la vie en rose

This post appeared in a slightly different form on my illustration blog on October 11, 2024.

I remember watching baseball with my mom and dad, both pretty avid baseball fans. It was a Philadelphia Phillies game and they were playing the Cincinnati Reds, who, at the time, were the powerhouse known as “The Big Red Machine.” When Pete Rose stepped up to the plate for the Reds, my mom — never one to mince words — said, “I hate that arrogant son of a bitch. I wish he was on our team.” A few years later, my mom got her wish. Pete Rose became a member of the Philadelphia Phillies and  helped them win their first World Series.

There is no denying Pete Rose’s contribution and impact on baseball. He was a great player. If he drew a walk at an at-bat, he would run — run! — to first base. He wouldn’t let anything — or anyone — block his attempt to score a run. Oakland A’s catcher Ray Fosse could certainly attest to that. He holds the all-time career hits record with 4,256. That’s nearly two thousand more hits than Dodgers’ Freddie Freeman, who has the record among active players. Freeman has been playing in the majors for 15 years, so Pete’s record will, most likely, never be broken. In addition to his hit record, Pete also hold the record for games played, at-bats and singles. He was a 17-time All-Star, won three batting titles, three World Series championships, one Most Valuable Player Award, two Gold Glove Awards and was named Rookie of the Year in 1963. 

But, Pete Rose was an asshole. 

As manager of the Cincinnati Reds, investigations revealed that Pete had placed illegal bets on various sports, including baseball — specifically Cincinnati Reds games. On August 24, 1989, Pete voluntarily accepted a permanent place on baseball’s ineligible list. He accepted that there was a factual reason for the ban. In return, Major League Baseball agreed to make no formal finding with regard to the gambling allegations. Over the years, Pete has campaigned and tried to appeal for reinstatement, but Major League Baseball has stood firm on their decision. A fixture at baseball autograph shows, Pete would inscribe a baseball with anything fans asked for a price. In later years, he took to writing "I'm sorry I bet on baseball" along with his signature.

While married to his first wife, Pete, the father of two children, fathered another child as the result of an extra-marital affair. In 2016, allegations of a mid-1970s relationship Pete had with a minor came to light. Pete, then in his 30s, was accused of statutory rape. An upcoming ceremony in Philadelphia, honoring his accomplishments during his time on the Phillies, was canceled in the aftermath. The case was settled out-of-court.

In 2022, Pete was given the opportunity to redeem himself in the eyes of Phillies fans. Well, some Phillies fans anyway. Most followers of baseball — particularly those from Cincinnati and Philadelphia — readily look past Pete's off-the-field antics. The focus is mainly on Pete's accomplishments with a bat, a ball and his physicality. 

Pete was invited to Philadelphia’s Citizens Bank Park in 2022 to help commemorate the Phils’ 1980 World Series win. Pete — in true “Pete” fashion — made inappropriate and dismissive comments to a female reporter, referring to her as "babe" in the process. Later in the day, he was invited into the Phillies’ broadcast booth, where he graphically discussed former Phillie-turned-announcer John Kruk's well-publicized battle with testicular cancer and further elaborated by comparing the sizes of the genitals of various members of the animal kingdom. He also said "shit" on the air. Oh, by the way, there was a baseball game going on.

 

In September 2024, Pete Rose unexpectedly passed away at the age of 83. His death brought about a rehashing of the "Should Pete Rose be in the Baseball Hall of Fame" debate. On any number of online baseball platforms, folks wrongly stated that since he was dead, his "lifetime" ban from baseball should end and he should be voted in. In reality, Pete's ban was a "permanent" ban, not "lifetime." Permanent overrides lifetime. However, just this week, current baseball commissioner Rob Manfred lifted Pete's ban, thus making him eligible for induction into the Baseball Hall of Fame, at long last. Because of the way the voting process is set up, Pete's inclusion hinges on the Veterans Committee. Without getting into a long and boring explanation of how the Veterans Committee decisions are made, Pete will be eligible for consideration in 2027. Until then, the discussion of Pete’s perceived “right of inclusion” in the Baseball Hall of Fame will be discussed countless times by sportswriters, announcers and guys in bars.

