I fought the law

DISCLAIMER: If you are a lawyer, you might want to skip this week's entry on It's Been a Slice. I know how sensitive lawyers can get and I know how insulting I can get. In this post, I will knowingly make blanket statements and unfounded claims with little to no proof to back them up. If you are a lawyer, you won't find this particular post funny. (As for the rest of you, you may not find any of my posts funny, but I am addressing just the lawyers right now.) I am giving you fair warning to get out now.

I worked in the marketing department of a fairly large east coast law firm for nearly ten years. In that time, I grew to really, really hate lawyers. For the most part (uh-oh! here comes one of those blanket statements I was telling you about!), I found them to be arrogant, condescending know-it-alls who were convinced that just because they went to law school, they were capable of doing your job in addition to their own. They were experts on everything. They were a source of knowledge on just about any subject. On a personal level, I was often given unsolicited design advice and instruction from lawyers. 

It's complicated.

The firm that employed me was very aggressive when it came to marketing and the marketing department boasted over a dozen members. Nevertheless, lawyers constantly injected their own ideas, based purely on the fact that they went to law school. Once, I was designing an invitation for a conference in our Harrisburg office. The lawyer I was working with asked for the size of the invitation. In a telephone conversation, I told him it would be in postcard form, measuring eight and a half inches wide by five and a half inches high. He said he could not visualize it and requested a printed sample. I asked if there was a ruler available in his office. Again, he pressed for a printed, actual size sample. I told him it was the size of a regular piece of copy paper — one that is currently in a tray in the office Xerox machine — folded in half widthwise. He was not interested in any sort of exercise in origami. He demanded — demanded, I tell you! — a printed sample. I was convinced that, despite his years of college and law school education, this guy was either too important or too dumb to know how to operate a ruler.

One of my other jobs at the law firm was producing standard "support" ads for program booklets. These are very generic ads, usually offering "congratulations" or "best wishes" for someone being honored by a local organization. These ads were solicited to raise additional funds to either lessen the overall cost of an event or to contribute to a charitable entity. Because the law firm placed so many of these kinds of ads, the ordering process was streamlined to a few clicks on the firm's intranet. Every so often, an attorney - who was placing one of these ads - would request a full-color version. I would check the specifications from the organization to see if they allowed for color. If they did not, I would inform the attorney that the booklet in question would be in black & white. This, of course, would lead to an argument, because you cannot tell a lawyer that they can't have something they want. I would explain — again — that the booklet would be printed in just black ink. In some cases, I was ordered to submit a color ad and "see what they could do." Of course, "what they could do" was to tell me to resubmit a black and white ad.

Another time, I was having a heated discussion with a co-worker in her office. Perhaps our exchange got a little too loud and our voices carried out into the hallway. One of the firm's lawyers poked his head into her office. I expected him to tell us to keep our voices down, which would have been understandable. But, no... he actually began offering ways in which we could solve our little disagreement. My co-worker and I were so taken aback by the uninvited hubris this guy exhibited that we nearly forgot what were were arguing about.

Yet another of the firm's lawyers supplied a mailing list of contacts to whom he wanted a mass-mailing sent for an upcoming seminar that he would be hosting. He was very specific about the names included on the list and asked the woman in charge of mailing to pay close attention to the list — not to add any of the firm's other contact lists to his special list. The invitation was prepared, printed and mailed to his special list, as per his instructions. After a reasonable amount of waiting time, the seminar was canceled for lack of interest. The special list received not a single reply.

I was relieved of my position at the law firm just before Spring of 2018. I have had three jobs since then. But, my feelings toward lawyers have not waned. 

If you are a regular reader of this blog (besides me, I wonder why anyone would be a regular reader of this blog), you know I spend an inordinate amount of time watching television. I have taken notice of several commercials for local law firms — two in particular. The first features a local lawyer discussing his various case wins with a group of folks in a relaxed setting. Everyone is seated on a sectional sofa while the lawyer expounds on his winning record — delivered in a tone that's a strange combination of empathy and arrogance, with the "empathy" part sounding very insincere. The lawyer in the commercial reminds me of a lawyer I encountered almost ten years ago when an alleged UPS employee sued me (via my insurance company) over an alleged fall on my property. He is slimy and weasle-y and in a gazillion years I would never hire this guy to represent my interest in anything.

