the bump

Before Disneyland and Disney World and even Great Adventure (and before they were absorbed under the Six Flags masthead), amusement parks with rides were exclusive to the seashore resorts... as far as I was concerned. Look, I lived a sheltered life, I suppose. I only got to see amusement park rides at temporary school fairs or on those dangerous-looking trucks that would roam my neighborhood on weekends and summer afternoons. But, if I wanted to experience real, live amusement park rides, I would have to wait for a day trip or an extended weekend stay in Atlantic City. My father, not one to travel, would occasionally (and often begrudgingly) take our family to Atlantic City. My mom, my brother and I would love to go. My dad didn't care what his family wanted and when he finally relented, he acted as though he had just donated a kidney.

I loved going to Atlantic City, specifically for the famous Boardwalk. There were games of chance and soft-serve ice cream cones and salt water taffy and arcades. Yeah, there was the beach and the ocean, but those I could have done without. The real draw was the (now long-gone) Million Dollar Pier, jam packed with rides set up much too close to each other, damning all fire safety precautions. Walkways between rides were strewn with a tangled mess of heavy electrical cables. This was long before the days of "lawsuits at the drop of a hat." You tripped and your kneecap became embedded with a zillion splinters? Get up and keep walking... and be careful next time! 

My brother loved the bumper cars. As an adolescent, he honed his future driving abilities on those compact, exposed electricity-powered little death traps. Being too small to ride, as determined by an official-looking sign at the entrance to the ride, I was relegated to watch through a chain-link fence as my brother deftly guided his vehicle through the clumps of other cars, avoiding bumps while delivering same to defenseless fellow riders. With my fingers curled around the fencing, I'd marvel as my brother would weave around the slick floor, slamming randomly into other cars, only to make a clean getaway before a retaliatory blow could be received. It was all in fun, though, and riders would laugh as they exited at the ride's conclusion.

If you've ever ridden the bumper cars, you always remember that one guy, right? The guy who gets stuck in a corner, next to some non-operating vehicles, unable to free himself. While other riders race and bump and laugh, this poor guy just rumbles back and forth for most of the ride's allotted time, until he is finally spotted by the ride operator who frees him and, while standing on the rear bumper, guides him back to the entrance, arriving just as the power shuts off and the ride is over. Three tickets! Wasted!

My brother and a couple of his friends devised a plan when they rode the bumper cars. A plan to enhance their own fun. Once situated in their cars, my brother and his friends would select a rider and target him to ruin his ride. They'd chase after him and taking turns pinning him in a corner, trapping him for the entire ride, denying him the fun of racing around the floor and bumping into other riders. One evening, after picking their cars, my brother and three of his friends pointed to one guy and pegged him as their victim. They didn't know him. They had no connection to him. They just looked around and pointed. The power surged through the vehicles and the ride began. The plan was enacted. The ride floor was dimly lit, bathed in blacklight, distorting any details of other rider's faces. But they zeroed in on their target and they pinned this guy in a corner. My brother first, then each of his friends — one at a time. Their "victim" said nothing, but his anger was apparent from his body language. He was hunched over the steering wheel and bobbed his shoulders each time his vehicle was rammed with a confining bump. My brother and his friends were giddy and gleeful as their underhanded plan unfolded. In the darkness, they could hear a few frustrated exhales, but most were drowned out by the loud Top 40 hits that were piped in through the tinny speakers mounted at the floor's corners. The ride ended. The power stopped, bright lights came up and my brother and his friends got out of their vehicles and made their way to the exit. Their chests were puffed out and they laughed in their achievement.

Until, they saw the guy they pinned.

He rose from his tiny car.... and he kept on rising. With the bright lights on, they saw this guy stood well over six feet tall. He was wearing a tank top and he had muscles. Big muscles. His muscles had muscles. And he was not happy. Not. At. All. He pointed an angry finger at my brother and his friends and hollered "YOU!" and the look on his face revealed his displeasure with three little punks ruining his ride and making him waste three tickets.

This happened easily fifty years ago. I think they are still running.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

the hardest cut

Last week, a man — who some might label a local legend — passed away. As far as legends go, this man's status was pretty slim. By trade, he was a mohel, a person trained in performing circumcisions in the manner dictated by Jewish tradition,. One does not have to be a rabbi or have any sort of religious training whatsoever. All you need is to apprentice with an experienced mohel, and like any other trainee — watch and learn. This man was an eighth generation mohel, learning from his father, who learned from his father, who.... well, you get it. In the Philadelphia area, this man was the "go-to" mohel for decades. Thirty five years ago, he performed my son's circumcision. He performed countless circumcisions before that... and since. So, if you consider the top choice of mohel in a city of 206,000 Jews a legend, well I suppose he is a legend. But, you have to admit, it's pretty slim criteria. 