Where does Josh Pincus — a long-time baseball fan who resides in Philadelphia — stand on this? I don't care. I really do not care. While I have been to the Baseball Hall of Fame a number of times to experience the history, lore and romanticism of the game, I feel the actual Hall of Fame gallery is bullshit. Like all Halls of Fame (and let's lump in awards shows like the Oscars and Grammys, while we're at it), inclusion is based on opinion. And opinions are meaningless. They are rarely based on fact. They are mostly based on popularity, sentimentality, guilt and other non-facts. Someone on some committee somewhere could be holding a longtime grudge against a particular player, brushing his accomplishments aside because he once didn't hold a door open for him. By the same token, the same guy on the same committee could have a soft spot for a particular player because he once gave his grandson a baseball. Who knows? Look, there is no denying Pete Rose's on-field statistics. There is also no denying Pete Rose's off-field demeanor.

Pete Rose was a great baseball player. Pete Rose was also a great asshole.

And he's dead. So really.... what does it matter?

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

the candyman can

This story previously appeared on my illustration blog.

For many years, I collected autographed photos of celebrities. “Celebrities,” I will admit, is a relative term and can only be defined as “someone who more people have heard of than have heard of me.” I obtained a good portion of my collection by attending local collector shows and conventions where promoters would gather together a sampling of celebrities from all levels of fame. I have met Oscar winners and I have met folks whose claim to fame was their appearance in a single —but iconic — film. (I’m looking at you, Danny Lloyd!) 

 

In early 2006, my son and I went to a horror movie convention in nearby Cherry Hill, New Jersey. We had been to this show several times over the years and I had met celebrities, engaged in lively conversation and purchased an autographed photo at the conclusion of our brief encounters. I don’t consider myself particularly “star struck.” My conversations with “celebrities” have purposely been about things other than the role for which they are best known. Over the years, I have spoken with Curtis Armstrong (of Revenge of the Nerds fame) about our shared admiration for singer-songwriter Harry Nilsson. I talked to the lovely Adrienne Barbeau about her long-running role in the touring company of the musical Pippin. I had a great conversation about California baseball with the late Jerry Maren, best known as the Lollipop Guild Munchkin who hands an oversized all-day sucker to Judy Garland in the classic The Wizard of Oz. 

This particular 2006 show was one of the first — if not the first — to feature actor Tony Todd and he appeared to be eager to meet his fans. Famous among horror movie aficionados as the malevolent “Daniel Robitaille,” the title antagonist in The Candyman series of films, Tony appeared in a number of non-horror productions before his first foray into the genre in the early 90s. Since then, he has been in and out of the horror realm, including stints on Law & Order, Murder She Wrote and multiple appearances in the Star Trek universe. Of course, horror films were Tony’s “bread and butter,” playing “The Candyman” in the original film, its two sequels and reprising the character in a 2021 reboot. He was also featured in the Final Destination film franchise, appearing in four of the six films as the mysterious “William Bludworth,” a funeral director with an intimate relationship with Death incarnate. But, Tony was a working actor and, not wishing to be pigeonholed, he took roles in the teen drama Riverdale and on the popular soap opera The Young and The Restless. He also lent his distinctively rich baritone to video games.

Unfortunately, a lot of attendees at these horror conventions have a difficult time separating the actor from the character. Tony, an imposing figure at 6 feet 5 inches, stood behind a table laden with glossy photos chronicling his career. He had a wide and welcoming smile on his face. Just behind him, a young man (later identified as Tony’s son), disinterested in the surroundings, busied himself with a hand-held video game. My son and I joined the queue to meet Tony. We were just behind a fidgety young lady. A series of belts and straps and buckles secured her tight-fitting leather garb to her person. Her jet black hair was highlighted with blood-red streaks. When she turned her head slightly to survey the room, I saw that her face was covered in white pancake make-up, accented with coal-black eyeshadow and color-coordinated lipstick. Without passing judgement, she cut a pretty frightening vision — even for a horror convention.

The line moved forward as each fan finished their interaction with Tony. The young lady in front of us was next. She approached the table and produced a large book, soon revealed to be a photo album. She opened the book and loudly began to spew a soliloquy about “The Candyman” to Tony. She was animated and passionate in her delivery, pointing out gory still photos in her book as she explained — in detail — her tale of Tony’s movie character, as though “The Candyman” was a real entity and Tony was The Candyman. As she continued, the smile disappeared from Tony’s face, replaced by a pained grimace. A thin sweat broke out on Tony’s forehead and he dabbed his brow with a tissue. His eyes widened slightly, as he tried to make some sense out of this… this… woman and her apparent delusions. A few times, he quietly interjected, “Um, thank you. You know, I’m just an actor,” but she would hear nothing of it. She plowed right over his words with more specifics of her “Candyman” manifesto. Finally, she selected a photograph from Tony’s available offerings and requested an autograph. After a quick exchange of cash, she closed her book, bowed her head and slunk away.

