i can tell that we are gonna be friends

Please. Can someone please explain to me why it is so important to some people that I like what they like? Can't I have my own opinions on things? I don't mind if you like something different than what I like. It doesn't bother me in the least. We can still talk. We can still be friends.

Why do some people do their very best to try to convince me to like what they like? Why is it so important? Is everything a contest? Is everything a debate? 

Years ago, my brother-in-law (who, by the way is the king of "you must like what I like") made some sort of stew with ingredients selected specifically to impress everyone who would ask: "Hey, what's in this?" After a long session of cajoling that was borderline intimidation, I sampled a small spoonful of his concoction. First of all, it had an aroma that was very unappetizing to me. Despite that immediate turn-off, I tasted it anyway... just to be polite. I didn't like it. I told him I didn't like it. He got furious. I mean raving, seething, face-turning-beet-red furious! He threw the spoon down and began berating and insulting me — waving his hands and cursing like a longshoreman. (Side note: I never have to worry about this scenario ever repeating because I no longer speak to my brother-in-law.)

I like music. My musical tastes lean towards the eclectic. But, boy oh boy! do people get downright defensive about the music they like. Some people are very quick to declare that  a certain band sucks if you express the slightest affinity towards something that they don't like. Conversely, those same people will label you as an idiot if you do not like their favorite band. I have started to say "I don't care for that" if I am asked my opinion on a song or band I do not care for. I have come to the conclusion that there is no bad music. Every band is someone's favorite band. It's just some bands appeal to me more than others... and those bands may be different from the ones you like.

I was reading the reviews for different movies on the invaluable Internet Movie Database (IMBD). On one particular movie, someone had posted a very thoughtful — although decidedly negative — review, complete with in-depth commentary, analysis, and comparisons to similar films within the same genre. The first comment on this amateur reviewer's post read: "If you didn't like this movie, your mother sucks, asshole!" 

I watch a lot of movies and I happily admit that I have specific likes and dislikes. I don't like superhero movies. I don't like science fiction movies. I like horror movies, but I don't like the current trend of so-called "body horror," which I feel is more of an endurance test than entertainment. I prefer comedy to drama, but I do like a well-written, well-acted story. That said, I have gotten recommendations from friends, acquaintances and others with whom I come into contact. Mostly, these suggestions are "You'll love this because I loved it!" Honestly, that means nothing and it's hardly a valid reason to get me to watch a movie. I have been told — told! — to watch superhero movies, despite the reminder that I do not care for that genre. "No! No!," the referrer insists, "You'll like this one!" Others have told me to watch a particular Jim Carrey movie, even after expressing my dislike like for the Jim Carrey films I have seen. "No! No!," come the protests, "This one is different! He's different in this one." Of course, he's not.

I just watched a recent movie, one that shall go nameless but recently broke the record for the most Oscar nominations is history. I watched this particular film. In my opinion, it was okay. I thought it was beautifully shot. The cast was great. The acting was top-notch. The story was very, very compelling... until it wasn't. In my opinion (and I keep stressing that), it fell apart at its climax. Author Jason Pargin (John Dies At the End and former editor of Cracked.com) offered a very good assessment of the movie in question. He said that the first half was a great story, with stellar character development and an intriguing set-up. The first part of the movie was so well done that there was a feeling of disappointment when  — SPOILER ALERT!!! — the monsters show up. It was as though the monsters interrupted a story that I wanted to follow and see to a conclusion. I felt cheated. That is exactly how I felt... and I expressed my opinion briefly on social media, grabbing my phone as the credits of the movie were rolling. Almost immediately, I was chastised, rebuked and castigated by a contingency of folk to whom I am connected. I was berated for not getting the "true meaning" of the movie. Oh... I got the "true meaning." I fully understand symbolism. I have been watching symbolism in books and movies for years. I know that George Orwell's Animal Farm is not really about talking pigs. I understood the symbolism in A Face in The Crowd and Get Out. It's just this particular movie didn't do it for me. I don't need a refresher course in Film Making 101. I don't wish to be schooled. I watched the movie for entertainment... to take my mind off of bills I have to pay and assholes I have to deal with at work. As a distraction from bad drivers and unexpected car repairs. The movie was just okay. In my opinion (and I can't stress those three words enough), it was another case of great acting of a run-of-the-mill script. I see a lot of that. There are movies I like and movies I don't like. Just like you.

