just a perfect blendship

I don't remember exactly when I met Janie, but I'm glad I did.

I had a modest amount of friends in high school, both male and female. I was close with some, while others were "people I just knew." You know, I saw them in school — perhaps they were in some of my classes (the ones I actually went to) — but I never got together with them outside of regular school hours. Of course, there were my closer friends, the ones I hung out with and bonded with for the four years of high school... and some years beyond.

Janie was a truly great friend. I didn't realize at the time just how great a friend she was. When we met (whenever that was) we bonded instantly. I don't really know how much we had in common, but our personalities just clicked. In hindsight, she was a true and loyal friend and we never had a cross word or disagreement. I cannot even say that for some of my closest friends. I butt heads plenty of times with Albert, who was undoubtedly my best friend in high school. Sometimes our animosity would keep us from speaking for days, even weeks. Sure, we would eventually reconcile and "forgive and forget," but that never transpired with Janie.

Janie and I got together frequently. We would grab something to eat or go to a concert or a movie or just hang out. I saw Tim Curry in concert with Janie at the tiny Shubert Theater in Philadelphia in 1978. It was a terrific (and intimate) show and I recall embarrassing Janie when I screamed "HI TIM!" at a particularly quiet moment in the evening's performance. Tim stopped and peered into the audience, using his hand to shade his eyes from the spotlight. I laughed and Janie playfully tried to distance herself from me while feigning humiliation.

Janie asked me — possibly begged me — to accompany her to see the sprawling, three-hour-plus epic that was Warren Beatty's Reds. I suppose she had exhausted all of her options before she relented and dialed my phone number. I went — because that's what friends do — even though I knew nothing about the film or its history or its subject matter or, specifically, its length. After an hour of so of fidgeting in the dark and shifting in my seat, I whispered to Janie that I had absolutely no idea what was going on. Jani stared intently at the screen and waved me off with a brusque "shush." At the two hour mark, the lights in the theater came up. I exhaled withy relief, loudly exclaiming, "Well, I'm glad that's over." Janie frowned and informed me this was just the intermission. There was still another ninety minutes ahead. My eyed widened... but I stayed. Because that's what friends do.

I met my wife in early 1982 and I remember Janie giving one of the most excited responses when I told her of my plans to get married. Of course, Janie was included on the guest list. Some of my closest friends from high school were not, as I had lost touch with them or, in some cases, an irreparable falling out had occurred. But, not with Janie. No matter how long the gaps were between contacts, we just picked up where we left off. Because that's what friends do.

In 2010, one of my closest friends took his own life. He had actually known Janie when they were little kids. I reconnected with Janie at a memorial service held in my friend's honor. She had moved out of the area some time previously and had recently moved back to Philadelphia. We made plans to meet for lunch and just a few weeks later, we found ourselves in a little Japanese restaurant in center city Philadelphia talking and laughing like we had in high school. We caught each other up on our respective lives and made plans to not wait so long to get together again. (Unfortunately, that has not yet happened.)

Somewhere along the line, Janie convinced me to join Facebook. (No, I'm not looking to point blame.) In reality, Facebook, for all its faults — and there are plenty! — has provided a convenient platform for keeping tabs on folks from my past in a comfortably passive manner. Every so often, Janie will "like" or comment positively on one of my many (many, many, many) Facebook posts. On birthdays and anniversaries, Janie is always there with a heartfelt greeting or a sweet memory. She has expressed her genuine joy at the path my life has taken and for the loving relationship I have with Mrs. P. And, somehow, I know that Janie's joy is genuine. I see Janie's own accomplishments in infrequent posts (because nobody posts as much as I do) and I give them a "thumbs up" or some sort of sarcastically-backhanded "Josh Pincus" comment — knowing full well that Janie "gets me."

Because that's what friends do.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

i think i'm in trouble

Last week, I wrote about baseball. The week before, I wrote about being an instigator on the internet. This week, I combine the two.

I spend a lot of time on the internet, specifically Facebook. On any given day, I get a lot of suggestions to join various Facebook groups based on my interests or something I may have clicked on or something I searched for on Google or something I discussed with my wife or even something I may have just thought about. You know how the technology has advanced in those algorithm things.

Because I have shown an interest in baseball, primarily my hometown's team, I get a lot of suggestions to join Facebook groups that are devoted to all things Philadelphia Phillies. In an effort to entice me to join, I get to see a post here and a post there from the particular group — sort of a "free preview" as though it was a weekend of free HBO MAX. In typical "Josh Pincus" fashion, I feel compelled to leave smart-ass comments mostly for my own amusement, but also hoping they will cause the algorithm to immediately reject such unwarranted — and unwanted — behavior. So far, it hasn't worked, but I am still mildly amused.