My son and I were next and we approached Tony’s table. We both greeted him, but were interrupted. A visibly shaken Tony Todd raised the index finger on his massive right hand and said, “Hi guys. Can you give me just a minute?” We both said, “Sure!” as we motioned obligingly with our open hands. Tony stepped back. He grabbed a bottle of water and pressed its cooling surface against his forehead. He lowered himself into a folding chair, twisted off the cap off the water bottle and took a long and calming swallow. He hung his head for a minute or two. His son put down his game and slung a comforting arm around his father’s shoulders. Soon Tony returned to us, slightly refreshed but still exhibiting the lingering effects of his previous fan encounter. We insisted to him that he get his bearings and we would wait until he felt better. The smile returned to his face when he realized that we were not going to accost him like the girl in leather.

We made no comment about the young lady before us, but he did. He questioned, rhetorically, “What was that?” My son and I shrugged and laughed. Tony was now warm, personable and humble. He became talkative and we discussed his other, non-horror roles. He signed a photo from his appearance on an episode of Smallville for me. My son and I each shook his hand and he thanked us for coming and especially thanked us for our patience. He even posed for a photo with my son.

In subsequent years, Tony became a staple at horror conventions. He evidently became accustomed to his eclectic fan base and the possibility of facing an “intense” fan. Tony passed away in November 2024 at the age of 69. 

He was a nice guy.

Tony and my son, 2006

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

conversion

On April 25, 1975, I saw my very first concert. It was just a few months before my 14th birthday. At the time, I was trying to ween myself off of a steady musical diet of AM radio bubble gum pop. The airwaves were jam-packed with the likes of Leo Sayer and Olivia Newton-John and The Bay City Rollers. Sure, Elton John was riding high, but I sought something... louder....something... harder. I found satisfaction in Alice Cooper's Welcome to My Nightmare. This was the pseudo-subversive demon rocker's first solo effort after leaving the namesake band from which he pinches his stage moniker. So with my mom's permission, I scraped together the impossible sum of $6.50 and purchased a ticket to the show. I convinced a couple of classmates to join me, and after securing a ride from my mom to the Spectrum (the South Philadelphia multi-purpose venue that succumbed to the wrecking ball in 2010), we were all set.

My friends and I found seats in Section C at the massive Spectrum and waited — impatiently — for the festivities to begin. A forty minute set from bassist Suzi Quatro got everyone in the mood for an evening with Alice Cooper. So, when the lights went out and Alice materialized from the darkness, bathed in ethereal purple light, we knew we were in for a night of wicked fun. Sure it was innocent, but there was still something bad about it — and "bad" was "good."

Almost 50 years later — to the day — I attended my most recent concert. My son, a DJ on a local Philadelphia radio station, arranged for two tickets to see Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds at The Met, a newly-rehabbed former opera house on North Broad Street that has emerged as the go-to venue for bands not quite popular enough to fill the Wells Fargo Center (the shitty multi-purpose South Philadelphia venue that replaced the equally-as-shitty Spectrum). The Met is looming and cavernous, appointed with ornate wood carving and an abundance of gold leaf. It made for a great setting in which to see Nick Cave. (This was the fourth time I saw the Australian rocker and each performance was mesmerizing.)

Alice Cooper and Nick Cave are similar... sort of. They both exude a sense of malevolence, of danger. Both singers' songs feature dark imagery and grim messaging. Alice Cooper's stage show relies more on visual props, costume changes and little vignettes. Way back in '75, I saw Alice fight — and decapitate — a cyclops. I saw Alice get his head chopped off in a guillotine. I saw Alice perform a Busby Berkeley-style kick-line with a troupe of tuxedo-clad skeletons. I saw Alice wield a snake and swing his microphone stand at those in the front row. It was scary and exhilarating and — most of all — entertaining. However, it was all presented with an underlying feeling of goofiness. It was fun. It was cartoony. It was the Coyote dropping an anvil of the Roadrunner. It was Simon Bar Sinister threatening the citizens of Capitol City with a snow gun. It was Moe poking Larry in the eyes and hearing that familiar "DOINK!" sound. Alice sang about school and movies and scary ghoulies hiding under your bed. It was scary... but not too scary.

