i got your number

I have always been terrible at math. I struggled with math classes from elementary school through high school. I find numbers intimidating. After high school, I attended an art school that did not offer any academic classes. That’s the one I chose specifically because I would never have to deal with a math teacher again. However, a small aspect of my job requires a rudimentary understanding of the most basic of math skills. In those instances, I use a calculator or my fingers or an entry-level equation scribbled on a piece of scrap paper. I hate math and I try to avoid it as much as I can. Numbers and I just don't  seem to get along. 

I like to think, with some exceptions (specifically the notorious “dropped cake” incident that, to this day, remains a contentious subject in the Pincus family saga), that I have a pretty good memory. I remember things from my childhood like vacations (because there were so few of them) and toys that I received as birthday presents. I have vivid memories of those birthday parties (at which I received the aforementioned presents). Of course, I remember lots of details from the numerous television shows I watched as a kid. That knowledge has netted me quite a collection of plastic trophies aboard many a cruise ship – a stellar achievement, if I do say so. 

In my current job, I am required to put to use my keen memory and my poor relationship with numbers on a daily basis. This requisite is not technically related to my job, per se, but it does allow me to enter the building in order to do my job. 

 

Every morning, for the past five years, I pull up to my workplace – a commercial printer - at around 6:30. The parking lot spaces are filled with cars belonging to the folks who work the night shift and there they will sit until the shift ends at 7. The entrance to the building leads through a small portion of the printing plant. It’s a space approximately the size of an airplane hangar which houses printing presses so large that the operator has to actually climb inside it to refill ink or clean press rollers. The paper itself, which comes in enormous rolls, is loaded onto the machine with a forklift. But before I am able to witness the final thirty minutes of the graveyard shift, I must punch a code into a small touchpad mounted on the outside wall next to the locked entrance door. It’s a four-digit number and It remains etched in my long-term memory since I first used it in 2021. I press the correct buttons – each one emitting a different electronic tone with each touch – until I hear a low “BEEP” letting me know the door has been unlocked. It is only then that I can enter. 

Once inside, I follow a designated safety path – delineated by bright yellow painted lines – that skirts the perimeter of the plant. At any given time, a speeding forklift, toting fresh rolls of printing paper or wooden pallets stacked high with printed material, could be crisscrossing the plant floor. These unwieldy drivers rarely yield to their pedestrian co-workers, so sticking to the painted walkway is wise. The path leads to an electronic timeclock. I never would have thought that, at nearly 65 years old, I still be punching a timeclock much in the same way I did at my first part-time job as a teenager. But, life is funny and career paths are funnier, so here I am. The timeclock also requires a four-digit code to start the process of logging my daily work hours. This is a different code than the one that allows me entrance to the building. This code is also stored in the “very important section” of my long-term memory alongside the entrance code. The VIP section is in a different part of my brain from the repository that catalogues such things as “Who played Grandmama on The Addams Family and “What song did Queen open with on the first night of the News of the World tour stop at the Philadelphia Spectrum.” No sir, those four-digit numbers need to be front and center, as they are extremely important and employed regularly. 

 

After I punch in at the timeclock, I turn on my heels and approach the locked access door to my office area. This door is also protected by an electronic lock that is deactivated by a similar keypad as the one outside the building entrance. It also uses the same building entrance four-digit code. Sometimes, if the many printing presses are running, it is difficult to hear the individual button tones as they are pressed. I have to rely on the green light at the top of the keypad to let me know that I touched the right buttons in the right order. If that is done correctly, I still have one more hurdle before I can begin work for the day. 

Just inside the office door is an alarm keypad. Why there is an alarm guarding the design department is beyond me. Aside from a bunch of outdated computers, a pile of cables and power strips and someone’s day-old lunch lying forgotten in the community refrigerator, there ain’t too much to steal. Nevertheless, the alarm is set long after I leave work for the day, so I’m not sure whose responsibility it is, but it's always set. Well, nearly always. Over the past five years, I have been surprised once or twice by an unarmed alarm. On most mornings, however, I have to punch in yet a third unique four-digit code to prevent the obnoxious wail of a siren from sounding off and summoning local law enforcement. That is a very unwelcome situation, especially before the clock strikes 7 AM. So, I enter the correct code until the comforting phrase “DISARMED CHIME” glows assuredly across the green LED display. Much like Indiana Jones navigating his way through a series of obstacles that are keeping him from his ultimate reward, I am ready to begin another productive day at work. That is after I fish around in the darkened hallway for the light switch. 

