stop! in the name of love

If you do a lot of driving... or walking... or going outside, you have probably seen hundreds of stop signs in your lifetime. Maybe even thousands. They are everywhere. They stand silently, doing their job of regulating traffic. Sometimes they are used for non-traffic applications, like keeping you from entering an exit door or making sure you don't proceed to the next page of a test before given the "go ahead" signal by the teacher. But no one really takes an interest in stop signs. They are just there, like trash cans or utility poles or that thing that holds the roll of toilet paper in your bathroom.

Well, stop right there.

My wife belongs to a Facebook group that concerns itself with events and happenings around our small community of Elkins Park, Pennsylvania. I don't belong to the group because anything I need to know about my neighborhood, I can find out by going outside and looking as far as my field of vision will allow. Or by not paying my property taxes. I'm sure I will find out exactly what's going on if I fail to do that just once. If, by chance, I really want to know how my neighbors feel about people who don't pick up after their dog or whether the nearby ice cream store is really gonna close for good this time or if I need a solid recommendation for a reliable electrician, I'll just ask Mrs. Pincus for the latest dope on the Elkins Park Facebook page. (and from what I have seen on a few "over the shoulder" scans of the page, the word "dope" truly applies.) In all honesty, none of those scenarios have come up yet, so I can see no need to actually join. Mrs. P will remain my liaison until I think things have gotten desperate.

At your service!

Between heated discussions concerning dog shit protocol and speculation about a proposed business opening in a neighborhood five-and-a-half miles away, a frequent topic on the Elkins Park Facebook page is the regular damage inflicted upon a single stop sign that stands at an intersection on a street that isn't even a real street. For a couple of years now, posts about this stop sign have been showing up on the Facebook page with some regularity. The stop sign's jurisdiction is a non-municipal thruway that serves as an access to a shopping center, as well as to a bigger highway on the other side of the parking lot of said center. Sure, there are other, less convenient routes to the highway, but this little thoroughfare is a shortcut and has become so well-traveled that it actually shows up in Waze directions when plotting out a route to the Pennsylvania Turnpike from our house. The street — imaginatively named "Shoppers Lane" — is policed at one point near the rear receiving dock of a Target — by this stop sign. By the looks of posted photos and gut-wrenching descriptions, it is a dangerous area for the likes of one little stop sign. It seems that the massive 18-wheeler delivery truck drivers have some difficulty backing their rigs up to the docks in the narrow space as determined by the poor placement of the Target building. After a futile series of forward-reverse-forward-reverse maneuvers, drivers wishing to maintain a schedule throw caution to the wind and, mostly likely accompanied by an inaudible "fuck it!," proceed to plow backwards into the stop sign in an effort to align with the dock and keep to a company-enforced delivery timetable. Poor "Stoppy" has been banged and dented and jolted and bumped more times than a demolition derby jalopy.

Oh yeah.... the members of the Facebook group have taken to call this scrappy little stop sign "Stoppy."

And ol' Stoppy has since garnered a fan base that rivals professional sports teams or the latest K-Pop darlings. Suddenly, information about when the next scheduled trash pick-up (interrupted by a Monday holiday) or where a dependable plumber can be had has taken a backseat to concern for the well-being of a three-foot metal sign. On any given day, there can be up to a dozen photos of Stoppy along with a few lines of sentiment for the now-beloved traffic fixture. Once, someone posted a picture of Stoppy with a necktie knotted nattily around its... its... um, well it isn't exactly a neck. Let's say stanchion, because that's what it is. But to Stoppy's followers and supporters, it's his neck.

Poor, poor pitiful me.

Stoppy has been photographed in various states of injury. He's been bent. He's been scraped. He's had half of his face torn off. His bright red paint has been scratched and pitted and dinged. His post, despite being wrapped in some thick protective padding, has been pulled down to a 45° angle, making poor Stoppy look like he's on his last legs... well, maybe not legs..... oh, you know what I mean.

During the throes of the pandemic, Stoppy was made into a symbol of hope and endurance for a number of members of the Elkins Park Facebook page. Their one-time informational and documentational posts had now taken on a spiritual tone. Stoppy was a symbol of faith, of redemption filled with promise... promise of a life pulled from the ashes of despair and rising up to restore us to a life we once knew.... or some such bullshit. Some folks were serious about this. Really serious. But, not everyone...

Mrs. Pincus is one of the nicest people I know — if not the nicest. However in the nearly 40 years we have known each other, a bit of the cynicism that is "Josh Pincus" has, unfortunately, tarnished her otherwise sunny disposition. She is still very sweet and kind, but this underlying acerbity that I so readily exhibit, has crept in to her personality like a weed — a sarcastic little weed (which, by the way, was my nickname in high school). Mrs. Pincus has posted her own photos of Stoppy, along with snarky captions right out of the Josh Pincus playbook. Although she gets her fair share of "likes" and "thumbs ups," there are those who don't find her comments the least bit humorous. Of course, in the world of comedy, that's when something funny becomes even funnier.