On the other hand, Nick Cave seems to be genuinely dangerous. Nick Cave brings menace — an unsettling, unpredictable menace — to any stage he sets foot upon. Looking dapper — like an undertaker — in a dark suit and tie, Nick Cave leans into the audience with a scowl and a growl from the very first song to the very last. He flips his cordless mic to the wayside with the same carefree indifference as a kidnapper kicking his bound-and-gagged victim out of a moving car. His laugh is reminiscent of Satan. His deep vocals resonate a threatening tone, offering a no-nonsense missive as each song-story unfolds. He spins dark epic tales of unsavory lowlifes, biblical outcasts and desperate life challenges. His between-song patter, while sometimes playful, still carries a palpable capriciousness, that keeps the audience on its collective toes. You get the feeling you should be checking for the closest exit... you know... just in case things get icky... and there's always the chance they could. Whereas Alice Cooper's portent is presented with all the seriousness of a water pistol, Nick Cave's malice appears real. Alice Cooper waves a rolling pin at you like a comic-strip housewife waiting for her drunken husband to return home from a late-night bender. Nick Cave is David Berkowitz stealthily sneaking up to your parked car and shooting you in the back of the head while you're making out with your boyfriend. 

The audience at a Nick Cave show is entertained, but still, made to feel vulnerable. It's thrilling and, at the same time, uncomfortable. It's like pulling back the curtain and instead of seeing Willy Wonka's chocolate waterfall, you witness a Black Mass just as they're getting to the human sacrifice part of the service.

I think if I had seen Nick Cave instead of Alice Cooper when I was 14, I would have sworn off concerts for the rest of my life. Now, as my 64th year on Earth approaches, I'm ready to see what the next concert offers.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

first time

For those of you outside the Philadelphia area, Wawa is a chain of convenience stores that, more recently, have focused on their sandwich, coffee and take-out foods business. With very few exceptions, most Philadelphians love Wawa and visit them often.

There are at least nine thousand Wawas within five minutes of the place where I work. Several times a month, I will stop at one of them to pick up hoagies for Mrs. Pincus and myself. (That might be the most Philadelphia sentence I've ever written!) Last Monday was one of those times.

I usually choose the Wawa at Route 73 and Remington Avenue, just down the street from Pennsauken High School (home of the still politically-incorrect "Indians"). A few years ago, Wawa introduced a convenient touchscreen system to make ordering sandwiches, salads and other prepared foods a breeze. The system is great. It's fast, accurate and requires little-to-no interaction with any other human being. Each step in the ordering process is given its own screen from which a hungry customer can select the type of sandwich, the type of bread, the type of ingredients, the type of toppings and even the amount of said toppings. (Although, the choice of "a little bit of mayonnaise" is still totally subjectable, leaving the customer at the mercy of a hair-netted, name-tagged, minimum-wage earner.) When the order process is completed, a little box spits out a barcoded receipt. The customer takes the receipt to the cashier to scan. The customer pays and returns to the order area to pick up the tightly wrapped sandwich, usually ready and waiting. Regular customers of Wawa are used to the whole procedure and engage in it often. I know I do.

The whole touchscreen system is very intuitive, even for the most technology-fearing customer. This past Monday, while I punched out my selection for two hoagies, I overheard a guy at another touchscreen terminal. Actually, everybody in the place overheard this guy. He was screaming. 

I have noticed that people who insist on talking on their phones everywhere they go, love to scream. They have no issues with discussing personal issues — at top volume — while casually walking down the street, sitting on a bus, standing in a checkout line at Target or just about any public place. Well, this guy in Wawa was screaming into his phone. As the conversation unfolded, it became clear that he was ordering hoagies for someone who had never eaten a hoagie before. It was not clear (but it was a distinct possibility) if the person on the other end of the conversation had ever seen a hoagie. Perhaps these two — the guy at Wawa and his unseen conversation partner — were new to the area. Perhaps they just moved here and were unfamiliar with the local delicacy known as "the hoagie" and how Philadelphians place it in the same esteem as soft pretzels, "wooder oice" and — yes! — Benjamin Franklin and the "Liverty Bell." I would have given this pair the benefit of the doubt — except the guy was sporting a Phillies cap and an Eagles "Super Bowl Champions" t-shirt.

The conversation went a little like this...

GUY IN WAWA: What size hoagie do you want?

VOICE ON PHONE: Size? What do you mean "size?"

GIW: Size! Six inch? Ten inch?

VOP: Well, how big is the ten inch?