I have completed the above procedure approximately 1200 times over the past five years. On several occasions, I will sheepishly admit, I have totally blanked on one or all of the three unique four-digit codes. I have found myself staring at the outside keypad, looking at the ten buttons and the zillions of numerical combinations they present. Sometimes, it takes me several minutes to bring the correct information to the “immediate action” part of my brain. Sometimes it happens at every step of my entrance process – the front door, the timeclock, the office door and the alarm. Sometimes, I stare at each piece of equipment as though I have never seen it before, as though I have no inkling of its purpose or how to activate it. Sometimes, I instinctively lift my index finger, ready to punch in a number that I just plain cannot remember… and I stand there, frozen, finger extended, brow furrowed, trying to force the correct four-digit sequence to my frontal lobe where it would be useful. Sometimes, I can remember the code, but I enter it into the wrong device. Sometimes, I need to refer to a note I have stored in my cellphone – a sort of “cheat sheet” with all of the codes and the corresponding electronic instrument.

Other days, I knock out those numbers like I was tying my shoes.

When you reach a certain age, daily routines seem to make life boring. But for me, every day is an adventure.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

sit down, get up, get out

This year — 2025 — marks fifty years that Josh Pincus has been going to concerts. In those fifty years, I have seen a lot of bands. An awful lot of bands. More bands than I can remember. I have seen bands you heard of. I have seen bands you never heard of. I have seen bands I never heard of. I have seen performers from all sorts of varied genres in all sorts of venues. I've seen swing bands and punk bands and classic rock bands — both on their way up and on their way down. I've seen old time crooners and experimental performers. I once saw actress Grey DeLisle (the voice of "Daphne" on Scooby Doo) sing a solo version of "Bohemian Rhapsody" while accompanying herself on the autoharp. Yep, I've seen it all.

Well, almost all.

There's a place in the world
for the angry young man

I am actually surprised by the number of really big names I have never seen. There are bands of which I numbered myself as a fan, that I just plain never saw in concert. Billy Joel, for instance. Growing up in the era of what is now respectfully (or dismissively) called "classic rock," it's strange that I never saw Billy Joel. He played in Philadelphia countless times when I was of prime "concert going" age. But, for whatever reason, I just never saw him. Same goes for Pink Floyd, although missing the Animals tour in 1977, due to a "misunderstanding" with my brother, is still a sticking point. On a smaller scale, I never got to see Shonen Knife, a trio of Japanese guitar-driven punk ladies that give The Ramones a run for their money. Although they have graced many small stages in my hometown over the years, I just was never able to coordinate a time to get to see them. When Billy Joel resumed touring after a brief hiatus from the stage and a permanent end to his recording career, I was encouraged to see him by a few friends. I declined, saying that I want to see cool 1977 Billy Joel, not old Billy Joel in the 21st century.

Old man, take a look at my life

Almost thirty years ago, a concert was announced in nearby Camden, New Jersey at the current Freedom Mortgage Pavilion, the shittiest venue on the East coast. Freedom Mortgage Pavilion has gone through a long list of monikers since its opening as the awkwardly-named "Blockbuster-Sony Music Entertainment Centre" in 1995. The headliner for this show was Neil Young. His supporting act was up-and-comers Ben Folds Five. I was never ever a fan of Neil Young, Crazy Horse, Crosby Stills Nash & Young, Buffalo Springfield or any other band that featured the globally-revered Canadian singer-songwriter. I was, however, a huge fan of Ben Folds Five and their self-titled debut album. I joked, at the time, that Mrs. P and I could buy one ticket for that show. I'd go in to see Ben Folds and company perform their brand of infectious piano-driven rock and roll. When their set was finished, I'd come out and pass my ticket to my wife, where she could enjoy the six-string guitar stylings and high-pitched whine of Mr. Young. (I know. I know. Cheap shot.)