Just this past week, Mrs. Pincus was contacted by a reporter from the Philadelphia Inquirer, the once-mighty daily newspaper serving the once-fourth largest city in the country. The reporter explained to my wife hat she was doing a story on Stoppy and, in her research, Mrs. P's name came up. A lot. (Doing a story on Stoppy? Jeez, no wonder no one reads newspapers anymore!) Mrs. Pincus was, of course, flattered when the reporter started asking a barrage of questions, but soon turned leery when the inquiries leaned towards Stoppy's place as a spiritual representative for the Elkins Park community.

Whoa! Whoa! And whoa!

Mrs. Pincus politely interrupted to say that she didn't feel that way at all. The whole "Stoppy" thing was just a fun little distraction. If the reporter was looking for a divine awakening from a metal traffic governor, she should look elsewhere. The reporter continued along with her prepared questions, all answered with a palpable sardonic attitude by my wife. She pressed her angle, but Mrs. Pincus stood firm on her position, refusing to be swayed. The reporter thanked my wife for her participation and told her she'd let her know when the article was to scheduled to appear in both print and online.

When I left for work on Friday, I found a torn page from the newspaper laying on our front porch. I picked it up and immediately recocognzed a color photograph of good old Stoppy. I skimmed the article as I went back into the house to wake my wife and alert her of her pending fame. I noticed that she was only quoted once and her statement is more informational fact than her opinion of the whole "Stoppy" phenomena. It was fun to see her name in print — even for something as silly as a lengthy story about the metaphysical properties of a stop sign. Throughout the day, Mrs. P received plenty of accolades from friends and acquaintances regarding her fifteen minutes of fame. And then the day went on with attention rightfully directed towards more important matters. And that would be pretty much anything.

But, this shows no signs of stopping.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

all apologies

June is designated as "Pride Month." This is a story I've wanted to tell for a while.

High school is a brutal period in most people's lives and memories. I went to high school in the late 1970s. I hated high school and I attended as little as possible. For me, this was a fairly easy task, since there were 1100 students in my class alone, making an overall student body quadruple that number. So, blending in as a faceless entity was not difficult. I cut a lot of classes to avoid interaction with fellow students or I hung out in an art class when I should have been learning calculus or doing chin-ups. (A cool student teacher, just a few years older than I was, offered me sanctuary in her classroom and covered my actions with convincing excuses to the other teachers.) 

With over 4000 teenagers packing the halls and classrooms, nearly everyone was subject to judgement and ridicule and bullying at one time or another. Unfortunately, it was a time when this common behavior was not addressed with any sort of disciplinary action. It was usually dismissed by those in authority as "kids will be kids" — if it was addressed at all. I had a few "run-ins" with some guys who, I suppose,  got some sort of thrill threatening a skinny, pacifistic artist they knew wouldn't fight back. I was shoved a few times and, of course, several antisemitic slurs were levied at me, because that always makes for good "bully" ammunition. I did my best to avoid my infrequent tormentors and, eventually, they moved on to someone else (or maybe they were finally expelled).

If I was being picked on for being a free-spirit and just a little "out of step" with the "norm," I could just imagine the wrath that any of my gay classmates suffered — not that I really knew anyone who was gay. I'm sure there were gay students in my class. There had to be. It's just statistics. I just didn't know which ones were gay. I suppose they had to remain closeted because.... well, it was high school in the 70s. Calling someone "gay" when I was in high school was an insult of a pretty high level. In hindsight, that was horrible, just horrible. So, that added unnecessarily to the oppression that any gay student already endured. When I said 'I could just imagine the wrath any gay classmate suffered,' I really can't. How could I? But it must have been.... well, horrible. I can only understand that now.

In the 1990s, I was working at as a layout artist at a composition house, something that really doesn't exist any more. I did layout for a bunch of newspapers (something else that barely exists any more) that served small local communities, colleges and a few special interest groups. One of those newspapers was Au Courant, an independent weekly publication with a fairly large circulation in the Philadelphia gay community. The small contingency that formed the staff at Au Courant had broken away from the mighty Philadelphia Gay News over editorial disagreements and started their own tabloid, which was scrappier and hipper than PGN. Every Monday morning, I would lay out the composition boards for the anticipated 32-page issue of Au Courant and soon, I would join my fellow artists in assembling the weekly issue in a "cut-and-paste" method. (Now you know where the "cut" and "paste" commands in various computer programs originate. TMYK.) The entire editorial and advertising staff of Au Courant would file in to the office (Don't be impressed. That only amounted to four or five guys. It was a small paper.) and offer direction for placement of articles and ads.