In another series of commercials for another Philadelphia law firm, the two principals are shown discussing important facts of a pending case (I assume) while strolling past prominent and recognizable sights in Philadelphia. There are scenes of them near the Liberty Bell and Independence Hall and City Hall. (I suppose they opted against showing them cavorting with Gritty and that's probably for the best.) Both gentlemen are dressed in tailored business suits. One of them, however, desperately needs a haircut. Up front, he has a receding hairline, but in the back....? It appears as though he leapt from his barber's chair to attend to an unexpected emergency and never returned to finish up his haircut appointment. Ever. And that appointment was months ago. I'll tell ya... if I decided to employ the services of this particular law firm and this guy and his "bushy bushy blond hair-do" walked into the office for our first consultation, I would immediately show myself to the door. There ain't a jury in the world who would take this alta kaker and his flowing locks seriously. Plus he reminds me of an old boss that I hated.

I actually have plenty more to say about lawyers, but I think I've made my point. Plus, I probably have lost a few readers.

So, sue me.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

the times they are a-changing

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

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

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

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

© pwbaker - flickr

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

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

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

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

www,joshpincusiscrying.com

better man

I used to make regular trips to the neighborhood dry cleaner when I worked in a downtown law firm and was required to dress in what has become known as "business casual.". Now, in my current job, tucked away in the behind-the-scenes world of the pre-press department of a large commercial printer, no one cares how I dress. My standard work clothes are jeans and t-shirts, not that far off from how I dressed in high school. So, my stock of button-down shirts now hang silently in my closet, hoping to be pulled out for that rare visit to a classy restaurant or the off chance I get invited to a wedding. Well it just so happens, Mrs. P and I are going to a wedding tomorrow. The shirt I wore to the last wedding I attended hung on a hook in our bedroom closet, patiently waiting to be taken to the dry cleaner. That happened this week and, today, I went to pick it up.

My little suburban Philadelphia neighborhood is home to a large number of affluent families. Throughout its 1.74 square mile area, there are large sprawling properties boasting homes that could arguably be labeled "mansions." I do not live in one of those. I live on a block where the homes were originally built to accommodate the servants of the likes of Peter Widener (a prominent nineteenth century businessman) and William Elkins (another businessman and co-founder of the Philadelphia Rapid Transit Company with Widener). But, just down the street from my house are residences designed and built by noted Gilded Age architect Horace Trumbauer. 

It has been my experience that "affluence" walks hand-in-hand with "arrogance." And that certainly is the case in my little corner of the world. Without going into a lot of messy detail, let's just say that a certain contingency of my neighbors believe that if you are not rich or white, then you are beneath them socially and intellectually. And you are treated as thus. I have seen it first hand in the supermarket and in the post office. I used to see it on the train when I took the train to work daily. I would watch as men — in stylish suits holding fancy leather briefcases — pushed themselves in front of a gathering of people as the train pulled into the station. They believed that their income and perceived social status entitled them to board first. Once aboard, they'd spread their belongings across a seat made for two. On crowded mornings, when seating was at a premium, they would only relinquish their seats when asked a few times. And even then it would be done begrudgingly.

I have seen these same folks belittle cashiers or municipal workmen or even workers who they themselves hired. Conversely, they have also spoken to these same laborers as though they were children with limited understanding, using slow, condescending tones.

This morning, when I entered the dry cleaner, there was one of my neighbors already at the counter in mid-transaction. The dry cleaner is owned by an Asian family that has operated the business for a million years. They are friendly, accommodating and just a little bit over-priced, but — in their defense — they charge what the neighborhood will bear. 

I waited patiently with my little pick-up receipt in hand as my neighbor finished his business. He pulled a pair of pants from the pile of clothing on the counter and showed it to the woman who was helping him. The guy was wearing long basketball shorts and expensive sneakers with no socks. He had a pair of expensive-looking sunglasses propped up on his head like a headband. There was a chunky gold chain around his neck. His Maserati SUV was idling in the small parking lot.