Last night, I checked two performers off of my "never saw live" list. I don't really have a list. I hate making lists. That's just for dramatic effect. I like "dramatic effect" more that I like making lists.

The Dream Police - da da da da da da da

Earlier this year, classic rock icon Rod Stewart — Rod the Mod, if you will — announced the end of the large-scale touring portion of his career with an eighteen-city tour called "One Last Time." Rod clarifies that, at 80 years old, he has no plans to retire. He states he loves singing, he has a full head of hair (famously cut in his trademark choppy shag) and is still physically fit. He will still continue his residency at Caesar's in Las Vegas in the fall when this tour concludes. Mrs. Pincus, besides being a long-time, devoted Dead Head, has been a fan of Rod Stewart for about as long as she has followed Jerry Garcia and his trippy pals. But, as a veteran of numerous concerts, has never seen the soccer-loving singer perform live. Without going into detail, we were gifted two tickets to the Philadelphia stop on Rod's final tour. I was not then, nor have I ever been, a fan of Rod Stewart, but I was happy to attend with Mrs. Pincus... plus Midwest rockers Cheap Trick were opening each date as Rod's special guest. I always liked Cheap Trick. I owned copies of Heaven Tonight, Live at Budokon and Dream Police when I was in high school, yet Cheap Trick was one of those bands I never got to see live.

The night of the show finally rolled around and my wife and I found ourselves in the midst of a sea of old people. We parked and trudged up to the front gates of the venue along with hundreds and hundreds of bent-over folks wielding canes to assist their balance and their walking ability. I marveled at the crowd that was drawn to a Rod Stewart concert in 2025. I scanned the faces of the attendees — shuffling along with their heads down and bumping into other shufflers, lining up to purchase 26 dollar plastic cups of wine and 10 dollar slices of pizza, stopping to look around (right in the middle of moving foot traffic) as though they had forgotten where they were. (According to my wife of 41 years, I obviously haven't looked in a mirror lately.) We found our seats with the help of two unhelpful ushers and one very helpful one. Having arrived particularly early, we occupied our time by playing Wordle on our cellphones, something I don't recall doing in the the minutes leading up to Fleetwood Mac taking the stage at the Spectrum in 1977. The venue seats filled in with people dressed as though they were attending a pitch to purchase a time share, all sporting either sour scowls or slack-jawed stares. Much to my dismay, these people are officially my peers... whether I like it or not.

We're all all right! We're all all right! 

The lights dimmed at 7:30 on the dot. None of this "we'll start when we feel like it" bullshit for the older crowd. We have self-imposed curfews, you insolent whippersnappers! The PA blared "Ladies and gentlemen, the best fucking rock and roll band - Cheap Trick!" and the four members of the band sauntered out to the stage. (Side note: I have a long-time gripe with bands comprised of one [or none!] original members under the guise of the band you know and love. Cheap Trick currently includes three of the four founders, although bassist Tom Petersson left for seven years in the 80s, but returned. Enigmatic drummer Bun E. Carlos retired in 2010 and was replaced by guitarist Rick Nielsen's son Daxx. Daxx has been keeping the rhythm for fifteen years. In my convoluted rules, they are still Cheap Trick, despite a small adjustment in personnel. Queen....? That's another story.) The volume shot up and Cheap Trick ripped into their raucous cover of The Move's "California Man," a song which they have made their own. This was followed by hit after hit after hit. Rick Nielsen switched guitars about thirty times, each one more elaborately decorated than the previous, and frequently doused the first few rows with handfuls of guitar picks. Lead singer Robin Zander — at 72 — still shows off his pin-up boy good looks and his virtuoso vocals still sound as good as they did in the 70s. Cheap Trick still has regular album releases (A new one is coming in October! Brace yourselves, kiddies!) and tours constantly. As evidenced by certain members of the audience, Cheap Trick is still someone's favorite band. Their set most definitely woke up the Rod Stewart crowd who were counting on a brief nap before the headliner began.