GIW(rolls his eyes and stares at the phone): TEN INCHES! Y'KNOW... LIKE TEN INCHES LONG! Y'KNOW BIG!

VOP: Um, then, six inches, I guess.

GIW: What kind of hoagie do you want?

VOP: Well, what kinds do they have? Do they have chicken salad?

GIW: They have the regular kind that everybody has.

VOP: Do they have Italian? Can I get an Italian, but with chicken salad?

GIW: What? No, they don't have chicken salad! You just want an Italian hoagie, then?

VOP: Well, what's on an Italian hoagie?

GIW: I don't know! I guess the regular stuff that's on an Italian hoagie anywhere!

VOP: Do they have cheese? Can I get cheese? Do they have Swiss cheese? Can I get Swiss cheese on my Italian hoagie? You say they don't have chicken salad? I really wanted an Italian chicken salad hoagie.

At this point, the GIW walks — no! stomps! — away from the touchscreen area and ducks down one of the merchandise aisles. After a minute or so, he emerges, still speaking into his phone at the very top of his voice.

GIW: ... you can can get lettuce, if you want. Yes, and tomatoes. What? No, they don't have chicken salad.

The number on my receipt was called and my hoagies were ready. I picked them up and left.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

crazy game

My son has become enamored with all things Japanese. He recently visited the Land of the Rising Sun and it only heightened his admiration and love for the country and its culture — especially its pop culture. And Japan is brimming with pop culture. A lot of it is a happy amalgam of traditional Japanese lore mixed with a skewed interpretation of American influence and iconography. This produces an interesting blend that is compelling and flashy, but uniquely Japanese.

My son recently enjoyed? endured? experienced? a screening of a 1985 Japanese cult science-fiction musical comedy called The Legend of the Stardust Brothers. The movie — all 100 confounding minutes of it — started life as a concept album by a non-existent Japanese pop group called The Stardust Brothers. Inspired by the quirky The Rocky Horror Picture Show and the even quirkier The Phantom of the Paradise, Japanese singer-songwriter-producer Haruo Chicada wrote a dozen songs and released the album in 1980. A few years later, filmmaker Makoto Tezuka (son of manga legend Osamu Tezuka, creator of Astro Boy, Kimba the White Lion and a zillion other beloved Japanese animated properties) adapted Chicada's work into a live-action, big-screen presentation.

Although my son got to watch The Legend of the Stardust Brothers in a proper theater, I managed to track down the film on one of the free streaming services available though my cable television provider. On a Sunday afternoon, after watching the Phillies drop an early season game to the beleaguered Washington Nationals, I spoke the magic words — "The Legend of the Stardust Brothers" — into the voice-activated search feature on my cable box remote control. My TV screen came alive with several options on which I could view my son's cinematic recommendation. With a few quick navigations, I settled back to watch The Legend of the Stardust Brothers.

The film is about.... um.... it's about... well, it's sort of.... I mean.... it's kind of.....

Honestly, I don't know what it was about. I watched it. At its conclusion, one hour and forty minutes after it started, I wasn't quite sure what I had just seen. Admittedly, it was filled with catchy songs. There were two main characters who seem to be just as bewildered as I was. There was a girl and there was a guy with dark glasses and thick sideburns. There were two bumbling inept security guards. There was a guy who looked like David Bowie. There were girls in shiny jumpsuits. There were monsters. There were gangsters. There was a little cartoon. It was colorful and fast-moving. It featured a lot of jumpy camera work and quick cuts. Did I mention that the songs were catchy? 

Was it bad? No, not really. It held my interest, from a curiosity standpoint. Was it good? No, not really. It was cute, but nearly plotless. The budget for this movie looked to be about 261 yen. (That approximately $1.80 American). But, the songs sure were catchy.

a dedication

I saw The Phantom of the Paradise in its original theatrical release in 1974. I loved it. It was the coolest movie I had ever seen. Granted, I was 13 and it was replaced on my "Gauge of Coolness" just a few moths later by the Who's silver screen adaption of  the rock opera Tommy. I saw The Rocky Horror Picture Show after its midnight showing buzz reached me in my sheltered Northeast Philadelphia cocoon. I ventured down to the exotic world of Philadelphia's notorious South Street to witness the rice-throwing, talk-back-to-the-screen spectacle for myself. Years later, I could definitely see the influence both of these films had on the filmmakers in bringing The Legend of the Stardust Brothers to fruition.