He pulled a pair of pants from the pile of clothes on the counter and held them up to the woman who was helping him. "These pants," he began, "are tailored pants. I want them let out in the legs and the seat." The woman examined the pants, running her hand over the material. "Let out.," she muttered absentmindedly. Since she was obviously not white and probably not rich, the man automatically placed her in a social standing far below his own... so, he repeated, "These pants are tailored pants." The volume of his voice increased. "I want them let out in the legs and the seat. They were tailored when I was twenty and they don't fit well now. I need them let out. All the way!" He emphasized "All the way!," as though the pants were made with an endless supply of fabric, folded up like an accordion, and able to be "let out" or "taken in" at will. The woman frowned and shook her head. "Hmmm....," she whispered as she gathered her thoughts to answer. The man interpreted her lack of an immediate answer as a case of a language barrier. Specifically, his expert command of universally-understood English versus her feeble and inferior Asian tongue. Again, he raised his voice to a level too loud for such a small indoor space and especially too loud for a conversation with someone standing less than a foot way. And, again, he repeated, "These are tailored pants. I want them let out in the legs and the seat. All the way! As much as they can go." The condescending tone increased with the volume. The woman finally replied. "Get new pants.," she said. "New pants?," he questioned. "Yes," she confirmed, "It will cost more money to do this than a new pair of pants would cost." "So, you can't just let them out" he pressed. (It had become obvious to me and to the woman that this guy had no clue how "let them out" worked from a physics standpoint.) "No.," she replied. He pushed the rest of his clothes across the counter and left.

I stepped up to the counter and handed over my receipt. "Picking up,?" the woman asked. I nodded.

The man returned a just second later. He loudly announced that he had left his finished dry cleaning hanging on the "pick-up" rack. He chuckled nervously as he grabbed the clothing, neatly covered in plastic and uniform on bundled hangers.

The woman at the counter didn't even look up.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

let the jerk-offs clean it up

I have been writing this blog, in one form or another, for nearly seven years. When I first began, I was invited by another blogger to contribute to his existing blog. I was flattered, but since my main focus was maintaining my illustration blog, my offerings were infrequent. After the untimely demise of the original blog, I created my own version. I actually enjoyed writing about the mundane things I see every day, the usually unnoticed quirks and foibles exhibited by people, the weird sights I have spotted and the funny situations I have encountered. I also began to realize that this blog has become a sort-of therapy, a cathartic outlet for frustrations and outrage. Although I am not a writer by trade (and I don't pretend to be), the act of putting aggravation into the written word can be a comforting release. But the main goal of my blog is to be funny. If you, dear reader, don't think it's funny, be assured that I do and, in all actuality, I write this thing for my entertainment, not yours.

However...

Although cloaked by the powerful anonymity of a pseudonym, I am still not entirely free to write about anything I like. Believe it or not (if you are a frequent reader of this blog - God bless you), there are certain subjects that are off-limits. You see, I know some people who read this blog regularly. People with whom I have a personal relationship. There are some topics and incidents that would elicit bad feelings — very bad feelings — if I were to elucidate in a public forum.

Oh, I can be sneaky though. I have written about touchy subjects with slight changes to the actual scenario. I have changed names and twisted around timelines, but the gist of the story remains fairly clear. Mostly, I embellish by injecting humor, but still am able to make my point and satisfy my original grievance. See, I still know who the stories are about, but the unknowing main character remains clueless. I have dropped subtle hints alluding to actual incidents and people, most of which only I am aware. A handful of readers get the reference and are suitably amused. That's the fun part.

Sometimes, I don't have the ability to cleverly camouflage the particulars in a story without revealing who I'm writing about. I have avoided publishing several stories because they are far too offensive and potentially damaging to either a specific person or my relationship with a specific person I have described. I usually get away with my cryptic references, because only I know what I mean. But I don't always have that luxury. Sometimes, I just have to completely pass on a subject in order to keep and maintain the peace. Sometimes, I have to write about how much I hate snow or a bad restaurant experience instead of a serious, personal injustice that I would prefer to scream about.