The once-dominant Phillies have hit a late-season snag. After a rocky start, the Phillies turned things around, riding high and defeating opponents left and right... until they didn't. While they still hold a substantial lead over the other teams in the league, the gap has begun to narrow as the season winds down to its final weeks — weeks that will determine who moves on to the coveted post-season. With a glimmer of hope for ending this nasty slump, the Phillies scored a whopping 11 runs on the Kansas City Royals on August 24. The Phils' offense was on fire with bats a-swinging, including catcher J.T. Realmuto knocking two over the outfield wall and racking up 7 RBIs. Every starter in the Philles line-up recorded a hit. Well... almost everyone. Poor Alec Bohm, the Philles usually-stellar third baseman, couldn't hit nuthin' despite five times to the plate. At the end of the evening's contest, the Royals retreating to their clubhouse with their collective tails between their legs, the fraternal assembly that is the current Phillies roster, hung around to congratulate their efforts. Photographers captured a tender and intimate moment as first baseman Bryce Harper, who went 1-5 with an RBI in the game, threw a brotherly arm across the sagging shoulders of Alec Bohm in a gesture of camaraderie, consolation and compassion for his beleaguered teammate. A Facebook group called A2D Radio posted the image with the single word caption "THIS!". Hell, it didn't even need a caption. Everything you needed to know about the team bond these players have for each other was apparent in this photo. Harper's Jesus-like expression of benevolence. Bohm's sadness and frustration with just a touch of hope at the words of his colleague. The dimly-lit, slightly out-of-focus, slightly off-center composition. It was all there. I didn't even need the thirteen hashtags A2D thought were necessary. The initial post generated 41 thousand positive reactions as well as 276 comments, most offering some sort of variation on the "I love this team!" sentiment.

I say most offered a positive comment. Most, not all. Let us not forget about one Josh Pincus, the internet's favorite redheaded stepchild who was only put here to be the cynical smart-aleck that you have come to know and love... or loathe... whichever the case may be. 

Among the outpouring of love, I commented: 

Yeah. I did that. Yeah.... I know. But it made me laugh and that is what is most important. Jeez, it even garnered 32 reactions — granted three of them were angry. But, as they say, there's no such thing as bad publicity. Honestly, I was just making a joke. I'm always making a joke. Some are funny. Some are not. I know that. Depending who you are, none of them are funny, but I can't help that. We each have our own taste in humor. Personally, I don't find Sebastian Maniscalco to be funny, but I think Andy Kaufman was hysterical. I love the Marx Brothers but Laurel and Hardy do nothing for me. I understand that my sense of humor isn't for everyone and I will happily admit when one of my jokes bombs. Just like I'm sure you'll happily admit when one of my jokes bombs.

And then along came a wave of folks who were only too happy to tell me exactly how funny they thought my comment was. On a scale of 1 to 10, they found it to be not funny at all.

I was told, in no uncertain terms, to:

• get my head out of the gutter
• grow up
• grow the fuck up
• come out of the closet (After all, where would the internet be without a homophobic slur. One thing you can say about Facebook, it is consistent.)

In addition, I was informed that "one day I would make a friend," that I'd "probably start gooning all over [my] living room" (I didn't understand that one.) and that I had made a "douche bag remark." (That one I understood.) I was questioned with "Dude? Really?" and "Are you 10?" All in all, it was a funny diversion until I got bored and looked for the next post just begging for a "Josh Pincus" comment.

Will this make me stop making comments on the internet? Are you kidding? Does the Pope shit in the woods? (Oh, you know what I mean.) No sir. This is only the beginning. I am on a mission.

And that mission is to make me laugh. Me. Not you.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

llévame al juego de beisbol

My son acquired two tickets from a co-worker to the Phillies game this week. He asked if I wanted to join him and, of course, I said "Of course!"

