will you still need me, will you still feed me

Tomorrow is my 64th birthday. 

In May 1956, 14-year old Paul McCartney started writing a little ditty about being 64. Despite the onslaught of rock and roll on young Paul's radio, he decided to compose the song in a cabaret style. Eleven years later and riding high on worldwide popularity, Paul dug out his composition and convinced his bandmates in the Beatles to record the tune for inclusion on their groundbreaking Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band. I'm sure John balked, as he often derided a lot of Paul's songs as "Granny music," but the bespectacled Beatle contributed some additional lyrics to the song and it proved to be both endearing and enduring. It went on to be covered by dozens of other artists from Cheap Trick and John Denver to Claudine Longet, The Flaming Lips and Keith Moon. Well, Paul, I find myself asking the same questions that your chorus poses.

When I reached my 60s, I started to think about my own mortality. I know I'm not going to live forever. No one lives forever. For the past few years, around this time of year, I have written about folks that have achieved great notoriety, but that I have outlived. Here are some people you may have heard of that didn't live to see their 64th birthday.

John Banner was an actor who fled his native Austria in 1938 when Hitler's regime annexed his homeland as part of Nazi Germany. He ultimately got his own little revenge by playing buffoonish German soldier "Sgt. Schultz" in the 60s sitcom Hogan's Heroes. Portraying the character as a dimwitted goof gave John a lot of satisfaction. He played other roles — both humorous and dramatic — on television and in movies. He died on his 63rd birthday.

Robin Williams was a multi-faceted, multi-talented actor and comedian. His breakout role as TV's loveable alien "Mork from Ork" was the springboard for a celebrated career that included stand-up comedy, numerous dramatic and comedic films, voice-over work and even an Academy Award. Robin secretly dealt with a lifetime of depression and, after a diagnosis of Parkinson's disease and Lewy Body dementia, he took his own life on August 11, 2014 — my 53rd birthday. Robin was 63.

Audrey Hepburn was the perfect combination of poise, beauty and talent. She starred in a number of popular films from light comedy to musicals to harrowing suspense — turning in stellar performances in each and every role. She was awarded an Oscar, an Emmy, a Grammy and a Tony (the rare and coveted EGOT) and earned herself the moniker of "legend," a term often applied to non-deserving celebrities. But in Audrey's case, she embodied "legend." A life-long humanitarian and advocate for UNICEF, Audrey passed away at the age of 63.

Franklin Delano Roosevelt served as President of the United States longer that anyone else. He was elected for four consecutive terms and is considered by political experts as one of the greatest presidents in US history. Just prior to a scheduled appearance at the UN, he posed for a portrait by artist Elizabeth Shoumatoff. The president said, "I have a terrific headache" and slumped forward in his chair, having suffered a fatal cerebral hemorrhage. He was 63 years old.

Ulysses S. Grant led the Union Army to victory in the Civil War. In 1869, he was elected the 18th President of the United States. He advocated the Fifteenth Amendment to the Construction and is generally considered to have served an effective presidency. After leaving office, he wrote a memoir which he completed on July 18, 1885. He died five days later at the age of 63.

Wilt Chamberlain was arguably one of the greatest basketball players of all time. Standing at a little over seven feet tall, Wilt held 72 NBA records, including the only player to score 100 points in a game. After his retirement, Wilt was the commercial spokesman for several companies including TWA, American Express, Lite Beer and Volkswagen. He owned a nightclub in Harlem and invested in thoroughbred horse breeding. He claimed to have had sex with 20,000 women. He died of congestive heart failure at 63 — with a smile on his face.

Donna Summer enjoyed a successful career as a singer in the disco era. Her string of hit songs earned her the well-deserved nickname "Queen of Disco." She released 18 albums (ten of them certified gold) and almost 90 singles. She even dabbled in acting, playing the aunt of "Steve Urkel" in an episode of the 90s sitcom Family Matters. A non-smoker, Donna passed away from lung cancer at 63.

James Baldwin was a writer, poet and outspoken activist for civil rights. His 1955 collection of essays "Notes of a Native Son," elevated James as a influential voice for human equality. His works raised awareness of sexuality, race, gender roles and class designation. He died at 63 in 1987, while working on a memoir. His publisher, McGraw-Hill, sued his estate for the $20,000 advance they paid for the proposed book. The suit was dropped in 1990.

Mickey Mantle was considered one of the greatest ever to play the game of baseball. With 563 career homeruns, he is the only player in baseball history to hit 150 homeruns from each side of the plate. "The Mick" appeared in 12 World Series and holds eight World Series records. Off the field, his life was filled with tragedy, including a failed marriage, infidelity, poor business decisions and alcohol abuse. He died from liver cancer at 63.

Alfred Nobel was an inventor, holding 355 patents. He is most famous for inventing dynamite. When he died, at 63, he donated his fortune to fund the Nobel Prize which annually recognizes those who "conferred the greatest benefit to humankind."

Rembrandt Harmenszoon van Rijn is widely regarded as one of the greatest visual artists in the history of Western art. He produced work in a wide range of subjects including portraits, landscapes. biblical scenes, animal studies and allegorical depictions. He was a master of light and dark and composition. However, his personal life was fraught with turmoil and legal and financial shortcomings. He died nearly destitute at 63.

William Holden was a celebrated actor, with starring roles in Sunset Boulevard, Sabrina and his Oscar-winning turn in Stalag 17. He held is own alongside Humphrey Bogart, Glenn Ford and George Raft in Westerns and gangster films. He remained popular into the 60s and 70s, as part of an all-star cast in The Towering Inferno, Network and an Emmy-winning performance in TV's The Blue Knight. In 1981, a drunken William Holden tripped and fell in his Santa Monica apartment. He hit his head on a table and bled to death. He was discovered four days later, just inches from a working telephone. He was 63.

Guglielmo Marconi invented the radio. He founded the Wireless Telegraph & Signal Company and was awarded the Nobel Prize in Physics in 1909. Sure, he was a fascist anti-Semite, but — c'mon! — the goddamn radio! He died in 1937 at the age of 63.

Patrick Henry was a noted figure in the American Revolution. A patriot of the first order, he famously declared "Give me liberty or give me death!" Liberty did eventually come, but so did death — 24 years later — at the age of 63.