Young hearts be free tonight

When Cheap Trick took their final farewell bows, I noted that signing Cheap Trick as the support band on this — or any — tour was a gutsy move on the part of the tour promoters. They are a tough act to follow. The fact that the overwhelming majority of the audience was there to see Rod Stewart could only be the show's saving grace. Dozens of crew members quickly and efficiently cleared out any remnants of a Cheap Trick performance as they readied things for the elaborate production that would be Rod Stewart's final large scale hurrah. Admittedly, I was never a Rod Stewart fan. I didn't dislike Rod Stewart in the way of a ....say... Dave Matthews. I just never purchased a Rod Stewart album, but I didn't switch the station if I heard a Rod Stewart song on the radio. Rod and his band — a guitarist, a bassist, a drummer, a stand-out saxophonist and a group of six young ladies - fresh from a Robert Palmer video - would provide some lively and complementary backing vocals, as well as a plethora of assorted instruments — kicked things off with a high-energy rendition of Rod's creepy 1984 hit "Infatuation." From then, it was a showcase of Rod Stewart's greatest hits, including highlights from his time as lead singer of Faces and his celebrated solo career. "Ooh La La," "Tonight's The Night," "Maggie May," "Young Turks" — they were all there and punctuated by some very compelling and high-tech staging and imagery. Rod even covered "It's a Heartache," the 1977 Bonnie Tyler hit. This probably furthered the confusion of those who assumed that Rod and his signature raspy vocals was behind the song originally. All in all, Rod Stewart is a true showman. With the exception of the few instances he disappeared for a costume change, at no time was he not the focus of the various antics taking place on the stage. The band, with the six ladies at the forefront, was given a place in the spotlight while Rod retreated backstage for a brief respite and wardrobe refresh. But when he returned, it was all Rod, all the time. Rod Stewart is 80 — 80! — and he's got better moves than performers a quarter of his age. Rod barreled though a comprehensive overview of his seven decade career. He wiggled and shimmied and shook and kicked. At one point, the one-time hopeful professional soccer player, butted soccer balls off of his blond-tressed head into the frenzied audience. (Um... he's 80!) He even plucked a bewildered toddler from the audience — sporting an "I ♥ ROD" t-shirt — and deposited her on the stage  to the delight of her parents and the crowd. The night drew to a close with a heartfelt take on "Some Guys Have All The Luck." A very fitting sentiment.

While this show didn't make me a fan, it was a pretty entertaining night. The company was great. The tickets were free and I got to enter two "checks" on my list.

There is no list.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

sixty years on

I recently... celebrated? .... let's go with "acknowledged" my 62nd birthday. It's a pretty inauspicious milestone. Too young for retirement (as though I could actually retire). Too old to check those survey boxes that list "35-59" as an age demographic for marketing purposes. But as a new 62-year old, I am happy to report that I have outlived some pretty significant folks. Sure, these people accomplished way more than I ever dreamed of, but I have surpassed them in time on Earth, thus offering more time for achievements equal to or perhaps even greater than theirs.

Sally Ride was the first American woman in space, as well as the youngest American astronaut. After a career at NASA, Sally was a professor of physics at USC-San Diego. She passed away in 2012 at the age of 61.

Ernest Hemingway was a Nobel-winning author, widely regarded as one of America's greatest writers. In addition, he was a noted war correspondent, covering The Spanish Civil War and World War II. He was pretty handy with a shotgun, using one to take his own life in 1961 at the age of 61.

Anthony Bourdain was a chef and an adventurer. His legions of fans lived vicariously through Bourdain's travels and endevours across the globe. He lived a life of chances and risks, eventually taking his own life in 2018 at the age of 61.

Aisin-Gioro Puyi became Emperor of China in 1908 at the age of two. He mostly served as a puppet ruler, carrying out atrocities on his country at the behest of the Japanese government. He was eventually jailed by the manipulative and powerful authorities in Japan. He died of cancer at 61, expressing deep regret for his actions.