A while ago, I coined this proverb that I use quite often: "Everyone can act like an asshole, but if you act like an asshole, then you're an asshole." Some people just behave like total arrogant, entitled, self-centered jerks. But they are the first ones to be angered and offended by someone exhibiting the exact same behavior. Because of behavior like that, I am kept from writing about certain scenarios.

So, if you continue to read my blog (and I hope you will), be warned. If you are confused by the roundabout way in which I approach certain subjects, I may be writing about you.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

a tick, a tick, a tick, good timin'

I have a friend who is a criminal defense lawyer in the Philadelphia area. I see her on the train every so often and we have a short conversation until we get to my stop which is a mere twenty minutes from the downtown station where we board. It's not nearly enough time to cover everything since the last time we saw each other.

The last time I saw her (which I believe was at the end of last summer), she told me a funny little anecdote that I will share with you now.

Since she practices law by herself, she rents a single office in a suite belonging to another law firm in a building in Philadelphia. One afternoon, the other law firm had a conference involving several attorneys from various other law firms. During a break in the discussion, one of the visiting attorneys — a man named Robin — received a call on his cell phone. He glanced up from the lighted screen of his mobile device and caught the attention of the hosting attorney.

"Is there somewhere that I can take this call in private?," he asked.

"Sure.," the host replied and he directed his office guest down a hallway to an empty conference room on the left. 

Robin smiled and thanked him as he toddled off down the hall. However, when he reached the end of the hall, he stopped and looked at his options. On the left was the conference room to which he had been offered and directed. On the right, was the unoccupied office of a law partner who had gone out to grab some lunch to bring back. The office looked way more inviting with its dark wood shelves filled with endless bound volumes of law books, its large polished wood desk, its surface arranged with neat piles of papers and folders corralled within two gold-trimmed trays. Behind the desk was a big chair, upholstered in leather the color of chocolate and trimmed with brass nailheads displaying an antiqued patina. Robin assessed the two rooms and, defying earlier instruction, turned right, taking a seat in the chair behind the desk. He continued on his call, even elevating his feet to the desk top and leaning back to test the support of the chair.

Be with you in a minute.

The partner returned to the office with his bagged midday meal. He acknowledged a few co-workers before setting out down the hall with plans of eating his lunch while he did some work at his desk. When he got to the doorway of his office, he was startled. After all, there was a strange man in his chair, the soles of his shoes exposed on top of his desk he was sitting behind. The partner was rendered speechless, but within a moment or two, he gathered his composure and opened his mouth, about to release a barrage of questions to the intruder.

He was halted though, as Robin, barely looking up from his call, extended his arm and popped his index finger up in the universally-understood gesture of "just a minute."

The partner was dumbfounded. He was being stifled by some guy parked at his desk in his office. Some guy! But the phone call ended abruptly. Robin sprang to his feet and grunted a nearly-inaudible "thanks" as he squeezed by the partner and bopped down the hall to rejoin his conference.

So, that's the story. I was just as dumbfounded as the partner. Maybe because I know Robin and his behavior wasn't surprising.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

come on over to my yard

My wife is driven and determined. When she sets her mind to something ― goddammit! ― it gets done and it gets done right! So, last summer, when a neighbor invited us to bring a few items over for a yard sale, Mrs. P was bitten by the "Yard Sale Bug" just after our modest contribution (our rarely-used, wrought iron patio furniture) was snapped up quickly ― and for a pretty good price. Mrs. P already envisioned the spectacle that would be our next yard sale.

Almost immediately after our neighbor began packing up their unsold offerings. my spouse began a mental inventory of additional items from our home that could she could easily part with. When items were weighed between "do we really need this?" and the possibility of extra cash, the cash always won. So for the next several weeks, our back porch  ― and soon, dining room and living room ― slowly accumulated an inventory of housewares, clothing, jewelry, books and knick-knacks that could put a Woolworth's* to shame. She also saw a yard sale as the perfect opportunity to thin out some "slow movers" from her eBay store**. So, more gathering and storing took place until the first floor of our house resembled a compact flea market. This was going to be the mother of all yard sales. Mrs. P would personally see to that.