If you liked that movie... if you thought it was a meaningful, groundbreaking, important tour-de-force — well, good for you. I'm happy that you enjoyed it. Why is it so important that I feel the same about it?  And why do I need to be convinced that I cannot dislike a particular movie?

You have your opinion. I have mine. Let's still be friends.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

everybody loves somebody sometime

This is a stupid story. I know, I know. I should probably preface every story I tell on this blog in that manner. Okay....I mean this is another stupid story. 

I have been very active on social media for well over a decade. My activity waxes and wanes between platforms. Sometimes I'll go for long stretches posting fervently on Twitter. Then, for no discernable reason, I'll lay off of Twitter in favor of Facebook or Instagram... only to return to Twitter. And then the cycle starts again or sometimes rearranges itself. It is not planned. It just happens. More recently, I post simultaneously on all three major platforms. (No, I have no plans to joins the ranks of Tik Tok. You're welcome.)

If you have been a follower of mine for any length of time (and why wouldn't you be?), you know that I post celebrity death anniversaries on a daily basis. Each day, just after I finish up a bowl of Honey Nut Cheerios, I search the internet and post four or five photos of particular celebrities who passed away in a past year on that particular corresponding date. I get some "likes" each day... and that's pretty much it until the next day, when it starts all over again. I have been doing this for years, adding to the commemoration as more celebrities pass away. Often, my "Instagram Memories" remind me that I have used the same photo of a particular celebrity on more than one occasion. 

For the record, my criteria for "celebrity" may differ from yours. I like to seek out forgotten names that may not have the wide-spread recognition. I like actors who are known for one obscure role (like Dwight Frye or Kasey Rogers... Google 'em) or a sports figure who holds a unique, but insignificant, record or distinction (like Red Sox third baseman Ted Cox, the only player in Major League Baseball history whose first name and last name rhyme with the team he played for.) I find these folks more interesting than the typical US President, Academy Award-winning actor or Hall of Fame ball player.

On September 27, 2013, actress Phyllis Davis passed away. She was an actress with a respectable, but admittedly unremarkable, career. She appeared in a couple of grindhouse-caliber "women in chains" films, as well as a few more mainstream, yet equally forgettable, pictures. On television, she guest starred on Magnum PI, The Love Boat and Fantasy Island. She is best remembered for playing Robert Urich's "Gal Friday" on the crime drama Vega$. She was the one who wasn't Judy Landers.

Every September 27, I post a photo of Ms. Davis along with a reminder of the year she died. She joins Metallica original bassist Cliff Burton, author William Safire and publisher Hugh Hefner, who all died on September 27 — though all in various years. As we know, everything on the internet, stays on the internet forever. So every so often, one of my posts gets a "like" months or even years after its original upload. My annual posts commemorating the "deathaversary" of Phyllis Davis garners a barrage of "likes" on a regular basis — years after the fact and — time-wise — no where near September 27.

It's weird.

Every so often, for several days in a row, a years-old post of Phyllis Davis will get a dozen different likes from a dozen different accounts. If I click on one of these accounts, they either have no posts of their own or their account is designated as "private." 

What is it about Phyllis Davis? Was she a good actress? Eh... she was okay, but nothing special. Was she attractive? I suppose. But she seems to have this rabid cult following that unearths itself like seventeen-year cicadas, but on a more frequent cycle and with an affinity for 80s TV supporting actresses.

I watch a lot of "classic" TV — mostly shows that originally aired between the 1960s and the 1980s. I have spotted Phyllis Davis in many episodes of these shows — from her brief appearance as a harried neighbor (in a brunette wig) in an episode of Adam-12 to her roles in four different episodes of The Love Boat. When I see Phyllis Davis, I wonder if her loyal legion of "Davis Heads" relish her screen time, bowing with a reverence and admiration usually reserved for the likes of a Sarah Bernhardt or John Barrymore.

Or maybe all those "likes" are just from a bunch of bots.