I have to admit, I was a little leery of these guys, at first. They casually discussed detailed aspects of a lifestyle of which I was totally unfamiliar. It was the first time I had every met anyone who openly and happily acknowledged that they were gay. Initially, it made me uncomfortable, but I also must admit that I was surprised by how normal they were. (In hindsight, that sounds really stupid and narrow-minded.) As the time at this job went on, the more interaction I had with the staff of Au Coutrant, the more I looked forward to Mondays. For the most part, they were a bunch of really nice guys — close to my own age — and I had a lot in common with them. While we worked, we enjoyed lively conversation about movies, music and current events. There was one guy, however, who was a total jerk. That was Michael and Michael was the editor-in chief of the paper. He didn't come to the office often, choosing to leave the composition to his assistant editor who was a smart and funny guy. But when he did come in, he was angry and demanding, barking orders at his staff and belittling those who didn't heed his call on the first bellow. 

It was then that it hit me. Why on earth would anyone dislike someone just because they were gay? It made no sense.... just like any prejudice makes no sense. Gay people are just people. Some are nice and some are jerks. As a self-proclaimed misanthrope, I know there are zillions of reasons to dislike someone long before "gay" makes the list. Michael was an absolute asshole. Conversely, Harry, the head of advertising sales, was a nice guy. A really nice guy. The fact that they were gay had absolutely no bearing or relevance to the types of personality traits they exhibited. They were just like everyone else. (There I go again. You know what I mean.)

After a year or so, Michael's visits became less and less frequent. When he did show up, he looked gaunt and weak and he remained seated most of the time. His voice was hoarse and it appeared to be an effort to speak. His boyfriend Joe, a nice, relatively quiet guy, led Michael around when he was asked. The most ubiquitous tool used in the newspaper composition business was an X-Acto knife. I used one at every one of my early, pre-computer jobs. I became deftly accurate at slicing up "galleys," another job skill that is now obsolete. On one of his last appearances in our office, Michael announced that he was not permitted to handle or be in proximity of an X-Acto knife. Shortly after, the Au Courant staff shared whispered conversations about AIDS. Shortly after that, we were informed that Michael had passed away. I surprised myself by how I felt. I was crushed. Michael was the first person around my own age that I knew that died. Dying was for old people, not for 35-year-olds. I didn't like Michael. Not because he was gay, but because he wasn't a nice person. I did, however, make a donation to MANNA (Metropolitan Area Neighborhood Nutrition Alliance, a volunteer organization that brings meals to those in the Philadelphia area that are battling AIDS) in Michael's honor. I have made yearly donations (when I can) ever since.

I eventually left the composition house and moved on to my first job where I didn't use an X-Acto knife. A few nights a week, I also helped my wife with her blossoming eBay business. One evening, I was wrapping some glassware with old newspapers that we had accumulated. I grabbed the top sheet of the pile as I carefully lifted a fragile Depression glass sugar bowl with my other hand. I'm lucky I didn't drop the piece, as I was startled by a headline I saw in the several-weeks-old newspaper. It was in the "Obituary" section of a recent Philadelphia Inquirer. There was a black and white photograph of Harry, the advertising sales guy from Au Courant, accompanying a three-paragraph synopsis of his brief life. I scanned the story. It highlighted his education and his career, noting, most recently, he was employed in the sales department of the Inquirer itself. What was missing from the story was a life-defining incident that Harry had told me one day.

Harry spent a good portion of his life trying to live up to his father's expectations. His father, he explained, was a Camden, New Jersey police officer — a tough motorcycle cop, as a matter of fact. Harry did his very best to suppress his homosexual feelings, so — as he put it — as not to embarrass his father in front of his cop friends. Harry went to his senior prom with a girl from his class. After high school, he married a woman in an attempt to make his father proud. A little over a year into his marriage, Harry's wife returned home unexpectedly early from a day of running errands. She discovered Harry in their bed with a man. Harry told me the feeling of "getting caught" after so many years of acting the way he was "supposed" to act was liberating. Harry and his wife divorced. Harry became estranged from his father (however, they reconciled just prior to his father's death). But, Harry was finally living the life he wanted to live. His life. His way. It's just sad that he was only able to enjoy that life for only a dozen or so years. That story should have been the inspirational lede to Harry's obit.

My interaction with the guys from Au Courant taught me a valuable lesson and it changed my outlook for the rest of my life. Sure, there are plenty of people that I dislike. I don't deny that and I don't think I will ever stop disliking someone. But, I have reasons for my animosity. It is based on things they have said and actions they have taken against me personally. I never, ever have contempt for someone for what they believe in or how they look or who they love (unless they love The Dave Matthews Band. I have no tolerance for that!).

I'm not gay. Nor am I black... or Asian.... or Muslim..... or tall.... or good at math.... or any number of other qualities that make me different from everyone else. So what? Is that a reason to dislike someone? No. No, it is not. That would be stupid.

Don't be stupid. Just be who you are. Let others be who they are.

Unless you're stupid.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com