My son was born in August 1987. As per tradition, arrangements were made to have his brit milah eight days after his birth, where he would be welcomed in to the Covenant of yada yada yada. This man — the mohel — would be at our house bright and early to perform his little ritual before a houseful of my family and friends. Our kitchen counter was laden with bagel and cream cheese and whitefish salad and other components of a typical Jewish brunch — all lying in wait until after the ritual was over. At 9:30, a silver Jaguar pulled into our driveway behind my wife's car, A dapper-looking man with a gray goatee, dark Ray Bans and a leather jacket excised himself from the low driver's seat. He clutched a weathered leather case closed to his hip as he traversed my front porch and entered my house. He doffed his coat and stuffed his glasses in his breast pocket. He called my wife and I over to a corner of our dining room and briefly outlined the pending procedure. As he spoke, he unzipped his case and removed some fearsome-looking implements. My unsuspecting son was brought in and laid upon a thick, vinyl upholstered pad on our dining room table. (For those of you who may be wondering or have been recent dinner guests at our home, no... we no longer have that table.) My friend Scott, a recent medical school graduate and now in the throes of an internship at Temple Hospital, jockeyed for a front-and-center position. Most everyone else took a step backwards, some observing the procedure through fingers laced across their eyes. It was over before you knew it, its conclusion announced by a loud shriek from the "child of the hour." Soon, everyone was noshing and kibbitzing and schmoozing, including the mohel, who grabbed a bagel. He stuffed the circular bread into his jacket pocket and put an arm around my shoulder, whispering, "Mazel tov! That'll be $250." I wasn't sure I heard correctly. He repeated himself, just in case I didn't. Honestly, I had no idea how much this would cost. (In 1987, $250 was a lot of money! A lot! I can't imagine how much it costs today.) Bewildered, I dashed off a check and handed it over. The mohel thanked me, took a bite of bagel and told me he was off to another circumcision, the second of four that day. As he revved up his Jag, my friend Scott asked if the mohel did anything else for a living, implying that moheling was just a side hustle. I answered: "He pulled up in a Jaguar, took 250 bucks from me for twenty minutes work, got a free bagel and went off to do three more of these... and his day is over before noon. Why would he do anything else?

Years later, when my son entered high school, he became friendly with a classmate named Alex. Alex, as it turned out, was the mohel's son. Around this time, my wife's cousin gave birth to her first son. Of course, as every good Philadelphia Jew knows, the mohel had to be contacted. The morning of the bris, we gathered at my wife's cousin's house. I believe this was the first bris my son attended since his own. In came the mohel, with his Ray Bans and leather jacket, although his goatee had gotten considerably grayer. After a few preliminary words of explanation for the benefit of the uninitiated, the procedure commenced. My son watched... and winced. The next day at school, he spotted Alex and said: "You won't believe what I saw your dad do to a baby yesterday!" My son received an eyeroll as a reply.

Needless to say, the ninth generation of moheling will have to continue elsewhere. 

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

back in your own back yard

We had another of our famous (well, famous throughout our neighborhood, anyway) yard sales. A Pincus yard sale is a complicated undertaking. Mrs. Pincus, who was born under the zodialogical sign of the "cash register," has retail in her blood. She methodically, and with great conviction, gathers and catalogues and organizes a plethora of.... um..... items that have been accumulated in our house since the last yard sale. She supplements household cast-offs with a selection of stock from her eBay store (No, she won't sell your items. Don't even ask.) A week or so before our scheduled yard sale, our living room and dining room look like a mini Amazon warehouse, with various piles of boxes and crates and stacks of things in somewhat neat rows, waiting to be placed in a prominent spot on our lawn or driveway when the weekend arrives... and hoping to occupy that space for a short while, until a nominal amount of cash makes this stuff someone else's problem.... er.... dream come true.

During the gathering process, Mrs. P posts ads in our local community's Facebook page, as well as local pages on the notorious Craigs List, specifically in the "Philadelphia Suburbs" yard sale section. We also hang signs all over the neighborhood.... and I do mean all over! Pre-sale, our front lawn displays large signs alerting folks of the coming sale. As soon as the first ad is posted, as soon as the first sign is tacked to a utility pole, the questions begin....

Come and get 'em!