Sergei Prokofiev was a celebrated pianist and composer, best remembered for his ballet Romeo & Juliet and his "symphonic tale for children" Peter and the Wolf. He composed seven complete operas, seven symphonies, eight ballets, five piano concertos, two violin concertos, a cello concerto, a symphony-concerto for cello and orchestra, and nine piano sonatas before his death in 1953 at the age of 61.

Cynthia Myers was a popular Playboy Playmate in the 1960s. A copy of her centerfold was secretly smuggled aboard the 1969 flight of Apollo 12. Cynthia made frequent appearances on the TV series Playboy After Dark and later served as a spokesmodel for Schlitz Beer. She was an early vocal witness of Bill Cosby's illicit behavior at the Playboy Mansion, as later related in a 1994 interview. Cynthia died in 2011 at the age of 61.

Roderick Toombs adopted the name "Roddy Piper," based on his proficiency of the bagpipes. He gained worldwide popularity for his antics in the wrestling ring and, despite his villainous persona, he was a fan favorite. Roddy dabbled in film and television and made regular appearances at conventions where he mingled with his fans. He died in his sleep from a pulmonary embolism at the age of 61.

Billy Martin was a second baseman but gained his notorious reputation as a manager. Billy served as manager for several Major League Baseball teams, including five separate stints with the New York Yankees. Despite 5 World Series Championships, Billy regularly butted heads with Yankees owner George Steinbrenner. Following a dismissal at the end of the 1988 season, Billy was killed in a single-car accident on Christmas Day 1989. He was 61.

Huddle Ledbetter, better known as "Leadbelly," was a multi-instrumentalist who introduced a number of compositions into the American songbook, including "Goodnight, Irene," "In The Pines," "Midnight Special" and "Cotton Fields." He sang and wrote about topical subjects including politics and racial issues. He often advised his black audiences to "stay woke," in one of the earliest known uses of the term. Leadbelly died in 1949 at the age of 61.

Peter Lawford was an actor and cohort of Frank Sinatra in the illustrious Rat Pack. He was a constant companion of the singer. Peter married JFK's sister Patricia, giving politically-connected Sinatra an "in" with America's so-called "first family." But a politically-charged falling out with Lawford led to an end of their friendship. Peter popped up on television throughout the 60s and 70s without Sinatra's help. After years of various substance abuse, he died from a heart attack at 61.

Goru Suzuki was born on a ship in en route to Japan. Although they were residents of Oakland, his parents wanted their son to be born in Japan. Goru lived in Oakland until his family was sent to an interment camp in Utah during World War II. With a leaning toward entertainment and hoping to avoid Japanese prejudice, Goru changed his name to the more Chinese "Jack Soo" and worked as a stand-up comic and singer in a Cleveland nightclub. He appeared on Broadway and many guest roles in television before landing the familiar role of "Detective Yemana" in the sitcom Barney Miller. Jack died during the fourth season of the series at the age of 61.

I don't expect to manage a baseball team or fly into space or write a symphony or rub elbows with political figures or appear in a sitcom or write the "great American novel," but at least I have time ahead of me to accomplish at any and all of those.

I guess...

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

time (clock of the heart)

A few years back, I was watching one of my favorite movies — Marty, selected by the Academy of Motion Pictures Arts and Sciences as the "Best Picture" of 1955 (and the downfall of one Herb Stempel on the TV quiz show Twenty One). Early in the picture, "Marty Piletti" (as portrayed by 1955 Best Actor Ernest Borgnine) is talking to his mother. She tearfully laments to her son that she is an old woman of 50. 50! An old woman! I was floored. Immediately, I logged on to IMBD.com (the invaluable Internet Movie Database) and searched for the film. My research revealed that Esther Minciotti, the actress who played Ernest Borgnine's screen mother was actually 67 at the time of filming. However, I was still a bit disturbed that, in 1955, fifty years of age was considered "old." It should be noted, though that Ernest Borgnine was only 38, but looked well into his 50s. I suppose it was around this time that I became a little obsessed (just a little) with the ages of actors from the "Golden Age" of cinema as well as those on television during my formative years.