Tommy Cooper was a popular British comedian known for his manic delivery, silly magic tricks and signature red fez. He died on live television in the middle of his act. He was 63.

Dock Ellis holds the Major League Baseball record for pitching a no-hitter while under the influence of LSD. A famously colorful character, Dock purposely tried to hit every batter in the Cincinnati Reds line-up until he was pulled from the game by his frustrated manager. A heavy drinker, Dock died at 63 while waiting for a liver transplant.

Tomorrow, I turn 64. I never invented anything of worldwide significance. I never set any sports records. I never won an entertainment award. I never inspired a nation to seek independence. My artwork has never been revered for its technical achievements. But... I will — most likely — make it to 64.

I'll let you know tomorrow.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

can you see the real me

The Real ID Act of 2005 is a United States federal law that standardized requirements for driver's licenses and identification cards issued by US states and territories in order to be accepted for accessing US government facilities, nuclear power plants, and for boarding airline flights in the United States. State certification for Real IDs began in 2012 (seven years after the acts implication. Thanks government!) and sort of slowed down immediately (Thanks, government!). My home state — Pennsylvania — received its Real ID certification in 2019. Earlier this year, the US government issued this very stern warning: "Starting May 7, 2025, a federally accepted form of identification — such as a REAL ID, U.S. passport, or military ID — will be required to board domestic flights and enter certain federal facilities" — delivered with a "we ain't shittin' around this time" immediacy. 

My driver's license comes up for renewal in August 2025. I just renewed my United States passport last year, replacing the one that I was issued in 2013 and served me well through many cruises. In order to obtain a passport, I had to supply a federal government agency proof of my United States citizenship, a photo identification, a 2 inch x 2 inch photograph of myself offering the blankest of blank expressions, a completed DS-11 form (including such information as my height, eye color, occupation, other names I may have used in my life and my Social Security number) and a check for $130. Because I currently possess a valid United States government-issued passport, guess what I really don't need? That's right. A Real ID. 

Be that as it may, I decided to gather all of the required documentation and get myself one of them there Real IDs. The Commonwealth of Pennsylvania (just like our friends Kentucky, Massachusetts and Virginia, Pennsylvania is technically not a state) requires the following physical, original hard copies to be presented and examined by one of their crack authentication experts before they feel comfortable in handing over a Real ID. A typical "expert" employed by PennDOT (Pennsylvania Department of Transportation, our DVM, if you will) is usually identified by pants that are too short, revealing droopy, grayish socks inserted into well-worn sandals, a threadbare shirt that sports a plastic pocket protector overstuffed with pens, markers and highlighters of all sorts, a head of unkempt hair and pair of glasses whose lenses are held together by surgical tape. The female counterparts display housecoats similar to the ones my grandmother wore in the late 1970s. Both male and female employees wear an official-looking lanyard, resplendent with keys, magnetic swipe cards and various other clear plastic-sheathed identification — along with some sort of "milestone of employment" pin or a funny little plush clip-on animal. These folks are tasked with scrutinizing the various forms of identification presented by hopeful Real ID applicants. They are the final word on who passes muster and who gets booted on a technicality. They wield a lot of power considering they look as though they all got dressed in the dark, and remained there for the rest of their career. I read and re-read the requirements and assembled (what I surmised) was a valid selection of pertinent identifying papers from the list on the PennDOT website. I grabbed my passport, my Social Security card, a W-2 form from my most recent tax return and a physical paystub from my last paycheck. The last two are to prove my legal residence in Pennsylvania. I could have presented a utility bill or a vehicle registration, but those items are (and have always been) in my wife's name. Aside from a W-2 and a paystub, I can't really prove that I live where I claim to. Of course, I have my nearly-expired driver's license, too.

Real IDs are not offered for immediate receipt in every outlet that PennDOT maintains throughout the Greater Philadelphia area. The only one close to me is about 22 miles away. They offer unusual office hours to accommodate people who work for a living. The only day I could clear without interrupting my work schedule is Saturday. That is also the only day that everyone else in the Delaware Valley finds convenient. Hoping to outsmart to average person, I decided to get to the PennDOT facility a few hours before their 8:30 AM scheduled opening. So, early (re: 6 AM) on Saturday morning, I drove out to the King of Prussia PennDOT office. Imagine my surprise when I pulled into the parking lot to find a line of at least 30 people already queued up at the entrance and snaking into the parking lot. Some had come prepared with collapsible camp chairs. Others brought a book or Kindle. Some sipped coffee from take-out cups and others poked around in a crumpled bag for a doughnut or breakfast sandwich. I hadn't seen lines like this since Beanie Babies were sending avid collectors and harried parents into a frenzy. Folks were chatting as though they were stuck in a slow-moving line waiting to purchase concert tickets or experience a particularly popular theme park ride.

I took my place behind a teenage girl and a woman I assumed was her mother. They sat in separate chairs and occupied their time by scrolling their cellphones and munching on something they kept pulling from their own Dunkin Donuts bag and shoving into their mouths. I overheard a man a little ahead of me tell another that he had gone to the previous night's Phillies-Yankees game in New York. He explained that he got home so late that he just stayed up all night because he knew he'd be coming here early. He also added — without any prompting of inquiry — that the new Yankee Stadium is like a domed stadium without the dome. (I'm still not sure what that means.)

No sooner did I take my place in line, people began pouring out of cars and queueing up behind me. Within minutes, there were fifty, sixty, seventy people behind me. Every so often, I turned to check the progress of the line. There must have been nearly two hundred more anxious Real ID hopefuls ...maybe more that that. 

Several employees scooted between the folks in line to punch in a code and get into the building to start their workday. About thirty minutes before the posted opening time, in a very un-government office fashion, a few employees appeared alongside the line to inquire each individuals plans and to distribute clipboards equipped with the proper forms to be filled in while we waited. It was a surprisingly efficient course of action.