We plastered our neighborhood with hundreds of signs tacked up on every available utility pole. Mrs. P posted notices on various social media sites, including electronic community bulletin boards and township Facebook pages. She placed and regularly updated announcements on Craig's List. And she told everybody who glanced in her direction. On the designated morning, we carted load after load of merchandise out to our small front lawn, thoughtfully arranging everything for maximum visibility and, more importantly, sale-ability. (Mrs. P's many years of experience running her parents' retail store came into play.) The potential customers milled about as we were still covering our grass with a mish-mash of appliances, toys, decorations and who-knows-what!. Mrs. P tied on an apron, dumped change into the big front pockets and proclaimed us "Open for Business." To quote Brad Pitt from Inglorious Basterds, "And cousin, business is a-boomin'." At the end of a long, grueling, yet satisfying day, we took in a very nice sum of money ― plus we got rid of a ton of shit that our son won't have to weed though after we die. Very nice indeed.

Around mid-afternoon, a man strolled up to our yard. He was wearing a pristine pink polo shirt (actual Polo brand; little horse logo and all) with the collar popped up and a pair of sharply pressed khakis. A pair of actual RayBans were perched on top of his head and a shiny iPhone 6 was clipped to his braided belt. He smiled and offered a "Good afternoon," as he looked over our wares. He knelt down and picked up a small trowel that I used once to apply a small amount of Spackle to a nail hole in a wall about twenty years earlier. My wife had marked it $1.00.

"I'll give you fifty cents for this." he said, waving the trowel in our direction, a cocked smile across his face.

My wife considered the offer and, ever the seasoned businesswoman, countered with, "Will you be getting something else? I can give you a deal on a lot."

He picked up a few more items, proposing a "fifty cent" price for each one, regardless of what it was marked. I began to fume, but the ever-patient Mrs. P negotiated and finally they agreed on a price for all of his selections. Mrs. P thanked him. I muttered a few unsavory phrases under my breath.

A week ago, we had our first of several planned yard sales of this year. We followed the same ritual and set-up and, once again, with our small front lawn laden with a cornucopia of treasures, we did a pretty good business.

And guess who made an appearance ― The "fifty cent" guy.

This year, he chose a never-used box of Crayola colored pencils (these, as a matter of fact), each with the factory-sharpened point still intact. My wife had marked the box one dollar.

"I'll give you fifty cents for this." he said, waving the box of pencils in our direction, a cocked smile across his face.

My wife considered the offer and, ever the seasoned businesswoman, countered with, "Will you be getting something else? I can give you a deal on a lot."

He pointed to a stack of five terracotta flower pots at the foot of our driveway. There were several different sizes and each one had a matching tray. "I'll give you fifty cents for them," he said, "I don't see a price on them."

My wife, smiling, walked toward the flower pots. She discovered a large cardboard sign stuck in the top pot of the stack. Bright red letters on the sign proclaimed the stack to be two dollars. One could easily read the sign from several feet away.

"No," Mrs. P began, "I think two dollars is a fair price for those. And a dollar for the pencils is fair, too. Name brand. Never used. Yeah, a dollar will be fine." The smile never left her lips.

The man removed a thick leather wallet from his immaculate, designer trousers and extracted three crisp singles. My wife thanked him graciously and sincerely. I would have told him that those items were not for sale.

Obviously, our yard sale was successful because I was not in charge.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

*Woolworth's was a store that... um...that.... oh, just ask your Mom.

** Check it out early and often.

i got the music in me

I walk the same way to the train station almost every evening after work. I exit the rear of my building, turn right and head down 16th towards Market Street. At the corner, I cross and head down the steps that lead to the underground train station.

Beginning a month or so ago, I noticed a man sitting on the sidewalk adjacent to the entrance of the stairs. He held a battered paper cup in one hand and gripped a corrugated cardboard flap from a packing box in the other. Across the brown surface of the flap was written, in neat printed letters, a plea for monetary donations. Although I didn't stand there and read the message word-for-word, it did include the words "homeless," "help" and "God bless." The man sat on the ground, motionless, his hand with the cup extended. I, along with everyone else in the crowded evening rush, passed right by him. No one slowing down, just making haste to a train to take them home.