Who knows?

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

face the face

Eight years ago, a friend of mine made a pitch for me to join Facebook. (I wrote about that HERE.) Instead of creating a hub to connect with all things in my past — most of which I spent the past thirty-plus years trying to avoid — I compromised and created a "fan page" on the ubiquitous social media platform. I used it as an additional outlet for my illustrations and my celebrity death obsession. I make daily celebrity death anniversary posts and regular links to my drawings on various subjects... but mostly deaths.... and the deaths of celebrities. (See a trend here?)

Last week, my Facebook Fan page got a bit wonky, to use a technical term. Suddenly, I was unable to access it at all. I began to make my daily postings on Twitter until I could figure out was the issue was.  I felt like I was feeling around in the dark, as Facebook is set up to be less than intuitive. After a couple of days of poking around, I found that I needed to activate a personal Facebook page in order to continue maintaining my Facebook Fan page. So, I did.... reluctantly. Very reluctantly. Once I activated my personal page, I was able to get to my Fan page again. With a few annoying adjustments, it is almost the same as it was prior to Facebook's unnecessary meddling. In an effort to head off any future, unannounced changes at Facebook, I began to accumulate "friends" on Facebook in case I have to make the full switch to "personal" Facebook. I began with those who currently "like" my Fan page. Then, I branched out to people who are "friends" with Mrs. Pincus. By this time, Facebook's algorithms kicked in. I was getting suggestions by the dozens, most of whom I did not know or those with whom I shared a single friend. I asked my wife: "Who's this?" She'd answer: "Oh, that's someone I knew from camp" or "That's that woman from synagogue." "I rode the bus with him in third grade." or "He's a friend of a guy who's a listener of the radio station our son works for." The more I questioned, the longer the explanations got. 

As I "connected" with more people, I began looking at the various posts to see what I was missing. Turns out, I wasn't missing anything. Facebook is a mess! A whiny, complain-y, self-absorbed, entitled mess, filled with narrow-minded, selfish opinions and an unyielding lack of compassion. Oh, and recipes.

Against my better judgement, I continued down this abyss until I hit an area that I really wanted to avoid — my past.

In the fall of 1980, I enrolled in a four-year art school in Philadelphia. This was over a year after I had graduated from high school and that "what should I do with my life?" portion of my youth seemed to be going unanswered. Eighteen months in the retail business made me realize the retail business was what I didn't want to do. I decided to expand on my childhood talent and pursue a career in the wonderful, magical and rewarding world of art. (After 35 years in the field, I have come to learn it is none of those things.)

The school that I chose offered no academic courses. That was the appeal for me, as I struggled with those subjects in high school. The curriculum was purely art and all aspects thereof. Due to its size (small), they only accepted 80 freshmen per year, most of whom would drop out before the fourth year. My class of 80 was whittled down to 43 graduates. I still cannot figure out how I lasted to the end, but I did. I was often frustrated and intimidated by the talent of my peers. I didn't think I would amount to anything, let alone make a living at being an artist. (Spoiler alert: I did.)

There were two classmates I remember. One was Zack. Zack was an asshole. He was a sullen, angry hulk who smoked like a chimney and belittled every single thing he saw — every person, every piece of artwork, everything. He was dismissive about every teacher, most of his classmates and the entire school as a whole. He wore the same torn flannel shirt everyday — frayed with the sleeves cut off. His hair was out-of-date long and his beard was unruly and in desperate need of a trim... and shampooing. Zack had few friends and didn't really want those.

Then there was Ray. Ray was a talented guy with a pleasant, easy manner. He had illustration skills way beyond his years. He also had an ego to match... maybe even surpassing his talents. I remember Ray standing up during a class and loudly announcing that he — and I quote — "had no competition." He didn't care that he was offending his classmates. He acted as though he was doing everyone a favor by identifying his superior talents and letting everyone know they were free to seek a career in another field. But Ray wasn't an asshole. He was personable and friendly — except when it came to his artwork. Sure, he had a very, very high opinion of himself, but he didn't appear to be mean.