After a while, a sad-looking agent approached me. She was holding a plastic bin filled with clipboards and she had just finished telling a woman in front of me that the papers she brought to prove that her married name was indeed her name were, in fact, invalid in the unwavering, unforgiving eyes of the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania and her, as its sworn representative. The woman, expressing her anger and disappointment, asked plaintively: "So, I'm done here?" The sad-looking Commonwealth agent coldly replied: "Unless you have the proper, required form." The woman angrily folded up her chair and stormed off to her car. The agent asked for the purpose of my visit today. I replied that I'd like to get a Real ID, as I fished around in my wallet for my Social Security card. She asked for my passport or birth certificate. I handed over my passport, even taking care to open it to the page with my photo and printed information. As she examined my passport, she asked for my Social Security card, which I happily presented.

She scrunched up her nose as she looked at my Social Security card through squinted eyes. "What's this?," she questioned, pointing an accusing finger as the prominent letter "M" on the card, comfortably wedged between "Josh" and "Pincus." I applied for and received my Social Security card in 1972 when I was 11 years old. My brother, four years my senior, had just been hired for his first job which required a Social Security number. My forward-thinking, always pragmatic mother, filled out a form for me at the same time. For reasons only known to my mother (dead 34 years now), she entered my name as "Josh M. Pincus." I have never ever ever used my middle name or even my middle initial. Ever. My middle initial does not appear on any other piece of recognized and accepted piece of identification in my possession. But there it was, on my Social Security Card, just above my stupid little boy's signature. "It's not on your passport," she announced with a slight tone of disdain in her early-morning voice. "I realize that.," I said, "It is not on anything! I never use it." "Well," she began to get indignant, "it has to match exactly." I stared at her. I wasn't about to get into an argument with a government worker who only knows the script she memorized on Day One of her employment. Much like a Terminator, government workers can't be bargained with, can't be reasoned with. They don't feel pity, or remorse, or fear. And they absolutely will not give in to your feeble excuses. It became pretty clear that I was not getting a Real ID today. At this point, the sad-looking agent moved on to the next potential applicant and I was told to — in no uncertain terms — "Hit the showers, rookie. You're throwing beachballs." Although I offered my US government-issued passport — a document that will guaranteed me admission to any country on this planet — it was about as useful as a used Kleenex to this certified agent of the Commonwealth. Dejected, I walked over to my car.

On my drive home, I silently argued the pros and cons of a Real ID to myself. I really don't need one. But now, it's me against the state... er.... Commonwealth. I was determined to get one just because that sad little woman told me I couldn't. I called my wife and related the events of the events of my morning. By the time I got home, she had already located my birth certificate, compete with my full middle name, not just that troublesome "M." I'm going to try again next Saturday to get a Real ID.

Even though I really don't need one.

Footnote: Oh, by the way, what does that pesky "M." stand for? It stands for "none of your goddamn business."

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

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

no time for losers

My wife and I went our first cruise together almost ten years ago. Mrs. Pincus had been on a cruise with her family the year before and, when she returned, she did a whole lot of convincing to get me on board (pun fully intended) with the idea.

Once our trip was booked, I really didn't know what to expect. My only frame of reference for going on a cruise was the nine seasons of The Love Boat I had watched and maybe the seven minute excursion into the faux wilderness that is the Jungle Cruise in Disneyland.

In the final week of May 2013, my wife, our luggage and I left New York City's Pier 88 for 7 days of fun aboard the Norwegian Gem. Sure, I knew about the the endless buffets, the spectacular ocean views, the endless buffets, the poolside relaxation, the lavish nighttime staged entertainment and the endless buffets, but I was still unclear about what else there was do occupy my time over the course of a week... you know, besides eating. Well, on Day One we were presented with a full itinerary of activities tailor-made to fit any and all interests. There were sports related activities like basketball and ping pong (not interested). There were seminars about investments (not interested). There were demonstrations of ice carving, cooking and the age-old art of towel folding (somewhat interested). But, my wife and I had a keen interest in the silly game competitions that offered throughout the day. 

At the time, there was a show on television called Minute To Win It inexplicably hosted by TV chef Guy Fieri. On the show, guests would compete against each other in silly little games with the hopes of winning money or prizes. The contests weren't on the level of the Olympics or any professional sports. They were more like the games one would play at a children's birthday party., like carrying an egg on a spoon from Point A to Point B or removing the shaving cream from an inflated balloon with a real, sharp razor. The enthusiastic staff of the Norwegian Gem created their own version of the TV game show, with similar stunts. The prizes, however were not nearly as desirable as those rewarded by a network television show. There were no big screen TVs or diamond bracelets or large stacks of cash. Instead, victors were given a deck of cards or a t-shirt, each emblazoned with the logo of the Norwegian Cruise Lines. Look, we were all there to have fun. We were in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean, away from our everyday lives and surrounded by obscene amounts of food twenty-four hours a day. We weren't physically-fit athletes competing for the honor of representing our respective countries on the world stage. The fact that we were being judged on our ability to stack plastic cups the fastest drove that message home.

For most of us, anyway.

There is something about a cruise that creates human bonding. As the days of a cruise progress, one-time strangers quickly become inseparable friends. I have likened this sea-worthy phenomenon to summer camp for adults. By the end of a cruise, close friendships are formed with folks that have only spent a short time together. These friendships sometimes extend beyond the confining rails of the port and starboard sides of a cruise ship. So, when the time came to choose sides for an hour of frivolous fun, "ship friends" paired up immediately as though these bonds had been in place for decades. Of course, there are a few introverts here and there, but the more gregarious would always welcome the few stragglers into the fray. On one particular session of Norwegian Minute to Win It, a young lady who was sailing alone, expressed a desire to participate in the fun. She was happily welcomed onto a team and the "competition" commenced.

The first round of play involved something with balloons or cotton balls or plastic horseshoes either being tossed or passed or balanced on top of each other. Whatever the object of the game was, everyone was laughing and goofing around and having all the fun they could possibly muster. Some participants were already drunk, which made for an even livelier time. Balls were dropped. Balloons were popped and laughter filled the air. The young lady who was sailing alone began to seethe. She frowned and glared at her teammates. When time was called for this round, her team had placed last. The winning team members were each honored with a cloth drink koozie printed with the NCL logo. The young lady who was sailing alone was furious. Visibly furious. The next game began and, again it was some sort of ridiculous endeavor using spongy balls or an assortment of plastic discs or maybe it employed balloons again. Whatever it was, everyone was having giddy fun. After all, that's what we were here for...
fun! 