Let me interrupt my own story for a second. Not that I have to justify my actions to anyone, let me say, I am a charitable guy. I give regularly to my local volunteer fire department. I am a longtime supporter of  several Philadelphia-based charities. I give old clothing (when I remember) to those places that call and say that a collection truck will be on my street. And I have a tendency to over-tip in restaurants. (That's being charitable, isn't it? Well, I think it is.) But, people begging on the street? No, thank you! I don't trust them, Based on their appearance and method of asking for money, I suspect they are all full of shit. They concoct elaborate scenarios as to how they ended up in this predicament and write their tale of woe on a torn piece of cardboard for all to read. Or sometimes they cop an attitude like it's my fault that they have to beg and it's my obligation to just hand money over to them. 

First off, I would never, ever, ever give a cent to anyone who is smoking. Smoking is a luxury, not a necessity. If you have to beg for money for food, cigarettes should not come before eating. You need to get your priorities straight. Once you have secured a steady income, then, by all means, buy and consume all the tobacco you wish. But, until you get to that point, at least make an effort to help yourself — and that includes staying healthy and viable. 

Same goes for anyone begging with a pet. If you can't afford to feed yourself, then you have no right to deem yourself responsible for the well-being of an animal. I don't care how cute it is. 

Those are my personal rules of charity. Am I a jerk? Maybe, but, I work hard for my money and I will determine who shares in it and the first ones up for consideration are those who exhibit an effort to help themselves. I would sooner consider giving money to the guy who plays his off-key guitar and warbles out versions of pop songs he has obviously never heard before or to the old man who plays the same three tunes on his battered old accordion. At least they are doing something other than sitting on their asses and holding a cup. (I said I'd consider giving, but I know I probably won't.)

And now, back to our story....

So, one day last week, I saw the guy with the cup and the cardboard sign again. He was sitting in his usual spot, with his usual accessories. And, as usual, he was silent. But, there was something different about him. He was wearing sunglasses. Nice ones, too. Frameless, with a designer emblem on the temple piece. That's right, a designer emblem. As I got closer to him, I saw something else. He had earbuds jammed into his ears. Is that what he was collecting money for? And you know those earbuds were plugged into something. Something electronic that plays music, like an iPod or similar music-storage and playback device. Those devices require access to a computer to acquire songs and to load them onto said device. And, for the most part, those songs need to be purchased. (Sure, there are plenty of ways to get "free" music, but that would make this situation more infuriating — and you'd still need a computer) Now, remember what I said about smoking being a luxury? Guess what category an iPod falls into? Here's this guy — making an appeal for money from people who are working everyday while he sits on his ass on the sidewalk and listens to a selection of his favorite tunes. Not that I would have ever considered giving him any money,  but I certainly wouldn't give him anything now. And I better not see this guy smoking with his dog!

Personally, I have a pretty crappy set of ear buds, but I do have food at my house.

* * * * UPDATE * * * *

I just saw this guy talking on a cellphone. Still holding the sign.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

do this, don't do that, can't you read the sign?

I am a rule follower. Actually, I am a fanatical and militant rule follower. If a policy is explained and implemented, I'll adhere to it. I wait in lines. I follow procedure. I come to a full stop at stop signs. I may not agree with a particular rule, but if it is posted or communicated in a clear and obvious fashion, I will honor it. And I expect everyone else to do the same. If someone decides to ignore a rule and do what they wish, it really pisses me off. (Well, to be honest, a lot of things piss me off, but breaking rules is high on the list.)

I am particularly annoyed by people who feel that rules do not apply to them. You know who I mean. Those who go into a building through a door marked "DO NOT ENTER." Those who park where it is clearly posted "NO PARKING" or where there is obviously not enough room for a car (like the curb next to my driveway). Those who skirt a long line and walk right up to the counter, even if someone is in mid-conversation with a service representative. "Oh, I just want to ask a quick question," they'll say and that "quick question" turns into six or seven questions and a full inquiry of a store's inventory. These are people who think: "Rules? The rules don't apply to me! Rules are for you assholes." 