I have been going to baseball games since I was a little kid. Though I was not always a baseball fan, I loved the whole experience. I grew into a baseball fan as I got older. But as a young child, my father, who was sort of an executive in the main office of a local chain of supermarkets, would get tickets from various product vendors for his family to sit in the special "field boxes" of the then brand new Veterans Stadium. The Pincuses would go — sometimes even on  a school night — and be ushered all the way down to a sequestered block of seats just a thin cyclone fence away from the field of play. It was exciting to hear the THUD! of the ball hitting the first baseman's glove just a few feet away. Once — in a game against the San Francisco Giants — Chris Spier, the Giants' three-time All-Star shortstop — relayed a routine catch to first baseman Willie McCovey... except he tossed the ball about three feet over the head of the 6-foot-four-inch McCovey.... right to little Josh. In an involuntary reflex, I ducked out of the path of the speeding ball, as my dad quipped, "He was throwing that right to you!"

As a teenager, I worked as a soda vendor at Veterans Stadium. It was a great job for a teenager. My main concern was hustling for a buck. I was less concerned with how — or even who — the Phillies were playing on any particular day. That summer, I made a lot of money (well, a lot for a sixteen-year-old) and still never considered myself a baseball fan. Yet, I went to a lot of baseball games, still surrounded by that unmistakable atmosphere.

It wasn't until the 1996 All Star Game — to be hosted in Philadelphia — that I was really "bitten" by the "baseball bug." The Pincus family purchased a Phillies season ticket plan in order to secure two tickets to the All Star Game. Our plan consisted of four seats for each Sunday home game — a total of thirteen games. Since there were only three of us Pincuses, we would have to do a lot of convincing and cajoling to get someone else to come along and fill that fourth seat. It was a tough task, as the Phillies were particularly lousy at that the time and watching them slog through a typical trouncing was especially tedious. But we went... and suffered. It was a fun experience and our young son got a real kick out of it.

In 2004, the Phillies moved into their new digs — beautiful Citizens Bank Park. By this time, the team had transformed into a real contender. In just four more years, they would go on to win the World Series. We watched from our seats in Section 137 and cheered the Fightin's on. We kept our season tickets for 18 seasons, sometimes going to additional games outside of our plan.

After letting my attention wane for a few years, I recently began following baseball again. Going to a Phillies game is still a fun experience, but the most recent game — the one I went to with my son on Tuesday night against the Houston Astros — was a different experience. It was unlike any of the previous gazillion games I attended over the past 50 or so years.

"What did you say?"

My son and I arrived at the ball park early. We grabbed a quick sandwich from one of the concession stands for dinner and found our seats at the top of Section 132. We settled in as the other seats began to fill in as game time approached. The four seats directly behind us were soon occupied by four young men — three in Phillies jerseys and one daring to sport a rival Astros jersey among a sea of the most notoriously rabid and viscous fans in baseball. I overheard the young men chit-chatting before the game and I noticed that were were speaking in Spanish. Exclusively. It was melodic and I could understand how it was rightly labeled among the world's "romance" languages. At 6:40 on the dot, Phillies pitcher Aaron Nola unleashed a cutter to Jose Altuve and the game was under way. Suddenly, the four guys behind us erupted in baseball "trash talk." I think. They began cheering — like most excited fans — except they were cheering in Spanish. Now, I have not had a Spanish language lesson since my freshman year of high school... and even then I was failing desperately in comprehension. Needless to say, I understand very, very little Spanish. However, just from the inflection in the voices of our seatmates, one easily could tell if they were cheering the Phillies or taunting the Astros. Within the fluid stream of non-stop chatter, I understood certain players' names. Nestled between several Spanish words, a clearly enunciated "Kyle Schwarber" or "Alec Bohm" or "Brother Marsh" (the familial nickname of quirky hirsute Phillies outfielder Brandon Marsh) would ring out — clear as a bell. The rest of it was... was.... well, for lack of a better word... foreign. But it was compelling. I found myself refraining from my usual, game-time shouting to concentrate on the rhythmic, almost poetic chants coming from behind. Within the barrage of words, I understood the venomous "chinga tu madre" hurled at Yordan Alvarez when he singled to center in the top of the eighth inning. After all, when you're learning a foreign language, you learn the bad words first. Throughout the game — inning after inning — the vocal inflections from these guys alternated between joyful and seething. I was there for it and it was spectacular!

At one point, the woman sitting next to me (one of my son's co-workers) smiled and gestured to the fellows behind us. "This is.... amazing!," she said. Now, I am not a fan of the word "amazing" being used willy-nilly to describe decidedly unamazing things, but — to be honest — she wasn't that far off. The entire game took on a whole new exciting vibe. Sure the Philles scoring five runs and keeping the Astros completely off the board was a contributing factor, but. the "second audio track" was a surprising and welcome addition I didn't know I was missing. 

I'm thinking of activating the SAP option on my TV when I watch Phillies games at home.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com