Well, most of us, anyway.

The young lady who was sailing alone stomped her feet at the lack of concentration exhibited by her teammates. She saw that the other teams were making higher stacks of discs or popping more balloons or whatever they had to do. Her furrowed brow and clenched fists were strikingly out of place among the insanity that was prevalent among the other competitors. When Round Two concluded and each member of the winning team was presented with a reusable drink cup displaying the familiar NCL logo, the young lady who was sailing alone had had just about enough. Before the next feat was announced, the young lady who was sailing alone raised her voice and announced, "I quit! I will not play any game where I don't win!" She glared with a squinted accusatory eye at everyone before storming off to.... who knows where. We were still in the middle of the ocean, so there weren't too many places to go to avoid your former teammates. Every one was silent for a few seconds, until the air was split with a round of collective nervous laughter. Then we all readied our balloons or mini Frisbees for round number three.

Over the course of the next few days, one couldn't help but run into the young lady who was sailing alone. We saw her at the buffet. We saw her by the pool. We saw her queuing up at the ship's showroom for that evening's performance. 

Everyone saw her, but no one said a word. Almost ten years later, someone wrote about her.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

doin' alright

Today is my birthday. Another trip around the sun and here I am... 63. I am three years away from the age at which my father died. I like to think I am in much better shape than my father was at 63. He smoked a lot. He ate a lot of red meat and he ignored any remote symptom of an illness. It's a wonder he lived as long as he did.  But, I digress....

There are a number of folks who didn't make it to the age of 63. Some... make that all... accomplished way more than I did (thus far) in my life. However, I am still breathing and still have the opportunity to achieve. eh.... who am I kidding. Bottom line, I'm alive and these people never made it to 63... so there's that.

Carl Sagan was a renowned astronomer, long before Neil deGrasse Tyson was everybody's go-to guy for all things cosmos. As a matter of fact, Carl Sagan hosted a popular television series called Cosmos that dealt with the universe, the stars and the possibility of life out there. He was an author and frequent talk show guest, where he would enlighten the unenlightened and propose the very real idea of extraterrestrial life. Unrelated, he was an early advocate for the legalization of marijuana. After a diagnosis of myelodysplastic syndrome and receiving several bone marrow transplants, Sagan passed away from pneumonia at the age of 62.

Edward Smith was the captain of the ill-fated RMS Titanic. In 1912, the Titanic, on its maiden voyage, collided with an iceberg and sank in the north Atlantic Ocean. Smith, like any truly dedicated captain, went down with his ship. He was 62.

Martin Luther was a German priest who famously criticized the Catholic Church and butted heads with Pope Leo X. He was a seminal figure in the Protestant Reformation. He suffered a stroke in 1546 and passed away at the age of 62.

J. Robert Oppenheimer was the director of the secretive "Manhattan Project" and recognized as the "father" of the atomic bomb. A chain smoker for most of his life, he died from throat cancer at the age of 62.

Michel de Nostredame (better known as Nostradamus) was an astrologist and physician, famous for making astonishingly accurate predications of future events. He died in 1566 at the age of 62. He never saw it coming.

Jack Webb was an actor, director, writer and producer. A stickler for detail, he pioneered the procedural police drama way back in the days of radio with his program Dragnet. He brought Dragnet to television and the popular format spawned other shows including Adam-12 and Emergency! He suffered a fatal heart attack at 62. He was given a funeral with full LA police department honors.

Elizabeth Montgomery followed in her father's footsteps in making a career as an actress. She appeared in numerous roles in early television anthology series until her star-making role of lovable witch "Samantha Stephens" in the popular sitcom Bewitched. After eight seasons, she moved on to other, mostly dramatic, roles, including Mrs. Sundance, The Legend of Lizzie Borden and the hard-hitting A Case of Rape. She was an outspoken advocate for gay rights and a frequent guest on TV game shows. She passed away from cancer at 62.

Robin Gibb gained international popularity with his brothers Barry and Maurice as a member of the Bee Gees. In the late 70s "disco era," the Bee Gees were one of the biggest names in entertainment. Robin Gibb toured and recorded with his brothers and even embarked on a brief solo career. He was diagnosed with cancer in 2011. According to his son, Gibb's cancer had gone into remission and he died from kidney failure. He was 62.

Denise Nickerson was an actress, best remembered as the gum-chewing, wise-cracking "Violet Beauregard" in the 1971 film Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory. She was later featured in multiple roles in the gothic soap opera Dark Shadows. Nickerson left show business and found work as a receptionist at a doctor's office. In 2019 and in poor health, she overdosed on prescription medication and fell into a coma. She died at age 62.

Boston Corbett was a whack-job who led the posse to seek out and arrest presidential assassin John Wilkes Booth. Against specific orders, Corbett fatally shot Booth, claiming self-defense. (It was later determined that Booth never drew his weapon nor did he even see Corbett.) After enjoying a reign of dubious fame, Corbett threatened various government officials and was relieved of his military duties at the Kansas House of Representatives. He settled in a cabin in the Minnesota wilderness, eventually dying in a fire at 62.

L. Frank Baum was a prolific writer, penning 14 books in his famed chronicles of the Land of Oz. In addition, he wrote 41 other novels, 200 poems, 42 plays and 83 short stories. Just prior to his death at 62, he had hoped to establish a studio to produce children's films

Louis Chevrolet was a race car enthusiast who participated in the Indianapolis 500 four times, with a best overall finish of seventh place. In 1911, he founded his namesake automobile manufacturing company and later the Frontenac Motor Corporation which made parts for Henry Ford's company.. He died at the age of 62.

Hernán Cortes was a Spanish conquistador who, at the age of 28, embarked on an expedition to Mexico that led to the fall of the Aztec Empire. He succumbed to dysentery at the age of 62.

Lou Pearlman, despite being a piece of shit, created the blueprints for every "boy band" of the 1990s. Starting with the Backstreet Boys, Pearlman was the marketing brains behind *NSYNC, O-Town, LFO and Take 5. He was sued by nearly every band he created and represented. He died in prison at 62.