Mrs. P got a Facebook message from one interested party. "Can you text me the addresses of all of the families that are participating in your 'Multi-Family' yard sale? I'd like to put them into my GPS." My wife politely replied: "Some people are not comfortable with having their address displayed and were content with just my address in the ad. If you come on Saturday, you will see other people on my block set up at their respective homes." This person was not content with that answer and pressed on with "Well, how many are on your block?" My wife politely responded to that question, too. Later in the day, another question arrived via Facebook, asking — specifically — about the types of records that would be available. Mrs. P replied, explaining that their are a variety of genres and artists represented. A follow-up from the questioner wanted a list of those artists, as well as a list of album titles... just to see if it was worth his while to drive all way the over from Glenside, which is a community less that five minutes from our house. I suggested that she tell this guy that we have a dozen Beatles "butcher covers" and tell him that they all sold for a dollar when he arrives. This is the reason that I don't answer "yard sale" related questions.

Yes, I know what you mean.

Another woman asked if we had one of those things that goes over a cabinet door to dry towels. My wife — again very politely — replied that we do not. The woman continued, explaining what the apparatus was and what she intended to use it for. "I have a lot of padded drying mats and I need a few of those things to drying my mats on." My wife — again, politely — explained that we do not have this item. She continued to tell of how she washes her kitchen utensils, pots, pans and dishes by hand and sets them out on these pads to dry. Now she needs something to hang the mats of so they can dry. For the third time, Mrs. P — politely — stated that we do not have this item she is seeking. (They are readily available, in a variety of configurations, from Amazon starting at $7.99)

Three bucks!

With the front of our house looking like the marketplace in Raiders of the Lost Ark (sans the big guy with the scimitar), the questions continued. People asked for specific items, as though they were browsing the internet, and we were their Google search. While the majority of people were happy and satisfied with our selection and prices (honestly, the stuff was marked really cheap!), apparently some things were not cheap enough for some people. A woman with a small child inquired about the $3.00 price of a brand-new, boxed inflatable swim ring. The woman did not want to pay three bucks for something that truly sells for twice that amount on Amazon or at a Five Below. Her accompanying child was none too pleased by the decision and she stomped off and continued to stomp along, arms crossed defiantly across her chest, as the woman perused some of the offerings at our neighbor's front lawns.

After a long day of wheeling and dealing, the crowds were thinning and the sun was no longer high in the sky. We began to slowly gather up the stuff that was strewn across our front lawn, still making ourselves available to any stragglers. We re-boxed and re-packed our unsold merchandise and relegated it to our back porch, where it will stay until our next yard sale. That stuff will, no doubt be joined by more items that we feel we no longer need.

Old Accomodating Eyes
is back.

Mrs. P casually began checking Facebook messages around 9:00 AM on Sunday morning. She received one sent through our local community's Facebook page. "Hi!," it began, "Yesterday was my daughter's graduation from college and we were unable to come to your yard sale. Do you have anything left? What kind of items do you have left? Would it be okay if I stop by to look or is the stuff all packed up?" I wondered if she phoned Elton John, explaining that she had an appointment to get her taxes filed on the night he performed at the Wells Fargo Center in Philadelphia on the final leg of his Farewell Tour... and would it be okay if she came down the next night and he could perform the show just for her? I wonder if Sir Elton would be accommodating?

There's a chance that we'll have a visitor to our back porch today.

www.jopshpincusiscrying.com

art for art's sake

For forty or so years, I have made my living as an artist. Over that period, the title has changed a few times. I was "artist," "designer," "graphic designer," "graphic artist," "desktop publisher," "desktop graphic design artist." These were all labels applied to me and my profession by non-artists for whom I was employed. But, for all intents and purposes, I was a simple artist. I took someone's poorly-explained concept and made it a tangible thing of beauty. As a matter of fact, I have had many employers drop a scrap of paper before me — riddled with childish scribbles and illegible hieroglyphics — and instruct me to "pretty this up." And, of course, I would. That's what I got paid to do.

When I first entered the working world, I used ink and a pen and markers and actual paper. When computers entered the scene, I balked at first, but now, a mouse and a monitor are my go-to "tools of the trade." I have been plying my "craft" (ha ha! what a bullshit phrase!) in the realm of pixels for the past 30 years. Over that time, I have designed everything from simple forms to elaborate displays for trade shows. I have also created countless logos for a wide variety of businesses.