After the final credits scrolled to darkness, I called my son. When he answered the phone, I merely said: "What did you just make me watch?" This echoed my son's own retort after I made him sit by my side to view my newly-purchased DVD of The Phantom of the Paradise approximately two decades ago.

I guess now we're even.

The songs were catchy, though.

The Legend of the Stardust Brothers is streaming for free on Freevee and Tubi.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

who's that girl?

Mrs. Pincus and I made plans to meet some friends for dinner. We decided on The Pub, a restaurant that is somewhat of a local legend in the Philadelphia-South Jersey area. The Pub, as we often joke, is the "land that time forgot." It boasts an enormous dining room appointed with dark wood, suits of armor, various coats of arms and a number of taxidermied animal heads. (Perhaps some which have made it to the menu?) The Pub prides itself on serving huge hunks of steaks, broiled right before your eyes by a battalion of toque blanche-wearing chefs, plying their cooking skills over flaming coals. What — you may ask — would a vegetarian such as myself find to eat at a steakhouse? (Okay, maybe you didn't ask, but I'm telling you anyway.) In addition to a wide selection of animal-based dinners, The Pub also has twin salad bars that stretch a good thirty feet, laden with freshly-cut vegetables, giant vats of dressing, huge bowls of prepared cold specialty salads, house-made corn bread and zucchini bread, wedges of cheese from which guests can cut their own preferred-size slice and their locally-renowned Caesar salad. It's terribly overpriced, but you can help yourself as many times as you like.

Our trips to The Pub always include a pre-dinner visit to a large thrift store right across the street. Over the years, the store has changed ownership several times and now it has joined the ranks of 2nd Avenue Thrift, an international chain of stores — operating under a few different names — with over 300 locations across the United States, Canada and even Australia. Speaking of "the land that time forgot," that's exactly with a trip to a thrift store is. And the shelves at 2nd Avenue Thrift tell a story with every vase, knick-knack, appliance and donated wedding dress on display.

I am not a big fan of thrift shops, but this one I can tolerate. As Mrs. P scours the day's offerings, I usually find myself snapping pictures to post on social media, accompanied by a typical Josh Pincus smart-ass comment that you've come to know and love.... or at least know. 

Our friends — Cookie and Consuelo — arrived a little before we did and already had accumulated a little pile of items in their shopping cart. In the second aisle — the one filled with shelf after shelf of picture frames of varying sizes — Consuelo pointed out something that was definitely right up the Josh Pincus alley. Dotting the shelves among the variety of picture frames, there were a few that stood out like a sore thumb — a sad, neglected, forgotten sore thumb. 

Most of the picture frames were empty. Others had the sample photo that comes in the frame when it is originally offered for purchase in a regular retail store. It's usually a happy couple staring longingly into each others eyes or a serene view of a lake framed by fall foliage, mimicking a photo that you yourself may have taken on a cherished vacation. Stock photos like these are placed in frames much in the way an appetizing photo of a pizza slice or a gravy-drenched Salisbury steak appears on the packaging of a frozen dinner with the inconspicuous disclaimer "SERVING SUGGESTION" tucked just above the net weight. But a few frames showed a photo of a smiling Asian young lady in several different surroundings and in several different outfits. In one, she is beaming, seated at a restaurant table between two women around her age. One of the women's faces is slightly obscured by a large price sticker. The other woman is actually just an arm, but it is most definitely a feminine arm. The subject of the photo is wearing a dark blue shirt with white pinstripes. She is also sporting a blue lei around her neck, leading me to believe that this is a moment from some sort of celebration — captured in time. There is a hint of a gift bag in the foreground, offering further support for my "celebration" theory. Next to this photo was another one of the same young lady. In this shot, she is displaying the same smile as in the other photo. She is seated — rather closely — to a man whose face is mostly covered by a price sticker. They appear to be in a formal setting, like a reception or a fancy restaurant, as the man is wearing a sport jacket and the young lady is wearing a red, sleeveless top, possibly a dress.

Further along the shelf was a fancy frame with another photo of the same young lady. In this one, she is crouched down to put her on the same level as a perky-eared German Shepherd. She's wearing a spaghetti-strap dress and she has a different style to her hair, a possible clue that this was taken in a different year than the other photos. Next to that was a smaller gold frame showing an older couple with a young child between them. Upon closer inspection, one can surmise that the young child is the young lady from the previous photos. The child is wearing pajamas or a costume of some kind and her face is dabbed with colorful make-up, specifically a big red dot on her nose. She is smiling in a similar fashion as the young lady in the adjacent frames. The same older couple (though slightly younger) are in an nearby framed picture. In that one, they are pictured without the little girl, but it is absolutely the same couple. 