After I graduated from art school — just like high school — I remained in regular touch with none of my classmates. None. (Actually, a few high school and art school classmates were at my wedding, just a few months after art school graduation, but within a year or two, I had completely lost touch with all of them.) Then, in 2009 — a full twenty-five years after I had finished art school — an informal and decidedly unofficial reunion was thrown together at a bar in Philadelphia, one that had been frequented by many a student on a regular basis. I actually found out about it by accident, although I don't remember the specifics. Anyway, I went... with a bit of trepidation. (I wrote about that HERE.) I was surprised, but I had a great time. I reconnected with a bunch of people that I had not seen in a quarter of a century. That was an entire lifetime ago.

In the close-packed crowd, I spotted and unfamiliar figure. A somewhat lean fellow with a shaved head. He extended a hand to shake. I sheepishly admitted that I could not place him. He smiled and revealed himself to be Zack. He was friendly and happy and — more important — he apologized for what an asshole he was in art school. He said he had done a lot of self-assessment and deeply regretted the way he behaved as a younger man. I laughed and we reminisced briefly. Soon, I ran into Ray. Ray was the same personable guy I remembered, although his enormous ego seemed to had deflated over the years. The bragging and chest-thumping I had anticipated didn't manifest. I don't even recall what Ray said he did for a living.

Flash forward to just a few days ago. I was sitting on the sofa, scrolling through my new personal Facebook page. I perused the lists of "suggested friends," dismissing the ones that didn't look familiar. I stumbled across a comment left on a post originally  made by a close art school friend. The post was political in nature and I saw that Ray had commented. Ray's comment expressed an angry, venomous, accusatory, racist right-wing opinion that caught me off-guard. I read it and re-read it until its full, uneducated, uninformed, narrow-minded, blind-follower sentiment was fully comprehended. I stopped myself before I hit the "Friend Request" button that I almost clicked just upon seeing his name. This is this the exact reason that I steered clear of Facebook for all these years. I wasn't interested in hearing, seeing or finding out things that I was perfectly fine never ever knowing. And, it turns out, Facebook is the place to find that stuff out.

However, I found Zack. We're friends now.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

there ain't no grave can hold my body down

For many years now, I have been traipsing through cemeteries on a self-imposed scavenger hunt for graves of the famous, the not-so-famous and the nearly forgotten. On several occasions, I have dragged my family along, hoping they would share my interest in seeking out the final resting places of celebrities and those deemed "celebrities" by my own definition. More recently, I have found myself wandering alone among the headstones like a mouse hunting down the fermented dairy reward at the end of a laboratory maze.

Now, "grave hunting," as it is known among those within the hobby, is no easy task. It requires a lot of preparation including maps, route plotting, weather conditions, familiarizing yourself with landmarks. I have visited over two dozen cemeteries in various areas of the country, with different levels of success. In some of the largest cemeteries, I have come up empty-handed and just a bit frustrated. It has been my experience that most cemeteries are poorly marked and not accommodating for the living. But, armed with a map and a general knowledge of the headstone I am looking for, I have managed to find nearly all of the graves I have sought.

Except one.

I regularly scan findagrave.com, the indispensable resource for grave hunters worldwide. When planning a vacation, I always check to see if we will be within proximity of a cemetery where some famous folks are buried. In between trips to out-of-town graveyards, I check local cemeteries to see if there are any famous graves I can find without traveling too far. Curiously, I have only made return visits to two cemeteries - both within a few miles from my house in suburban Philadelphia. One is Ivy Hill Cemetery on Easton Road. The first time I was at Ivy Hill was in winter of 2011, just a few days after the funeral of boxing legend Joe Frazier. Ivy Hill is one of those unnavigable cemeteries and I had difficulty finding the former heavyweight champ's grave, as it was not yet marked by a permanent headstone. I revisited Ivy Hill a few weeks ago and happily encountered Smokin' Joe's beautiful black marble etched grave marker and I snapped a few pictures of the striking monument.

Northwood Cemetery, a mere mile-and-a-half from my house, has been my "white whale" for years. Relatively small and haphazardly arranged, Northwood boasts a few forgotten players from the early days of professional baseball, Eddie Griffin, the young NBA forward whose internal demons ended his life in a violent (and most likely deliberate) collision with a freight train and a Civil War Congressional Medal of Honor Recipient. It is also the eternal home of the inventor of rock and roll.