Nearly every artist will tell you, we sometimes obsess about design. It doesn't always come easy. It is work. It is hard work. Sure, it can be enjoyable, but getting that perfect design is a process. And artists look for inspiration from anywhere it can be found. Because we are always looking and observing and scrutinizing our graphic-embellished surroundings. We also take note of bad design. I mean poorly conceived, poorly executed, just plain lazy design. That type of design can be spotted a mile away. While a client may be impressed and satisfied by such a final product, other artists — who understand the process — know the lack of effort that goes into a bad design. Sure, the client's word is the final word, but an artist knows when his best efforts (and worst efforts) have been passed off for the sake of earning a buck.

I worked for a company in Pennsauken, New Jersey for a short time. On my commute from my suburban Philadelphia home, I would pass a building just before I made the turn into the small industrial park where my job was located. As I approached the intersection to make the turn, I studied a logo plastered on a sign just outside this building. The building housed an auto auction and the logo was hideous. It was garish. It was "in your-face." It screamed "WE ARE A FUCKING AUTO AUCTION AND WE HAVE CARS!" It was probably just what the owner's of the business wanted and the artist that created it probably knocked it out between quarters while watching a football game on a Sunday afternoon. It looked like it was picked out of a book of t-shirt designs at one of those airbrush places on the boardwalk of a seaside resort. Every day, I stared at this logo — angrily — as I crept towards the intersection to make a right-hand turn. As someone who has been designing logos (some good and some admittedly bad) for four decades, I was insulted that this logo was displayed prominently, in full view for the public to see. It was not that far removed from that spiky "S" that decorated everyone's three-ring binder in high school. You know, that easy doodle that everyone could do, but still looked impressive and cool. It infuriated me every morning. I would pass it and think to myself: "That is one ugly logo."

Well, I lost the job in Pennsauken and started a new position near Princeton, New Jersey. My new commute would take me north in The Garden State. I would no longer pass the auto auction and its horrible logo. At my new job, I worked with art directors from international companies to create innovative and sophisticated designs to be used at business-seeking tradeshows. It was a new and exciting experience in my career and the eight months I spent with that company were the best of any job I had held previously... until the bottom fell out of the trade show business when the worldwide COVID-19 pandemic forced humans to practice social distancing under the threat of sickness or even death. With trade shows a casualty of the coronavirus, that business shut down and I had to seek employment elsewhere. 

After a year, I landed a job back in Pennsauken, right next door to the place I had worked previously. My morning drive to work — once again — took me past the auto auction and its heinous logo. On my first day of my new job, I passed the auto auction and became infuriated all over again. There it was! That logo. That horrible logo! I would see it every morning. It was unavoidable. I was being punished for.... something, I suppose.

One morning, traffic was particularly heavy and slow on Route 130. Cars moved at a snail's pace, inching along, as we approached some unseen blockage in the flow of traffic. As I moved my car closer to the intersection to make my turn, I spotted three fire engines occupying the right-hand lane, forcing traffic to merge into the left lanes. The fire trucks were shooting streams of water on the fire-damaged wreckage of the auto auction. The building was now reduced to a steaming, smoky pile of unrecognizable rubble, dotted with charred girders poking out amid the burned bricks and twisted rebar. I joined in with the car-confined group of rubberneckers, crawling past the scene, curiously surveying the aftermath of the previous evening's fire. I, however, took specific notice. The sign with the logo was gone, an obvious victim of the 4-alarm blaze. The walls that also had once displayed the logo were now demolished, laying in scattered piles among the other debris.

I eventually made it to the intersection and I made my usual right turn. I also gathered my thoughts for an alibi, in case I was questioned.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

the search is over

When I'm not drawing or watching 40-year old shows on television or sassing someone on the internet, you can find me traipsing trough a cemetery, snapping pictures of grave markers. For over a decade, I have been visiting cemeteries all over the country — sometimes dragging my less-than-enthused family along with me. I sought out graves of famous people — mostly actors and those in the entertainment field. But I have also looked for other, lesser known folks who have made an unsung impact on humankind — if only celebrated for the proverbial "fifteen minutes of fame," only to be relegated to a small, sometimes forgotten, footnote in history as time passed. After my visits, I chronicle the experience with a (usually lengthy) blogpost, complete with photos, annotation and often snarky commentary à la the Josh Pincus you've come to know and love.... or at least know.

I rarely visit a particular cemetery more than once... for several reasons. First off, I'm lazy. Second, I feel once I've been there, wandered around, seen who I wanted to see, I'm done. I can check that one off my list (if I had an actual list). Plus, cemetery visits — especially the way I visit a cemetery — take a lot of planning. Famous people are not buried in their own special section. They are scattered all over the place because death is the great equalizer. No special treatment is given to those who commanded attention in life. Nope, they are just stuck in the ground, cemented into a crypt or incinerated to crispy remains just like everyone else. Sure, their final resting place may be decorated with elaborate sculptures, headstones and other accessories to make them stand out. But they are placed alongside simple folk with simple markers and they are just as simply dead.