I used to work for a guy who was very wealthy and drove a Porsche. He was a nice, generous guy, but no rule applied to him. One day, he took me out to lunch. We drove around a congested neighborhood with particularly narrow streets looking for a place to park. Suddenly, he noticed a spot in which his car would fit perfectly. As he spun the wheel in the direction of the cross street, I pointed out that he was headed the wrong way down a one-way street. "That's okay." he said, waving off my warning and not making an attempt to touch the brake pedal. He defiantly turned down the street, did a three-point turnaround and backed into the parking space. Why is there never a cop around when you need one?

The gallery of offenders.

I regularly ride the train to and from work. I carry a messenger bag daily. When I board the train, I choose a seat, remove the book I am currently reading from my bag and place my bag on my lap. I often see other passengers place their various briefcases, purses, backpacks, suitcases and other assorted parcels on the empty seat next to them. There are others that purposely spread their belongings — file folders, notebooks, iPads, laptops, clipboards — across an entire seat meant to accommodate three commuters. When the train is crowded, and seating is scare, some passengers still insist on using the seat as their own personal mobile workstation or an extension of their home. One rainy morning, when seats were at a premium, I saw an aisle seat that appeared empty from my vantage point. As I approached, I saw that the occupant — a sharply-dressed, executive-type woman — had a large, expanding file folder stretched across the seat as she made extensive notes on a legal pad balanced on her knee. I stopped alongside the seat, cleared my throat, and in the most polite tone I could muster, said, "May I please sit here?" She frowned and let out a long, exaggerated, annoyed sigh. Then, she slowly — I mean at a goddamn snail's pace — began gathering her belongings. She even stopped to do some filing and rearranging of documents, making sure they were in the proper order within her portable filing system. I stood by the seat, as patient as I could be, and the train already made it to the next scheduled stop before she had cleared a space to allow me to sit. Angered, I spoke up. "Sorry," I began, "I didn't realize I was riding on your train!" I moved on and took a seat next to a gentleman who respectfully had his briefcase stowed on the rack above his seat and his jacket folded neatly in his lap. I actually got some snickers and a small smattering of applause from my fellow, exasperated passengers.

SEPTA (the Southeastern Pennsylvania Transportation Authority, the company that provides public transportation to Philadelphia and surrounding suburbs) often makes announcements for bags to be put on the overhead luggage racks or on the floor under the seat. They have even taken to social media, repeatedly reinforcing the "Dude, it's Rude" campaign, with "tweets" making riders aware of the "bags off the seats" rule. Just last week, the campaign became more aggressive, as blunt signage began popping up at various places on train platforms and trains themselves. The two-color placards are unapologetic in their message. "Unless YOUR BAG Paid - MOVE IT!" the signs proclaim. There's no time for "please." You were warned. You had your chance. The gauntlet has been thrown down.

So, this morning, I boarded the train and sat in a seat next to a guy's bag. He was seated next to the window, headphones jammed into his ears, his head tilted down with full attention on his phone. I took the available aisle seat. We were separated by his leather overnight bag, upon which was draped his necktie. It being a Friday in summer, the train was relatively empty and there were many unoccupied seats. However, because I am a rule follower, my bag rested on my lap, as usual. I could feel the fellow's bag just scant centimeters from my elbow as I turned the pages of my book. As the train pulled into my destination stop, my expanded seatmate readied himself to exit as well. In my peripheral vision, I could see him remove his earbuds and stuff them into a pocket in his bag. Then, he lifted a travel coffee mug and swirled it a bit, in an effort to check its contents. He popped the lid of the mug and — I shit you not! — poured the remaining few drops on the floor. Yes! Right on the floor! I leaned forward a little to check if there was a concealed sink or even a drain that I hadn't previously noticed — knowing full well that there wasn't. Satisfied that his cup was empty, he packed it away in another pocket of the bag. He carefully folded his tie and, as the train slowed to a hissing halt, stood up, grabbed his bag and followed me down the aisle and out to the platform, even passing me on his way to the exit stairs.

I had found another one to whom the rules did not apply. As a mater of fact, this guy was making up his own rules.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com