"What?" you're probably saying to yourself. "Wait just a second! Little Richard isn't dead!"  [This story was written prior to Little Richard's passing on May 9, 2020.] Or maybe you're saying "Elvis Presley is buried behind Graceland in Memphis!" Or perhaps you know that Chuck Berry is interred in a stately mausoleum in St. Louis, Missouri. (Maybe you're saying nothing and just wishing I would get on with this story already!) All of these responses are fine, but none of those performers invented rock and roll. I'm taking about Sister Rosetta Tharpe. She is the true creator of the musical genre that we now call "rock and roll." How come you've never heard of Sister Rosetta, as she was affectionately called? Well, because she was a woman, she was black and she was a lesbian — so, as expected, she was unfairly crushed by history and misinformation.

Sister Rosetta

Sister Rosetta began playing guitar as a child, accompanying her mother musically and vocally on the gospel tunes she learned in church. She began to experiment and started infusing Delta blues and New Orleans jazz into the traditional spirituals. She introduced a unique distorted sound on  her guitar,. Although a female guitarist was a rarity at the time, Rosetta was favorably received by audiences and began recording in 1938. 1938!!! Her first record, "Rock Me," was a sly reference to the term "rock & roll," which was a euphemism among the African-American community for sexual intercourse. She released three more "rock & roll" selections and joined up with the Cotton Club Revue, teaming with Duke Ellington, The Dixie Hummingbirds and, later, the all-white Jordannaires, presenting a mixed-race performance that was unheard of at the time. In her technique, you can hear the obvious influence from which both Jimi Hendrix and Prince drew. Rosetta remained popular for years until the fickle public (just as fickle as today's public) moved on to the next sound. But, Sister  Rosetta's spirit weaved its way through rock and roll right up to the present. She was acknowledged as a favorite singer of Johnny Cash and Aretha Franklin. The great Chuck Berry once confessed that his entire career was one long Sister Rosetta Tharpe impersonation.

I knew that Sister Rosetta was buried in Northwood Cemetery, after her untimely passing following a stroke on the eve of a recording session in Philadelphia in 1973. Her grave stood unmarked for decades until a fan-based fundraiser purchased and installed a headstone in 2008. 

A headstone that eluded me for over a year.

I drove through the narrow, winding paths at Northwood last March. I slowly passed the vast plots of graves, unrealistically expecting that elusive rose-colored granite marker to be enveloped in ethereal light, guiding me like the Star of Bethlehem. Of course, nothing close to that occurred. Instead, I circled that place a dozen times, reading the same names from the same path-side headstones on each subsequent lap. I finally gave up... only to return a few months later and re-enact the exact same procedure. I left that time feeling just as defeated. However, this week, while scrolling through Twitter, I came across a post — a retweet, if you will — from someone I do not follow. This person, @jeopardista, showed a picture of Sister Rosetta Tharpe's grave marker along with a sentiment from British singer-songwriter Frank Turner. The photo seemed to taunt me and I swear I heard it say "You can't find me!" in a high-pitched, sing-song voice. I immediately typed out a reply to @jeopardista, asking for some direction or at least an identifying landmark to help bring my quest for the grave of Sister Rosetta Tharpe to a successful close. My new Twitter acquaintance replied within a few minutes, directing me to the proper cemetery entrance, which way to turn and the approximate location of the rose-hued monument near the wrought-iron fence that skirts nearby 70th Avenue.

I hopped in my car and quickly drove over to Northwood. Following @jeopardista's instructions, I made the first left inside the 15th Street entrance. I traversed the rolling expanse of grassy areas until I spotted some familiar trees and then I saw the sign identifying 70th Avenue peeking though the posts of rust-speckled iron. I parked my car and walked with a determined gait towards the edge of the cemetery ground, the gleam of rose-colored granite just ahead. Excitedly, I approached the front of the headstone and, as I readied my cellphone's camera to capture photographic provenance, I read the sand-blasted inscription. It said something other than "Rosetta Tharpe." I frowned. I looked around. To my left. To my right. Behind me, two or three rows away, I noticed the back of another, similar-looking stone. I headed in that direction. This time, the block letters — Rosetta Atkins Tharpe Morrison — proclaimed this to be the correct grave. The end of my pursuit. My mission accomplished. I snapped four, almost identical photos, changing my angle ever-so slightly with each ensuing shot. But I did stand and look at the grave and marker for a good long time before heading back to my car.