Also, cemeteries are usually poorly marked for navigation. Few have posted section designations, Finding Grandma or Uncle Louie could prove difficult if you don't remember exactly where their plot is because you haven't been there since the funeral and the surrounding area is now overflowing with deceased neighbors. So prior to a planned visit, I track down an online map and meticulously plot a route with the invaluable help of findagrave.com or the tracking technology employed by various cemetery websites. More recently, my phone's GPS has been very helpful in pinpointing a particular grave lying silently in an obscured sightline.

Lucky for me, Philadelphia boasts a number of cemeteries that serve as the eternal home of some pretty famous people. One of the biggest and most beautiful is Laurel Hill Cemetery. Founded in 1836, Laurel Hill occupies 74 acres along a slender slice of land overlooking the Schuylkill River. It was conceived as a "rural cemetery," and welcomed the community as a gathering place for picnics and other social gatherings on its pastoral landscape, as well as a dignified place for burials. This was not an unusual concept. Laurel Hill, along with its predecessor Mount Auburn in Massachusetts, started a trend to take the "creepiness" out of cemeteries and make them accessible and friendly. This was very well-received, especially in municipalities that lacked the space for a public park. Those places combined the necessity of a cemetery with the necessity of a park to much success. I visited Laurel Hill for the first time in 2010 on a very cold December morning. Because the social aspect of Laurel Hill still exists (and is locally promoted), I have been back several times — once for a concert (that's right, a concert!) and two more times for "The Market of the Macabre," a craft fair geared towards the gruesome with its tongue planted firmly in its skeletal cheek. 

Mary, Sarah and Martha

Laurel Hill is home to a large number of those who served in the military during various conflicts, including the American Revolution, the War of 1812 and the two World Wars. There are the graves of many of Philadelphia's past mayors and other government officials. There are prominent (and not-so-prominent) figures from Philadelphia's history who were instrumental in shaping the nation in its infancy. Small markers have been installed to assist visitors (using a GPS-powered phone app) on a self-guided tour. One can be enlightened to the contributions of Martha Hunt Coston (who invented the signal flare), Sarah Hale (who campaigned diligently to make Thanksgiving an official holiday. Sarah also wrote "Mary Had a Little Lamb") and Mary Pennington (who invented the egg carton). To show that they don't take themselves too seriously, there are two headstones on display that were used as props when scenes from movies in the Rocky saga were filmed at Laurel Hill. 

On my first trip, I took pictures of a small sampling of the famous people interred at Laurel Hill. I went equipped with a map and a list and my camera... and a heavy winter coat. It was freezing that day and I did my best to be efficient, minimizing the actual time I spent outside of my car exposed to the elements. After a few hours of taking pictures of the graves on my list, I noticed that there was one name that eluded me — Owen Wister. (He's the fellow pictured at the very top of this post.)

Owen Wister was born into an affluent Philadelphia family in 1860. He attended schools in Europe and eventually graduated from Harvard. At 22, he published a satire of the popular novel The Swiss Family Robinson. His humorous take was so well-received, it prompted noted author and humorist Mark Twain to write a letter of praise and congratulations to young Owen. The young writer spent many summers in Wyoming, mingling with real-life cowboys and ranch hands. He became intrigued and enamored with the lifestyle and was inspired to write several short stories based on extensive journals he had kept, chronicling his trips. Owen met famed Western artist Frederic Remington, who romanticized cowboys in his paintings, and the two remained life-long friends. Owen also was chums with rugged future president Theodore Roosevelt. With the success of his stories, Owen penned his opus "The Virginian," a sprawling, multi-leveled account of the American cowboy. This 1902 novel is recognized as the first in the Western genre we know today, spawning hundreds upon hundreds of novels, movies and television shows. Owen's novel itself was the basis for the popular 60s TV series of the same name.

Owen and his family are interred at Laurel Hill Cemetery under matching headstones, each one simply engraved with names, dates and a single cross.... and I'll be goddamned if I couldn't find any of 'em.

I returned to Laurel Hill four years later to see Philly punk rockers The Dead Milkmen in their highly-publicized concert among the crypts. By the time we arrived for the show, it was getting too dark to search for the Wister family plot. My quest would have to be put on hold for another time. I enjoyed the concert and tried not to think about Owen Wister and how the location of his grave mocked me in the darkness.