Toby Keith was a Grammy-nominated singer and songwriter who charted 61 songs on the Billboard Country Music chart. His popularity allowed him to license his name and likeness for a chain of restaurants called "I Love This Bar & Grill," a reference to one of his songs. He died earlier this year at 62.

 

Farrah Fawcett was an actress and the dream girl of every teenage boy in the middle 1970s. With her megawatt smile and iconic feathered hair, Fawcett tried her best to break out of her sex symbol stature with more substantial dramatic roles, including the critically acclaimed The Burning Bed. A documentary about her life and struggle with cancer was produced by her longtime partner, actor Ryan O'Neal and friend Alana Stewart, both of whom were by Fawcett's side when she died at 62.

I may not conquer an empire, develop a devastating military weapon or license my name to a chain of eateries (don't get your heart set on dining at Josh Pincus' House of Veggie Burgers), but, as far as I can see, I still have time to accomplish those goals. 

Or maybe I'll just continue to go to work.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

I left my wallet in el segundo

Ever since I had paper money of my own, I carried it in a wallet. I may have even had a wallet before I was trusted with paper currency. I may have owned one of those vinyl wallets that could be picked off a supermarket toy rack alongside a jacks set, a toy stethoscope or a bag of molded green plastic army men. Maybe my mom bought one of those wallets to pacify a particularly relentless episode of unruliness I was known to exhibit in my youth.

I was taught to carry a wallet by my father, who held the unofficial title of "King of the Wallets." He was never without that solid hunk of worn leather creating a tumor-like bulge in the posterior of his pants. When he withdrew it to pay a check or file some sort of appointment card, it looked as though he had pulled a melting piece of chocolate layer cake from his pocket. The edges of dollar bills were visible along the top, along with some unidentified pieces of paper that could either be a recently-acquired business card or a coupon from a store that he would never set foot in again. Other assorted and unidentifiable bits and pieces sprouted from its knurled, browned edges. My father's wallet was like the Eagles' Hotel California — once something entered, it could never leave. When I met my father-in-law, I saw that his overstuffed wallet was secured with a thick rubber band. I had to tell my father about that! He'd love it. 

When my father passed away in 1993, we were tasked with cleaning out his house in preparation of putting it up for sale. My wife discovered a dresser drawer packed with a dozen or so wallets, unused and still in their packages, waiting for their turn to serve my father in all of his money, credit card and assorted important papers needs. My father bought wallets like some people buy Kleenex.

My first wallets were probably purchased for me at Sears, Klein's, Korvette's or one of the other stores that my parents frequented. They were faux leather and accessorized with a little folio in which to insert photographs. (Yes, kids, before we had cellphones that could hold the equivalent of a lifetime of vacation photos, we had to choose eight pictures to carry around of those people who meant to the most to us.) I filled my wallet with a couple of one dollar bills, my very own, real live social security card (that I still carry to this day, still sporting the childlike scrawled signature of ten-year old Josh Pincus), as well as my membership card in the Archie Andrews' Fan Club and a school photograph of yours truly. 

As I got older, of course, my driver's license took the first, most prominent position in the folio, or the separate little window to keep the most important item sequestered from the rest of the wallet's contents. I remember the 80s trend towards cool and colorful nylon wallets, available in bright colors. I jumped on that bandwagon, proudly toting my cash and identification in a neon pink and lime green rip-stop number with an awesome Velcro closure. I think that was followed by a Mickey Mouse/Pirates of the Caribbean wallet that I bought in Walt Disney World. As an adult, I wasn't the least bit embarrassed to wield that cartoon-emblazoned billfold in a public situation.

Switching wallets was always quite the undertaking. When I determined that my threadbare wallet was ready for replacement. I would empty its contents completely and weed through what was really important enough to warrant a transfer to a new leather home. receipts from out-of-business stores were the first to go. Followed closely by phone numbers with no notation as to who they would reach when dialed and business cards of people I don't' remember even meeting. My new wallet would be slightly — just slightly — thinner and lighter than the one that was just retired. However, it would soon be indistinguishable from its predecessor.

Just recently, I noticed it was time for a new wallet. The stitching along the edge of my current wallet was beginning to show the results of years of being sat on, dropped, opened and closed and opened and closed, as well as the stress of never-used credit cards and supermarket discount club cards pushing against its ancient seams. I searched online and was intrigued by several slim-line wallets I saw at one particular website. The money compartment was flanked on both sides by a few cantilever slots for cards. It was touted as being a mere .45" thick when filled. Plus, it features RFID blocking technology. I don't know what that is and I don't know how it will benefit me, but I'm pretty sure that all of my previous wallets would let RFID run rampant through my precious belongings. So, after a few clicks on this website, a brand new "Buffway Slim Minimalist Front Pocket RFID Blocking Leather Wallets for Men and Women" was on its way to me. 

In a few days, I found myself emptying another wallet and assessing the importance of its contents. While I have several credit cards, I use just one almost exclusively. I still have a twenty dollar bill and three singles that have been in my wallet for almost three years. I have two insurance identification cards and.... well.... that's about it. All my pictures are on my phone, along with any important phone numbers and other contact information. So, my new "Buffway Slim Minimalist Front Pocket RFID Blocking Leather Wallets for Men and Women" is considerably smaller, thinner and lighter than any wallet I have ever owned. Although I am pleased for taking the brave step towards severing any beholdeness to a wallet, I find myself constantly checking to see if my wallet is still in my pocket.

But it sure beats sitting on a misshapen petrified blob for eight hours.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

keep your hands to yourself

What the hell is the matter with men?

Recently, there has been a lot of talk and accusations and speculation in the news about the behavior of men. This "hot button" topic was ignited by the actions of one particular man who is seeking the office of President of the United States. He has been recorded, both on audio and video, happily bragging about his exploits with women. It seems — at least the way he tells it — that he could see no difference between whether his advances were welcome or unwelcome. I don't wish for this to turn into a political commentary. As a matter of fact, I have purposely steered clear of any sort of political content on this blog, save for this single post during the current campaign season. Instead, I wish to address the outrageous behavior I have witnessed from men in the workplace... and how, as a man, it horrifies me.