Then, there was a larger frame with a slightly older version of the little girl in a swimming pool. She is floating inside an inflatable ring decorated with colorful stripes. Her bowl-cut hairdo is wet against her head, but the smile gives her away as being the same child. Then, there's a group photo in a square frame. It's a typical family including — I can only imagine — brothers, sisters, spouses, cousins and their children posed on the front steps of a home. At the very bottom, next to a happy woman holding a baby and a toddler, is the young girl. Again, she is smiling. It should be noted that everyone in the photo appears to be stereotypical "white bread and mayonnaise" Caucasian, right down to their restricted country club outfits and corporate America haircuts. The young lady is the only Asian in the photo... adding to the gathering mystery unfolding on the thrift store shelves. Further down, separated by several empty frames propped up on their built-in easel backs, was another photo. This one was sort of faded as though its original display spot was a windowsill or a shelf in the path of daily direct sunlight. But there was the young lady, this time in her pre-teen years. She appears to be about eleven or twelve and is posed with two Caucasian girls and a Caucasian boy, all about her age. The four youngsters are gathered excitedly around Chip, the beloved Disney chipmunk, sans his otherwise ubiquitous "partner-in-crime" Dale. Noting the collapsed beach umbrellas in the background, this picture was probably taken on a family vacation at the Walt Disney World resort. I don't recognize any of the other children from the group photo on the house front steps, but I'd venture to guess that they are close acquaintances or maybe adoptive family.

I spent a little bit more time in the picture frame aisle as my wife made her way towards knick-knacks and a wall of bagged, mismatched toys. I looked at the photos on the shelves for a good long time, devising a story about how these frames met their final fate and wound up for sale on the shelves of a thrift shop in Pennsauken, New Jersey. Based on the approximate age of the constant young lady in the photos, I imagine that she was adopted by a member of the Caucasian family also featured in the photos. I envisioned a young couple enrolling into an international adoption program and filing for the adoption of a child from a distant Asian country. They probably took a long flight to the other side of the world to meet their new child and bring her to her new home. On the return flight, they anxiously discussed introducing her to their family — and what would become their new daughter's new family. At first, Mom and Dad (or Grandma and Grandpa) did not approve of the whole affair. Their rigid, upper class, elitist and segregated upbringing shunned the mingling of races. The very thought of an Asian grandchild was positively unheard of and could prove to be an embarrassment in the eyes of their longtime friends at church, the tennis club and other social circles. But, as time went on, they softened. They relented and, most importantly, they came to love their granddaughter as much as they loved their natural-born grandchildren (as is revealed in the third photo described above). The young girl grew up and was accepted by her adopted family. She was welcomed with unconditional love and became a part of the family. And she loved being with her family — really the only family she ever knew.

Then, tragically, the girl passed away. Suddenly. An illness, undetected and undiagnosed at first, but sadly, untreatable, took her swiftly and unexpectedly. When she died, at such a young age with her entire life still ahead, her family was devastated. Soon after the funeral, several members of her family volunteered to gather up her belongings in her small apartment — the apartment she just moved into after landing a new job. Feeling helpless and distraught, they dropped the few boxes of clothing and other belongings off at 2nd Avenue Thrift. In their hurry, they didn't even take the time to remove memory-filled photos from frames. It was just too painful and they weren't thinking straight. The family just wanted to move on and, in the process, hastily erase the memory of their young daughter/granddaughter/cousin/niece. The unfettered employees at 2nd Avenue Thrift just did their jobs. They assessed the haul, priced the individual items and placed them out for sale in the appropriate sections of the store — laying bare the short, bittersweet life of this poor young lady for the vulture-like clientele of 2nd Avenue Thrift to pick over, like the carcass of a mangled animal exposed on the African veldt.

Or maybe she just had enough of this shit cluttering up her apartment.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

the times they are a-changing

Before I begin this story, there are a couple of terms that I reference. One is "rip rap." See that picture above? That's rip rap. According the Environmental Protection Agency and several commercial construction companies, rip rap is described as: "a range of rocky material placed along shorelines, bridge foundations, steep slopes, and other shoreline structures to protect from scour and erosion. Rocks used range from 4 inches to over 2 feet. The size of the rock needed on a project depends on the steepness of the slope and how fast water is moving." The other term is "heartless." Rip rap plays an integral part in this story. So does the term "heartless." But, I'm sure you already know what that means.