I posted one of the photos to Instagram, along with a fairly lengthy explanation as to Sister Rosetta's significance. Over the course of the day, the photo attracted 29 "likes" including several members of the Philadelphia (and beyond) music community. That made me happy.

Plus, @jeopardista started following me.

(Here are some of my other cemetery adventures.)

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

about face

In the Fall of 2012, I was.... cajoled?.... persuaded?..... pressured?.... how about "asked" to join Facebook. A friend from my high school days suggested that I create a Facebook page and reconnect with other folks with whom I had lost touch since graduating from high school. My friend had a vivacious, out-going personality, so, for her,  something like Facebook was the natural progression. For me, however.... well, there was a reason that I did not remain in contact with most of my contemporaries from the Class of '79.

By 2012, I was a four-year veteran of the Twitter trenches. I was also five years in to maintaining my illustration blog (joshpincusiscrying.com..... go take a look!). I have been contributing to it regularly, with two or more illustrations per week, including a long run of participation in Illustration Friday, as well as my own brand of slightly off-kilter humor. Plus I was working undercover on Who Does He Play For and the now-defunct This Day in Real Life, a blog that eventually morphed into the blog you are reading right now. So, what did I need Facebook for? 

Alas, I conceded. I started a Facebook page. But not a regular Facebook page — a fan page. It was the most suitable page for Josh Pincus. I could post and post and post and post and never have to see what the kid who sat next to me in second grade had for lunch today or a zillion pictures of a zillion dogs. You see, with a Facebook fan page, there is very little interaction between the "page-or" and the "page-ee," except for the ability for people to "like" posts and leave comments. Otherwise, the only posts I see are my own — and that's just the way I like it.

Click to enlarge

So, on October 18, 2012, the official Josh Pincus Facebook Fan Page was born.... or unleashed, as it may be. I announced the page via my old reliable Twitter account and within a few hours, I had a handful of "likes" on my page. (I believe Mrs. Pincus was the first.) Slowly, I gained a few more "likes" here and there as I posted links to my illustrations and links to my weekly posts on It's Been a Slice. A friend of mine, who works in local radio and is the unofficial mayor of Philadelphia, tweeted about my page to his plethora of followers and I gained a few dozen "likes" almost immediately. Then, I began posting daily celebrity death anniversaries and became diligent to report celebrity deaths almost as they occur. I broke the 200 mark after a while, "Likes" popped up sporadically but then things stalled. And then I would lose a "like" every so often. Not to pat my self on the back, but I'm one guy and Facebook is not my main focus. All of the hype to gain "likes" was done by me and word-of-mouth. I am proud of the fluctuating 253 - 254 "likes" that are displayed on my page. and, yes, I am a little insulted when I lose a "like." (My online pal Dot even made a pointed observation regarding my tracking of "likes.")

Last week, six-plus years since the JPiC Facebook fan page debut, I lost another "like." This week, however, I gained three. And then another, And another. At the end of the weekend, I had gained 20 new "likes." The overwhelming majority of these "likes" were from folks in Indonesia and Egypt and India and a few countries that I didn't know were countries. I can't quite figure out which post was the one that opened the sluice gates for the flood of love for Josh Pincus. Was it the reminder that actress Debralee Scott had passed away 14 years ago or the report that Dan Robbins, the man who invented Paint-By-Numbers had gone to face that great gridded canvas in the sky? I'm not sure, but it was something. And it hasn't stopped! As a matter of fact, when I started writing this, I had 271 "likes." As of right now, I gained four more! 

If you are already a "fan" of my Facebook page, I thank you for your support. If you are not, what are you waiting for? There's fun and death and humor and, if you stick around long enough, I guarantee I will say something that'll offend you.

Unless, of course, you live in Jakarta.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com