Years ago, my wife's friend was married to a man whose behavior could be deemed as "unsavory." He worked as a copier repairman, a job that required him to go from office to office to service out-of-commission copiers. I have worked in many offices and encountered many copier repairmen. Our interaction was usually limited to a cordial "hello" when they arrived, followed by direction to the copier in question. Then, an hour of so later, he'd return, straightening his tie with toner-stained hands and asking for a signature on his work order. And that's it. He's out of your life until the next time the copier acts up... and even then there's no guarantee that the same guy will show up. Well, the guy we knew was fired from his job for sexual harassment. It seems he made an inappropriate comment to a secretary (a woman he did not know) at an office where he was not an employee. I can't figure out how the opportunity arises to have a conversation with someone in a workplace in which you are a guest — let alone — breach the conversation with a lascivious remark. He managed to get another job at a rival copier repair company and — wouldn't you know — he was fired again for the exact same offense, but at a different office!

At my last job, I briefly worked with a department supervisor named Mike. Mike was an intense, frenetic bundle of nervous energy. My position, at the nation's largest after-market auto parts retailer, was in the production of the company's newspaper advertisements. I worked in a large room of cubicles with ten other artists, all doing the same thing — and that was preparing multi-page circulars for newspaper distribution. Due to the breakneck pace that needed to be maintained, we employed the services of a number of artists who worked as outside contractors (or freelancers, if you will). One morning, Mike was sitting with a female freelancer at the cubicle just behind mine. He was explaining how he wanted a particular ad composed. After she bristled several times at Mike's leering usage of the word "sweetheart," she bolted from her desk when he placed an uninvited hand upon her exposed knee. The young lady stormed in the department head's office and, in a hail of obscenity-laced shrieks, she made it clear that she would never set foot on these premises again. Mike was reprimanded, though not firmly enough. Within a day or two, he was the object of several grievances from a number of other female employees, including one long-time production artist who was subjected to Mike delivering a lengthy instruction while his eyes laser-focused on her chest. Once again, Mike was chided for his behavior, but not fired. He allegedly attended sensitivity classes, but I noticed no change in his demeanor. Eventually, Mike pushed a male worker too far and the guy — who bested Mike in the height department by nearly half a foot — had to be restrained. Mike quit the next day.

At my current job, a man in an executive position regularly spoke in derogatory terms about women (as well as various ethnic and religious groups). Almost immediately after taking the job, he began to use the foulest of language and make the most inappropriate comments at the most inappropriate times to the absolute wrong people. He also (so I heard) made unwanted physical contact with a few female members of my department.

Although he was reprimanded many times, he was not let go. I speculated (as had been the case with Mike) that filling his position was a long and grueling process. It was a procedure that the company did not want to undertake again so soon. So instead of doing the right thing, they just stuck it out with this guy until they could no longer take it. He was eventually removed for reasons that were never made public. One morning he was there and, late in the day, he wasn't.

I have been in the workforce for a little over thirty years. I have always maintained a cordial working relationship with all of my coworkers. I made sure, however, I never got too ingratiated on a personal level. I remained friendly enough to achieve the common goals as set by our employer.

I have had many female immediate superiors. I actually prefer working for a woman than a man. Women, I have observed, are harder and more dedicated workers, while men, for the most part, are egotistical blowhards who are more concerned with wielding authority than actually accomplishing the job at hand. (There are some women who fit this model, though they are few and far between.) Over the years, I did gain "work friends" — some of them female — that I have kept long after I left the company that brought those friendships to be. I like them very much, but I am still a bit uneasy hugging them.

I will say, however, that I have always been very careful with female coworkers. In my personal life, I am not a "hugger." I am not comfortable hugging anyone who is not my wife or my son. It's nothing personal. I like many people that I just won't hug. I admit that it can get awkward, especially since my wife has no problem being "huggy-kissy." In the workplace, I have always been very careful not to touch a female co-worker in any way. I will not (nor have I ever) compliment a female coworker on clothes, hair, jewelry... anything. I fear that any — any — innocent contact or attempted compliment could be misconstrued and jeopardize my employment status. You never really know how someone is going to react, so, as they say, "better safe than sorry." Very sorry.

It is a revealing reflection of current attitudes that, for the first time in the history of the United States, a major political party has nominated a woman as their presidential candidate... and the man she's running against is disgusting.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

my shit's fucked up

Medicated!

In 1857, Joseph Gayetty introduced the public to "Gayetty's Medicated Paper for the Water-Closet." Prior to Mr. Gayetty's invention, people used some of the most primitive, unsanitary and barbaric methods of... of... well, cleaning up after themselves after using the bathroom. I'll skip the gory details and say that Mr. Gayetty doesn't nearly get the credit he deserves. His name, in my opinion should be spoken with the same reverence as Benjamin Franklin and that lying, thieving, claim-jumping bastard Thomas Edison. Gayetty's folded sheets of aloe-enhanced disposable cloths were the standard in bathroom cleanliness, remaining relatively unchanged for nearly four decades. Obviously, it was a vast improvement from the previous way of taking care of business and the public was duly satisfied. 

We're on a roll now!

Just before the turn of the twentieth century, paper manufacturing brothers Clarence and Irwin Scott made a slight improvement on Gayetty's medicated paper. Instead of neatly folded stacks, the Scotts put 1000 perforated sheets on a continuous roll. Once again, the bathroom tissue industry was revolutionized. The Scotts made a fortune and a new market standard was achieved. Over the years, many attempted improvements were developed and introduced, but they never caught on and were dismissed as fads and novelties.

In early 2001, paper giant Kimberly-Clark (who, six years earlier had acquired competitor Scott Paper), decided that it would try to improve upon the unimprovable commodity of toilet paper, despite extensive market research telling them otherwise. Against better judgement, they launched a product called "Cottonelle Fresh Rollwipes" in a very aggressive, nationwide campaign. They flooded every available advertising outlet — newspapers, television, magazines. They even got Jay Leno to give a live plug on the Tonight Show. Kimberly-Clark anticipated $150 million in sales the first year and America to change its collective approach to lavatory tidiness. Not surprisingly, it didn't pan out to the company's expectations. The $35 million media blitz was a bust, when a planned goodwill tour by a mobile restroom was cut short when the public's focus turned to personal safety rather than personal hygiene after the attacks on September 11th. However, Kimberly-Clark was determined to make this thing work goddammit! and production of Cottonelle Fresh Rollwipes continued, although company executives revealed that "sales are so small they aren't financially material."* (Cottonelle Fresh Rollwipes have since been reimagined and no longer come on a roll. They come in a tub and are known as Cottonelle Fresh. They are marketed the same as baby wipes. Sales are light.)