Just after Labor Day in 2021, Mrs. Pincus and I went to the annual "The Market of the Macabre," where we perused the wares of various vendors, all looking like they were in a dress rehearsal for Halloween. After a once-through of the small market area, I ventured out into the cemetery proper, once again in hot pursuit of my "white whale." I had even talked with one vendor who identified himself as a part-time tour guide at the facility. I asked the guy if he knew the location of Owen Wister's grave off the top of his head. The man rolled his eyes in thought for a second before sputtering out some nonsensical directions while pointing and gesturing to a distant, non-existent, location. In an effort to clarify, I asked where it was in refence to the grave of William Warner. (Though not famous himself, Warner's grave is. His remains are housed in a striking sarcophagus, designed and created by sculptor Alexander Milne Calder, famous for his statues that adorn Philadelphia's City Hall.) The alleged tour guide pointed some more and made even less sense despite being supplied with additional information. I wandered aimlessly around Section J (as denoted on a map of the grounds) to no avail. I passed the same headstones and plots over and over. None of them read "WISTER" and none looked like the photo I had seen of Owen Wister's grave marker online. Dejected (again), we left.

Yesterday was another gathering of the goth-leaning community at Laurel Hill. Yes sir! Another "The Market of the Macabre" was upon us. In addition to seeing what curiosities were available for purchase, I was determined — determined! — to make this my final attempt at finding Owen Wister's burial plot. We arrived 90 minutes before the official opening of the craft fair, but since Laruen Hill is a public cemetery, we were welcomed to stroll the grounds. I made a beeline to Section J. At the near corner of the section, I found two young volunteers (so identified by their neon yellow vests emblazoned with VOLUNTEER on the back) fiddling with their cell phones. "Hi," I said as I approached them, "Is this Section J?" and I pointed just past where they were posted. One of them — the young lady — confirmed my inquiry and returned her attention to her phone. To her chagrin, I continued my questioning. "Do you know where Owen Wister's grave is?," I asked. On her phone, she guided me to a small section of the cemetery's website, unknown to me prior to our conversation. Here, she explained, is a GPS-driven database. Just enter the name of the person you are seeking and a directional map pops up to show you the way. (I used a similar feature at Mountain Grove Cemetery in Bridgeport, Connecticut, while trying to find the grave of Marion Slaughter, the real name of country singer Vernon Dahlert.) I typed "Owen Wister" in the correct fields and, sure enough, a map with a route traced in blue and a dotted path leading to a pinpoint showed up on my phone's screen. I followed the computer-voiced directions happily... until I was informed that I had "reached my destination." The trouble was, I was still in the middle of the path that skirted the south edge of Section J... just a few feet from where I received the coordinates. I was right back where I started. But I was determined. I retraced the random path I walked through Section J back in September. I saw the Warner grave. I saw the other graves I had seen before. I did not, however, see any graves of the Wister variety. I exited Section J and stood on the paved path, turning around and around, trying to spot a place that I had not searched before.

Victory!

I spotted a small path, obscured by bushes, about 50 feet ahead and not looking at all like it was part of Section J.  I slipped past the bushes and was treated to a spectacular view of the Schuylkill River far below where I was standing. I was also treated to a spectacular view of Owen Wister's grave! I thought I heard a chorus of angelic voices offer a heraldic cry of victory. I swore the clouds above me parted and a single beam of golden light engulfed both me and the ancient marble headstone that stands to designate where Owen Wister's remains lie in eternal repose. I stood silently for a few minutes and took in the moment. I was Captain Ahab with a cellphone camera in my hand in place of a sharpened harpoon. Owen Wister's grave lay before me like the great Moby Dick, about to be photographed instead of pierced. I snapped a few pictures from a few different angles. I was soon joined by my son, who directed me to a spot behind the headstone, so he could compose and capture the moment as though I was a big-game hunter posing triumphantly with his long-sought prey.

I raised my arms and let out a loud "WOO-HOO!"

We bought tickets for the day's "Market of the Macabre," but I could have just as easily left right then and there..... satisfied.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

okhel tatzipornaim (אוכל ת'ציפורניים)

My dad had some traits that I have made a conscious effort not to carry on. He was a bigot. He was a liar. He was minimally educated. I like to think that I have risen above these shortcomings, as I don't label or compartmentalize people based on outdated and unfounded stereotypes. I don't lie. I am a voracious consumer of knowledge. Not necessarily useful knowledge, but knowledge just the same.

My dad had other traits that, because of genes and DNA and other physiological make-up of which I am no expert, I inherited. First of all, I look like my dad. It was not so apparent when I was younger, but now that I am approaching the age at which my father passed away, I am startled every time I look in the mirror. When I am innocently combing my thinning hair (just like my dad's), I see his all-too familiar face starting back at me and it is very unnerving.