It is no secret that I watch a lot of television. I rarely watch any current programming, opting to view and review programs from my youth. I love to revisit the shows I watched as an adolescent, parked in front of our big black & white Zenith in my family's den with my mom on the sofa and my dad settled in "his" corner chair, chain-smoking Viceroys. (Unsurprisingly, one of the few "current" shows I have watched and enjoyed is Amazon's original The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel, mostly because of its retro setting.  Go figure...)

If you follow my illustration blog (found elsewhere on the internet), you will find that a lot of my drawings are heavily influenced by the television shows from my youth. In 2011, I published a drawing of actor Joseph Kearns. Kearns had a long and celebrated career as a bit player in a number of radio shows before making the transition to the new medium of television. He performed and held his own alongside such entertainment giants Jack Benny, George Burns, Eve Arden and (ironically) Gale Gordon. He is best remembered as the cantankerous "Mr. Wilson" on the insufferable sitcom Dennis the Menace. The show ran for four seasons.  If you remember, Kearns sported wire-framed glasses, a crew cut and wore his pants pulled up to his armpits. He always had a scowl across his face and doddered around his house with a loose cardigan draped over his slumped shoulders. Granted, Dennis was a pain in the ass and drove Kearns's character up a wall, but he carried himself like a man of seventy. With just seven episodes left to film in Season Three, Joseph Kearns suffered a cerebral hemorrhage and unexpectedly passed away. He was 55. 55! (Gale Gordon, who replaced Kearns was just a year older.)

Recently, I was watching the zillionth rerun of The Andy Griffith Show. I love The Andy Griffith Show almost as much as my wife hates it. I love the gentle humor and the crazy characters and how Sheriff Andy tries to maintain some sense of order in the nuthouse that is Mayberry, North Carolina. I am convinced that the real reason that Andy doesn't carry a gun, is because he would have shot Deputy "Barney Fife" to death in episode four. In the show, town sheriff "Andy Taylor" (as played by Andy Griffith) lives with his son Opie (future Oscar winning director Ron Howard) and his aunt "Bee Taylor." Bee is embodied by actress Francis Bavier, who enjoyed a career playing essentially the same befuddled character in films and television going back to the early 1930s. In this particular episode of The Andy Griffith Show, there was a discussion about Aunt Bee's birthday. I was prompted to look up just how old Ms. Bavier, at the time of filming this episode. With her dark-patterned, high-necked dresses and her gray hair pulled back into that omnipresent bun, she gave the appearance of a woman in her mid to late seventies. She was 62. If you need a frame of reference.... Madonna is 62. Additional research led me to discover that Irene Ryan, feisty "Granny" on The Beverly Hillbillies, was the same age as Francis Bavier. Sure, Ms. Ryan wore a wig and glasses that she didn't really require, but I recall seeing her on Password at the height of The Beverly Hillbillies popularity. She looked a lot older than 62. Incidentally, Buddy Ebsen, the Hillbillies patriarch was 54.

Oh, there are others that fascinate me. Actor Carroll O'Connor (a favorite of my father) was just 48 years old when All in the Family premiered in 1971. Abe Vigoda, who was the brunt of many "boy, is he old" jokes for the latter part of his career, was just 54 when he played the role of "Detective Phil Fish" on Barney Miller, making the "old" jokes a bit odd. The "Sweathogs" on Welcome Back, Kotter were all in their twenties when they were playing high schoolers in 1975. (Ron Palillo, who played "Horshack" was 26.) Marcia Strassman was just two years older than the actors playing the students when she appeared as series star Gabe Kaplan's wife. Jim Backus, pompous "Mr. Howell" on Gilligan's Island, was just 52 when the show began. And Oscar-winner Shirley Jones was 34 when she was cast as the mother of five kids on The Partridge Family, just 14 years older than her real-life stepson David Cassidy.