So, things stayed pretty much the same as they had been. People were satisfied with the post-number two cleaning process and all was good in the world. Other companies (oh, I'm looking at you, Nabisco!), not content with the unwavering success of their products, looked for unnecessary improvements, But, as far as the bathroom was concerned, it was business as usual.

W A R N I N G !
I was pretty discreet and restrained in the first part of this blog entry, but the gauntlet has been thrown, the gloves are off and — pardon my all-too-obvious pun — the shit is about to hit the fan.

Now, all of a sudden, someone thinks humans have been shitting the wrong way and they are determined to correct our misguided elimination process. Look, no one has to be taught how to shit. Cavemen shit. Primitive tribes shit. Babies shit without instruction. As they get older, they only have to be taught where to shit, not how to shit. Shitting is an instinct, like breathing. It's something we just do. And if we didn't, we'd die. See? It is a lot like breathing.

I got an email from Bed Bath and Beyond the other day. I get emails from them frequently because I bought a box of Keurig K-Cups from them four years ago and now I'm stuck on their mailing list. Actually, they were the inspiration of a blog entry, so I don't unsubscribe in hopes I can be inspired/pissed off again. Bingo! Payoff! This particular email touted a product called "Squatty Potty," a footstool that, evidently, the human race should have been using all along because we have no idea how to shit. Really? Really? According to the ad, the shrewd entrepreneurs on the show Shark Tank loved this. I guess, as smart as they are, they don't know the correct way to shit either. So, now they're shitting correctly and making even more money by investing in a combination footstool/shitting aid. No wonder I'm not rich. 

I can understand a garden hose that coils itself up after the water is turned off as an improvement on the standard green hose we've been sold for for years. I certainly understand the need for a microwave oven that can cook food faster than that big, bulky oven that takes up so much floor space your the kitchen. Phones without cords — great! A GPS over a road map or stopping to ask directions — absolutely! But, come on! Convincing me that, after thousands and thousands of years, someone has determined that people require a change in the way they shit? And that information doesn't come from the Surgeon General or some similar official? Instead, it comes from a couple of guys with a website, four rich investors with dollar signs in their eyes and a chain store that proudly accepts their own expired coupons?!?

You gotta be shittin' me!

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

*quote from an article in The Wall Street Journal

i've loved these days

My boss sent an email out to the entire department yesterday morning. She titled it "Josh Pincus is Dedicated" and it went like this:

He will probably be mortified, but I had to share that our very own Josh Pincus had perfect attendance once again this year. Here's to Josh for coming in every day, despite knowing what awaits him. 

Wow!, I thought, I'm either really dedicated or a glutton for punishment. Then, I thought back to the very beginning, to my first real job in the graphic design field. I worked in a small graphics studio not far from my house. I did what was called "paste-up." You old-timers know this process well. It involved X-Acto knives, T-squares and sticky, adhesive wax for the physical cutting and pasting of galley type. These tiny bits of paper were carefully affixed to stiff board for the purpose of making printing plates. If this evokes quaint visions of Johannes Gutenberg pulling a lever to tighten his auger-driven printing press, you're not far off. Compared to the computerized turn the printing industry has taken, the jobs I held a mere thirty years ago seem like something right out of The Flintstones.

My next jobs pretty much mimicked that first one. It wasn't until 1995 that I got my first job where I didn't keep a box of Band-Aids on my desk. It was here, at a national legal publisher, I began working exclusively on a computer and never looked back. After that, all subsequent employment required computer skills, on all of which I am, for the most part, self-taught.

But perfect attendance in the workplace is a pretty common thing for me. I have maintained that practice in every job I have ever had. Regular attendance is pretty important to me. I think it is pretty important to your employer, too,  and since he's the one signing your paycheck at the end of the week, abiding by his priorities goes without saying.

I have only missed here and there over the past thirty years, with the exception of scheduled vacation days and that time I served on a federal grand jury. In August 1987, I ran out of work one afternoon because my pregnant wife was having labor induced after missing her projected due date by nearly two weeks. More recently, I used all of four acquired "sick days," for a hospital stay when I was treated for a nasty bout of cellulitis, a bacterial infection that still makes me cringe when I think about it.  It was the first time I had been a hospital patient since 1966. Later the same year, I dealt with an excruciatingly painful kidney stone, but thanks to carefully-regulated doses of Percocet, I was often uncomfortable, but I still didn't miss a single day of work.

I didn't even miss a full day of work when my grandmother died. When encouraged by my boss (my boss at the time) to take a full day, I explained that the only reason I was going to the funeral was to make sure they put that evil witch into the ground where she belonged. I was happy to be back at my desk before lunchtime.

I don't know where the motivation came from. It's not like I didn't cut my fair share of classes in high school. It may have something to do with the amount of extra work that awaits me when I return from that rare work absence. So, after so many years and so many jobs, I was finally recognized and rewarded for something that just came as second nature to me.

Maybe I deserve a day off.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

woman with the strength of ten thousand men

For thirty years, my wife's parents owned and operated a general merchandise business in a weekend-only farmers market that, itself, opened in the early years of the 20th century. The market, founded by William Zern, in 1922, has served as a one-stop shop for curios and collectibles, as well as fresh produce and the odd cut of meat, with a decidedly rural appeal (One stand boastfully advertised "pig stomachs — cleaned and ready to stuff." Mmm-mmm!) The sprawling maze of a building is located a one-hour's drive outside of Philadelphia, in the tiny country hamlet of Gilbertsville. Despite its proximity to the fifth largest city in the country, when the folks of Gilbertsville refer to "the city, " they mean Reading, Pennsylvania, the county seat of Berks County, with a population of 88,000. No one would dare venture to Philadelphia, because of the regularly-reported murders and the blacks and homosexuals that live there. The other intriguing aspect of the area I collectively — and dismissively — call "Gilbertsville," was Confederate flags were a constant best-seller in the store. My father-in-law could barely keep up with the demand and the inventory would routinely sell out.