My father had a very distinct way of walking. My mom regularly pointed out the comical display of watching my dad and me walk together. She said it was like watching two intoxicated ducks, alluding to the peculiar way we both shuffled along, knees bent, throwing our feet askew — toes pointed out and to the side.

My father was a nail biter. A chronic nail biter. Either consciously or unconsciously, he would gnaw on his fingertips for hours. This was quite an accomplishment for him, because my father was a four-pack-a-day smoker, as well. But, somehow, between cigarettes, he managed to self-trim his fingernails down to grubby, jagged nubs. Unfortunately, I inherited this disgusting habit from my father. It was something I had no control over. Sometimes, I didn't even realize I was doing it. My mother would slap my hands away from my mouth and scold me. "Stop it!," she'd warn, "Take your fingers out of your mouth." I'd stop... only to find myself chewing on my fingernails within minutes of a recent reprimand.

Mine were worse.

To be honest, I was aware of how truly disgusting this habit was. Sometimes, I would chew my nails so badly, so deeply, that my fingertips would bleed around my cuticles. Sometimes, they would get infected. My mom would squeeze some kind of ointment on the affected area and cover it with a Band-Aid, thus preventing further chewing... at least until it healed. But, as soon as the bandage was off, that neglected nail was back in my mouth for an orally-administered manicure. In school, with no one to bother me, I would chew and chew on my nails all day... from the bus ride in to school, at my desk, at recess and on the ride back home. No one said anything to me about my nasty habit and my fingernails reflected it. When I got home, my mom would, once again, try in vain to stop — or at least curb — my ungual appetite.

As I got older, my mom just gave up. She tried for years to get me to stop biting my fingernails, until she finally gave in. She stopped cautioning me, hoping that soon a girlfriend or wife would take up the mantle.

Well, her wish came true. My girlfriend — who later became my wife, the celebrated Mrs. Pincus — was just as disgusted by my propensity to chomp on my digits. She was also just as determined as my mom (maybe even more so) to get me to stop. She thought nothing of physically pulling my hands away from my mouth. She routinely admonished my finger-in-mouth obsession, to little avail. My fingernails still exhibited the result of long periods of oblivious nibbling. Luckily, my son did not pick up my and my father's legacy. He did, however, join in the crusade to put a halt to my manual appendage munching.

Nice try, Madge.

One late evening, my wife and I were watching David Letterman's talk show. His guest that night was the one and only Madonna at the very pinnacle of her popularity. It was Madonna's first appearance on Letterman's show after a much-publicized pursuit. She took to a seat on the sofa alongside Dave, amid thunderous applause. I remember that she was very stand-offish and leery of Dave's infamous sarcasm. I also remember that she bit her nails profusely, often answering Dave's queries from behind a mouthful of hand. It was disgusting. I thought "Is that how I look?" After that show, I became very aware of when I was biting my nails... and I stopped.

Until I started again.

I found it very difficult to stop my nail-biting. I likened it to someone trying to quit smoking. Although I didn't smoke, I knew plenty of people who did. Some of whom successfully quit (like my mom) and some who half-heartedly quit, only to start up again (like my dad). I had been biting my nails for as long as I could remember, so stopping just like that was not going to be easy. Even Madonna was powerless to help.

I began to experience some dental issues, stemming from the hundreds of Snickers bars I consumed as a child. I was visiting the dentist on a regular basis to correct the damaged I caused. Some of my teeth were drilled and filled, others were filed and capped. All in all, my teeth were not as strong as they once were. While my dentist was doing her best to help my teeth maintain what little strength they had, it was obvious that a constant workout of chewing the alpha-keratin plates at the tips of my fingers had to stop. And — just like that, after decades — I stopped biting my nails.

But it doesn't end there.

Evidently, I don't trim my fingernails as often as my wife and my son would like. Yes, it's true, I no longer bite my nails, but the length at which I keep my nails is still an issue. While the nails remain — currently unscathed — at the tips of my fingers, my idea of a reasonable length and my family's idea of a reasonable length at which they should be kept differ greatly.

But, at least I don't bite 'em anymore. One battle at a time.

For illustration purposes only.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

buona fortuna, addio bambina

This story appeared on my illustration blog in 2020.

Sergio Franchi. What a melodic, romantic sounding name! It was very fitting for the Italian tenor with the robust voice and charming demeanor. Sergio Franchi! Throughout the 70s, he sang on The Ed Sullivan Show, filled the big showrooms in Las Vegas and toured the country, enchanting audiences that were mostly comprised of suburban American housewives looking to inject a little Continental excitement into their routine lives.

