snapping the reins in a swaying, but authoritative, fashion. A second team soon appeared, followed by another, until six nearly identical assemblages were encircling the arena floor. Judges observed with cocked heads, making mental notations, as the teams altered their gaits from full gallop to lazy trot. After a time, a winner was announced to thunderous applause. I had no idea what I had just witnessed.

We made our way back to the livestock area to get up close and personal with animals outside of the realm of cats and dogs. We saw cows. (Those we recognized.) The alpacas took a bit longer to identify, but thanks to Mrs. P's numerous viewing of the original Dr. Doolittle and her familiarity with the Pushme Pullyou, we put two and two together, The aisles — strewn with straw, feed and God knows what other organic material — were narrow and packed, as visitors gawked and pointed at what was essentially their next meal. Yessir, no farm show is complete without its homey food favorites.

Say "cheese!"

Just beyond the livestock was a football field-sized room jam-packed with Pennsylvania-specific food vendors. The offering ranged from deep-fried mushrooms to chocolate covered bacon to fresh vegetable soup. There were sandwiches filled with beef brisket, pulled pork, fried chicken, fried clams and pretty much anything that could fit into a vat of boiling hot oil. Mrs. and I opted for a thin wooden stick skewering four deep-fried cubes of cheese. Mrs. P got a highly-recommended milkshake, as well. ("Deep-fried" seemed to be the preferred method of food preparation, although the milkshake was not fried, but I'm sure it could've been.) As we wound our way through the crowded food section, seeking an open table to momentarily stand and eat our afternoon snack, we watched a woman angrily toss a full, untouched, pleasantly garnished Bloomin' Onion into a plastic trash container. I hoped that was not a commentary on the quality of all of the food. We eventually found a table. The cheese was good and we didn't throw any of it away.

Outta my way! Moo!

I checked the schedule and saw that the Angel Food Cake contest was about to begin. We rushed over to the judging area, where a dozen or so "Aunt Bee" look-a-likes fidgeted anxiously as the judges were introduced. It was announced that there were a record 83 entries in this year's contest and each judge got a personal introduction. "This here is Mary Jo Fasnacht. She represents the Egg and Dairy Council of the Eastern District of Northwestern Luzerne County.... and she can eat the fuck out of an angel food cake." The judges looked over the five tables of elaborately-decorated cakes. I convinced Mrs. P. that we should move on, not wishing to watch each of these judges eat 83 pieces of cake. That was not my idea of Sunday afternoon entertainment. (And this is coming from a guy who will watch a Gilligan's Island marathon on TV.)

Fate.

We took another stroll through the livestock area, where our walk was interrupted by a line of cows being led to (I hoped) some sort of bovine competition and not just towards the kitchen facilities.

The schedule of events promised a rabbit hopping contest would take place at 5 pm. I checked the clock on my cellphone and saw it was only 2:30. I couldn't imagine waiting another two and a half hours to watch some rabbits hop. I decided to just watch a You Tube video of the event when I got home. The schedule also listed the hopping event would be immediately followed by a rabbit meat judging contest. Sometimes there are no second chances at hopping. It's a good thing that rabbits can't read.

Completely content with our brief glimpse into a heretofore uncharted culture, my wife and I headed back to the big city where milk and eggs come from a store. And butter is something you spread on bread, not an art supply.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

smiling faces, smiling faces sometimes

I have as much authority as the pope, I just don't have as many people who believe it. — George Carlin

Unless you have been in solitary confinement, or perhaps (ironically) deeply sequestered in an isolated religious sect, you know that Pope Francis visited the United States last week. Specifically, Washington, DC, New York City and, my hometown, Philadelphia. While I cannot speak for the other cites on the papal itinerary, I can attest to the preparations and subsequent atmosphere in Philadelphia.