This past week, I watched a movie called Harry and Tonto. I had seen it before, probably just after its 1974 release. The film, about an elderly man traveling across the country with his cat, starred Art Carney. Carney had diligently campaigned for the role, convincing the studio that he could pull off the role of a 72 year-old man, despite being just 56. (An age-appropriate James Cagney was the first choice for the role. He turned it down.) However, Carney wore little age-enhancing make-up, preferring instead to wear his real hearing aid and not conceal his war-injured gait. Carney won an Oscar for his performance and a "second act" in films opened up for the actor. By the way, Brad Pitt just won his first Oscar at this year's ceremony. He is 56, as well.

Of course, the most jarring age revelation (at least for me), is Judy Garland. I grew up watching the annual telecast of The Wizard of Oz, as well as Ms. Garland's other grand musicals like Meet Me in St, Louis, Easter Parade and Summer Stock. Judy's personal troubles are well known and the toll they took on her are apparent. Judy passed away in 1969 at the age of 47. On a December 1968 appearance on The Tonight Show, just six months before her death, she looked quite haggard and aged beyond her years.

Perhaps I have just become more aware of age and the ages of my contemporaries as I approach my sixtieth year on earth. I think it makes me feel younger.

I guess this is the kind of thing that old people do.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

birthday party, cheesecake, jellybean, boom

Yesterday was my 57th birthday.

Alexander Pope, the poet and satirist who introduced such oft-used quotes into the common lexicon as “To err is human, to forgive divine,” “A little learning is a dangerous thing,” and “For fools rush in where angels fear to tread,” died at 56.

Adolf Hitler was the leader of the Nazis and one of the most hated men in the world. With defeat closing in, he downed a cyanide capsule and shot himself at 56.

Charles Rocket, an actor and comedian, who as a cast member on Saturday Night Live, was fired for saying "fuck" on live television. He slit his own throat at 56.

Billy Mitchell, a brigadier general who is considered the "Father" of the US Air Force, was an outspoken critic of military strategy. He was convicted of insubordination and court-martialed. He resigned his commission rather than serve a five-year suspension. He died at 56.

Abraham Lincoln was the 16th President of the United States. While attending a performance of Our American Cousin at Ford's Theater in Washington DC, Lincoln was shot to death by John Wilkes Booth. He was 56.

Ian Fleming was famous and celebrated for his eleven novels and short story collections about fictional super spy "James Bond." As a counter to critics labeling him a "one trick pony," Fleming wrote the epic children's novel "Chitty Chitty Bang Bang." He died at 56 on his son's twelfth birthday.

Ludwig van Beethoven was one of the world's most influential composers. Beethoven composed some of his most famous and admired pieces during the last decade of his life, when he was almost completely deaf. After years of heavy alcohol consumption, he died of severe liver damage at 56.

Max Schreck was an actor, most famous for his role as "Count Orlok" in F.W. Murnau's creepy 1922 film Nosferatu. He died of heart failure at 56.

Rick James was a favorite purveyor of funk music. He had several encounters with law enforcement, including holding and torturing two women for six days while under the influence of crack cocaine. Rick died of heart failure at 56.

Betty Grable was an actress and popular pinup model during World War II. She died from lung cancer at 56.

Steve Jobs was a true marketing genius. Despite having never written a line of computer code in his life, he convinced the world to latch on to the technology that was Apple. He also exploited the talents of his pal Steve Wozniak. Jobs' dying wish was to never allow consumers to replace the batteries in their iPhones. He died at 56.

Warren Zevon was the anti-Jackson Browne. His sardonic tales of miscreants and headless mercenaries afforded him a cult following and the appreciation of many, including David Letterman, who welcomed Warren as the sole guest on his late-night show eleven months before the died at 56.

Charles Mingus was a brilliant and influential jazz bassist. Later in life, he suffered from amyotrophic lateral sclerosis, a disease that prevented him from playing his instrument. He died at 56.

John Hancock was one of the leaders in the United States' pursuit of freedom from England. He was the first signer of the Declaration of Independence, barely leaving enough room for the signatures of the 55 men who would follow. He died at 56.

These folks only made it as far as their 56th birthday, so I'm feeling pretty good.

Yep. Pretty, pretty, pretty, pretty good.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com