The Walt Disney of Zern's

When I got married, I joined my wife and new in-laws in the family business on Saturdays. My young family needed the extra income and I found the quirky and quaint customer base somewhat amusing. When my son E. was born, he occupied a small playpen behind the cash register counter and, as he got older, he was put to work as well. Begrudgingly, but he worked just the same.

Over the course of thirty years, many different businesses came and went in the contracted stalls surrounding my family's concession. Some stayed for a few weeks before throwing in the retail towel, others were steadfast and remained for decades, sometimes being passed to the next generation. In the waning years of our tenure, a custom framing store opened just across the main aisle from my in-law's business. In addition to picture framing services, they offered a variety of pre-framed prints and posters, ranging from scenic depictions of lakes and mountains to reproductions of famous works of art to novelty pieces suitable for a dorm or kid's bedroom. It was here that we met Adeline. She worked as a salesgirl for at the framing place and she became instant friends with my son. They bonded on the commonality of music, movies and their closeness of age (Addie was one year older than E).

One Saturday, as Addie's high school graduation approached, she came to Mrs. P and me with a look of dead seriousness. 

"Can I ask you guys a question?," she began. We smiled and assured her she could ask anything.

"Do you think three-hundred dollars is enough to move to California?," Addie asked in all earnest.

My wife and I looked at each other, first wondering why we were being asked and not her parents. Then, simultaneously, we felt flattered.

I answered first. "Sure," I said, "if you only plan on staying for an hour and a half," adding that last part in typical smart-ass fashion. Mrs. P offered more motherly advice.

"Why do you want to know?," Mrs P asked.

Addie proudly replied, "I think I'm gonna move to California after graduation. Y'know, to see what it's like." She didn't have a trace of fear or apprehension in her voice.

Sure enough, within the next week or so, Addie gave her employer the customary two weeks notice. She told us she found an apartment online in the affluent La Jolla section of San Diego. She would be sharing space with several students at the city branch of the University of California. Although we were a bit wary, we expressed our congratulations. We told her that we were planning a late summer vacation to Disneyland, a mere 90 minutes from San Diego. We exchanged cellphone numbers and promised her we'd take her to a San Diego Padres game if we could meet up. Addie said her goodbyes and headed off to California. We were convinced that someone was sure to murder her within the first week.

Later that summer, when we arrived in Anaheim, my wife called Addie. We expected her to answer the phone in tears, spinning a tale of how she is confused and destitute and how she should have never made this trip. Instead, a chipper Addie was excited to hear from us, explaining that she cleared her work schedule — as a sales clerk at Nordstrom's — and was looking forward to the ball game. She gave us directions to her apartment.

Addie & E. keeping mum at Petco Park

The next day, we headed down Interstate 5 in our rental car. We carefully followed the directions, knowing that some ramshackle shit-hole would be waiting for us at the end. As we pulled into the neighborhood and got closer to the address, we were pleased, impressed and a little dumbfounded. The area was gorgeous! Soaring palm trees surrounded beautiful, modern architecture and meticulously landscaped grounds. We located the gated complex and, after identifying ourselves at the front entrance intercom, Addie buzzed us in. Addie met us outside of her unit, looking healthy, happy and — with a pair of rubber dish-washing gloves encasing her hands — domestic. She grabbed her purse, said goodbye to a roommate and we left for Petco Park. We had a great time reminiscing, talking about Zern's and asking about her summer and future plans. After the game we took Addie back to her place. Mrs. P and I, feeling like surrogate parents, bid her "goodbye." However, we lost touch with Addie for a while.

A few years later, I left work for the day and was walking through the train station, when I heard someone call out: "Hey! Josh!" I whipped my head around and there, climbing a set of steps, was Addie. She clutched a stack of books in her arms. She told me she had spotted me a few days earlier, but couldn't get my attention. I asked her what she was doing and she informed me that she moved back to the area and was taking classes at Temple University. I told her that E. attended Temple. I gave her his phone number. I told her how nice it was to see her and we parted in opposite directions. When I got home, E. quizzed me.

"Guess who I'm having lunch with tomorrow!," my son asked, and — not waiting for a response — answered the query himself, "Addie!"

"Cool!," I said. I told him I ran into her in the train station. She sure wasted no time getting back in touch. E. met Addie several times for lunch and bumped into her often in-between classes. Then, we lost touch with Addie for a while. Again.

Every summer, my family attends a three-day outdoor music festival sponsored by the radio station that now employs my son. My wife and I spread out a big blanket on the grass near the top rim of the natural amphitheater where the show is held. Our "spot"  becomes sort-of a congregating place for E.'s friends and other people that we have met at past year's shows. Two years ago, to our surprise, Addie just showed up on our blanket. After greetings (and a maternal hug from Mrs. P), Addie told us that she hears E. on the radio all the time, proudly telling everyone that she actually knows him. We all chatted more, getting up-to-date on each other's general activities, until I finally asked her, in my most parental way, what sort of plans she had for the future. Addie, absentmindedly twirling a piece of grass between her fingers, answered that she'd like to work with people and also be able to work outdoors. Instantly, I suggested that she look into becoming a park ranger for the National Park Service. Addie lit up as I told her that a friend of mine worked as a park ranger and loved it. Addie sat with us for most of the day until she had to leave early. She was working the night shift at an O-ring factory near her childhood home (Gilbertsville!, as far as I was concerned). We explained that we'd be in the same place tomorrow and she said she would see us then. The next day, she called E. to say that she was going to a party with some members of a band that had performed the previous day. Oh, Addie! What a character!

"Look, Ma! No fear!"

When last year's festival rolled around, I emailed Addie to asked if we'd see her at the show. She replied saying she would be unable to attend. But she had an awesome excuse. She was in Colorado training to become a park ranger. Through the miracle of the Internet, Facebook and Instagram, we followed Addie's progress as she chronicled her journey and diligently worked her way to fulfilling a dream. 

Addie missed this year's music festival, but, again, she had a legitimate excuse. She was busy spending time outside — communing with nature and meeting new people in her new job. Addie is a park ranger. And Addie is pretty proud of herself, as she should be.

Mrs. P and I couldn't be more proud if she was our own daughter.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com