My mom was one of them.

My mom loved Sergio Franchi. As a teenager in the early 1940s, she was fan of big-band swing and was quite the accomplished jitterbug dancer. She swooned along with her contemporaries to the likes of Frank Sinatra and Eddie Fisher. She could be spotted at the famed Steel Pier in Atlantic City doing the Lindy or on the dance floor at Grossinger's in the Catskill Mountains "cuttin' a rug" with some guy whose name she barely knew. As long as there was music, my mom was there.

She always kept up with musical trends. She fell for Tom Jones in the 60s with his tight, high-waisted pants doing their best to contain his gyrating hips. She listened with heavy-lidded eyes to Bobby Darin and Mel Torme and Vic Damone. And then she discovered Sergio Franchi.

Sergio Franchi! Rugged, chiseled, Romanesque features. Barrel-chested and impeccably groomed — always sporting a simple yet elegant tuxedo, its bow tie usually undone by song number three of his repertoire. In later years, Sergio would display a trendy perm on his previously close-cropped 'do. His easy, but charismatic, personality and his wide smile entranced his audiences. And that voice! Magnificent, velvety tones that could handle popular tunes as easily as soaring operatic arias.

My mom never missed seeing Sergio Franchi at the Latin Casino when he came to our area. "The Latin," as it was colloquially known, was a very popular night club that moved from its original Philadelphia location to a larger venue just over the New Jersey state line. Despite its name, The Latin Casino was not actually a casino, although it attracted the same caliber acts that played the real casinos in Las Vegas. Frank, Dean, Sammy — they all performed there on nationwide tours that stopped in and around the City of Brotherly Love. Ironically, its downfall was the introduction of casino gambling in Atlantic City, putting a clause in performer's contracts not allowing them to appear with a certain radius of the seashore resort — a radius that included the Latin Casino. However, in its heyday, my mom would go with a girlfriend or her sister to see Sergio Franchi — but never with my father. He wasn't interested in going anywhere — especially to see some singer who wasn't Al Jolson. Good thing, too, because my mom was very uninhibited and I'm sure she offered her share of screams and cat-calls along with the other female members of the audience. One morning, after my mom had seen Sergio Franchi the night before, I came into our kitchen to find a red cloth napkin folded neatly on the kitchen table. My mom, with stars in her eyes, explained that Sergio had wiped his face with the napkin and handed it down to her at her stage-side table. It was as though the Lady of the Lake had touched Arthur's shoulders with Excalibur. In later years, Sergio Franchi moved his Philadelphia area stop to the Valley Forge Music Fair, a smaller, in-the-round venue just minutes from where George Washington led troops fighting for our country's independence. As far as my mom was concerned, they fought for her right to sit in the front row to see Sergio Franchi sing. In between songs, Sergio Franchi would address the audience, often remarking about the name of the town where the venue was located. "King of Prussia!," he would say, his diminished, though still present Italian accent rolling the "R". He'd gesture with his outstretched arm in a mock-majestic flourish as he repeated it "King of Prussia! I love to perform in King of Prussia, Pennsylvania!" He'd smile and the audience would giggle and sigh in unison, as though they had rehearsed

Surprisingly, my mom owned just one Sergio Franchi album... but she played it over and over and over again. It was a 1973 RCA Records compilation imaginatively titled This is Sergio Franchi. The cover showed two sketchy drawings of the singer — a close-up and a waist-up action pose — against a very generic 70s-style design and typeface. When she could gain control of the family stereo, she would blast This is Sergio Franchi the way my brother would crank the volume on Physical Graffiti. This is Sergio Franchi earned a place in our family's all-inclusive record collection, even if it looked out of place among the many releases by Queen, Springsteen and Elton John. (Oh, my mom listened to those, too.)

Sergio Franchi appeared on the popular morning talk show Regis and Kathie Lee in 1989. It would prove to be his final TV appearance. Afterwards, during rehearsals for a show at South Shore Music Circus in Massachusetts, Sergio Franchi collapsed on stage. He was hospitalized and the remaining dates of his summer tour were canceled. Testing revealed a brain tumor and, despite treatments including radiation, Sergio passed away in May 1990 at the age of 64.

My mom, who was fighting her own battle with cancer, was crushed when she heard the news. When she returned home from her chemotherapy sessions, she played her copy of This is Sergio Franchi until the grooves in the vinyl wore flat.

My mom passed away in October 1991.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com