In 1837, prominent Philadelphia doctor John A. Elkinton made plans to build a rural-style cemetery on property that he owned — approximately 20 acres — at Broad and Berks Streets. He envisioned a bucolic space filled with winding paths, landscaped foliage and beautifully designed monuments to serve as a gathering place for families — as was the practice for cemeteries in the 19th century. This would be Philadelphia's second such style of cemetery after the celebrated Laurel Hill which occupies 74 acres along the Schuylkill River. After the Civil War, Dr. Elkinton contracted local artist John Sartain to design and supervise construction of a gothic gatehouse, as well as a 67-foot tall obelisk that would serve as a centerpiece of the cemetery. The base of the obelisk was adorned with two bronze plaques honoring George Washington and the Marquis de Lafayette and their achievements in the American Revolution. 

Patterned after France's Père Lachaise Cemetery, Monument Cemetery grew to be just what Dr. Elkinton had hoped for — a pastoral jewel in the thick of Philadelphia's bustling commerce. However, by 1929, Monument Cemetery was considered full. That is, it had run out of room to accept any more burials. When a cemetery can no longer accept burials, it no longer has a source of income. In the days before "perpetual care" was a "thing," loss of income was bad for cemeteries. The grounds became overgrown and unkempt. It slowly fell into a state of progressive disrepair. The once beloved rural gathering spot became a reviled blemish in the eyes of the surrounding neighborhood. It was a neighborhood that was now more interested in urban expansion and no longer felt the need for a glorified "park." The gatehouse was demolished to extend Berks Street. Temple University, founded just after the opening of Monument Cemetery, was slowly but surely growing, adding a medical and dental school as well as a school for teacher training and nursing.

Just after the end of World War II, Temple, a public university under the auspices of the state of Pennsylvania, was looking to establish itself as a commuter school. The addition of parking lots would figure prominently into that plan. A deal was made by Temple to purchase Monument Cemetery, its precious land being the perfect spot for a parking lot and proposed athletic fields. In 1954, Temple University purchased 11 1/2 acres of Monument Cemetery. The remaining land would be acquired by the School District of Philadelphia where it would become the future home of George Washington Carver Elementary School. As part of the agreement, Temple contacted 728 families of relatives interred at Monument Cemetery. Only 728 families could be identified and tracked down — 728 of the over 28,000 bodies buried there. Of the 728, only 300 families responded and those 300 had their relatives' remains and grave markers moved to new burial places, most going to Lakeview Cemetery in Rockledge, Pennsylvania, just outside the city limits in the Northern suburbs. The remaining bodies were moved to a mass grave at Lakeview.... allegedly. Over the years, records have been lost and it is unclear where exactly the mass grave is located. Residents recall watching excavation equipment dig up graves and earthly remains and dump them into the backs of trucks that would drive away... somewhere. The process of moving the bodies and graves took over four years. However, the headstones from Monument Cemetery would experience a different fate.

© pwbaker - flickr

The original headstones and grave markers — some engraved with ornate gothic designs and embellishments — were sold to a local construction company. In 1969, when construction began on the Betsy Ross Bridge, a steel truss bridge that spans the Delaware River between the Bridesburg section of Philadelphia and Pennsauken, New Jersey, the surplus grave markers from Monument Cemetery were strewn haphazardly along the muddy shoreline to serve as rip rap. Although its actual whereabouts have been lost in a clerical shuffle, it is believed that the 67-foot, Sartain-designed obelisk was crushed, its pieces mingled among the other rocks and stones on the banks of the Delaware. The grave stones, however, were not ground up. They were placed in their full, unbroken form on the shore. At low tide, many headstones — with etched names and dates fully legible — can still be seen poking out of the mud and rocks. Some are not the least bit buried.

In 2025, this scenario is perceived as "thoughtless," greedy," "arrogant," and "soulless" on the part of Temple University and the city of Philadelphia. But, in 1954, the neighborhood was only too happy to see the overgrown and abandoned Monument Cemetery cleaned up by the benevolent University in its quest to expand education. They didn't care how the space was "cleaned up" and they certainly didn't care about Monument Cemetery anymore.

Be careful how you judge. Hindsight is 20-20, but sometimes our hindsight could benefit from a stronger prescription.

The story of Monument Cemetery and its fate can be found in greater detail at Hidden City and The Cemetery Traveler.

www,joshpincusiscrying.com