As the summer concluded, Philadelphia began to slowly reveal plans for the pope's forty-seven hour stay in the city. An open-air mass was planned for Sunday afternoon, to be held on the Benjamin Franklin Parkway with the famed Philadelphia Art Museum steps* serving as an altar. Projected attendance was estimated in the millions. That's right - millions! Shortly after the official announcement was made, banners (like the ones pictured above) began appearing on lamp posts through the city. As the late September date approached, SEPTA (the provider of public transportation in the City of Brotherly Love) announced extremely limited train station availability on the weekend of the pope's visit and monthly train passes would be invalid during that time period. Special passes would need to be purchased. City officials jumped on the "special restrictions" bandwagon, alerting everyone that a physical fence would be erected around an eight-block area of the Parkway, with metal detectors and other security devices to be put in place as well. A few days after those jarring announcements, a plan was divulged for clearing the streets of parked cars on a day-by-day, neighborhood-by-neighborhood schedule. Residents would have to pay an additional fee for off-site, remote parking of their "required-to-be-moved" vehicle. Traffic would be limited, and in turn, deliveries to businesses would be curtailed or altogether eliminated. It was as though the city had a job interview and was putting on its best suit to make a good impression.

The faithful - gumming up the works.

Tensions mounted and complaints increased as the pope's arrival grew nearer. But also, there was a noticeable electricity in the air. It was an historical event (religious aspect aside) and it would bring excitement to an awfully large amount of people (myself, however, not remotely included). Many people were angered by the inconvenience they'd experience, but in reality, it was just one day (Friday) that affected most people. Center-city dwellers, used to walking anyway, trekked around as usual. Those who had no interest just skipped town for an extended weekend. All in all, complaints and praise aside, the whole thing made the city look pretty good in the eyes of the rest of the country. We couldn't ask for more than that.

When lift plus thrust
is greater than load plus drag

I admit that I watched a certain amount of the festivities on television. I watched a little of the pope's speech at Independence Hall. I watched a bit of the mass at the historic Basilica of Saints Peter and Paul. I watched less of the mass on the Parkway. The city looked great. The people looked happy. The local news went on a little too long and got a little too ecclesiastical, but they got the feelgood story they were after. But, I eventually got bored and turned the channel to a rerun of The Flying Nun. For a minute there, I wasn't sure if I had, indeed, changed the channel.

On Sunday night, the pope left and Philadelphia, basking in the afterglow of a job well done, slowly got itself back to normal. The local news was rife with pictures and video of the pope smiling and waving and kissing babies and laughing and waving some more. He exuded cheer and warmth and goodwill.

A few days later, the bane of a progressive-thinking modern society, Kim Davis — the Rowan County, Kentucky clerk who defiantly denied same-sex couples legal marriage licences (just days after the Supreme Court's landmark ruling made same-sex marriage legal in all 50 states) because it contradicted her personal Apostolic Christian** beliefs — claimed to have met with Pope Francis during his brief stop in the nation's capital. She further claimed that the Pontiff alleged presented her with rosaries and encouraged her to "stay strong." (It should be noted that, at first, the Vatican denied this, then backpedaled and confirmed the meeting. In a blatant example of even more backpedaling, the Vatican also said that the pope met with a former student who "happens to be gay." See? The pope is still cool.... right? But, let's not forget that the Vatican still does shit like this.)

Suddenly, the population was up in arms. The new "cool pope" had disappointed! How could he take a step backward from his reformist views? His radical ideals?

Reformist views? Radical ideas? What? Are you kidding me? The guy's the leader of the Catholic Church — staunch opponents of divorce, birth control, abortion and homosexuality. Why does this sentiment come as a surprise? It's not like the surprise we got when we learned that Bill Cosby — wise and lovable ol' Dr. Huxtable — turned out to be a loathsome sexual predator. Of course that shocked us! It's not like the bombshell that hit us when O.J. Simpson was brought to trial for killing his ex-wife! He was a Heisman Trophy winner and wacky "Officer Nordberg" in the Naked Gun movie franchise, for goodness sake! We never saw that coming! But, really??? The spiritual leader of the Catholic religion, teacher of Catholic dogma and Catholic beliefs was actually proliferating those beliefs! Why is this shocking and, more to the point, why is this news? Remember when Pope Francis famously questioned "Who am I to judge?" Oh, I think we know.

Philadelphia got what it expected out of the pope's visit. And, if you think about it... I mean really think about it.... so did everyone else.

www.joshpincusicrying.com


* yeah, yeah - the same ones that Sylvester Stallone's punch-drunk boxer ran up 40 years ago. Fuck you, Sly, for ruining the dignity of one of the most beautiful and iconic buildings in Philadelphia.

** not a Catholic