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

wind of change

After mulling over my future options, I entered art school in the Fall of 1980.  I had graduated from high school over a year earlier. Although I had expressed interest in drawing at a very young age, I couldn't imagine making it a career. (Forty years later, I still can't believe I made it a career.) I worked in retail for a year while I decided what to do with the rest of my life. I was terrible at math, so that eliminated a lot of possibilities. I wasn't mechanically-inclined, so that eliminated even more. With my choices narrowing, I resigned myself to the pursuit of a rewarding career (?) in the field of commercial art.

Following Labor day 1980, I joined a small group of other budding artists as part of the freshman class at the renowned Hussian School of Art (Well.... "renowned" in Philadelphia, anyway. Well.... sort of renowned.) I met and eventually formed friendships with a majority of my classmates. Just like any school or other inter-personal situation, I didn't get along with everyone. There was one guy in particular who was.... what's the word?.... oh yeah.... an asshole. He was a sullen, angry, insulting, belligerent jerk. He openly criticized his colleagues' work, whether or not his opinion was requested. (It was not.)  He sat in class with arms folded tightly against his chest, head down, surveying his surroundings through strands of greasy hair that hung limply over his forehead, dipping into his line of vision. Mostly he would mutter to himself, huffing a "this sucks" or "you blow" under his breath. Every so often, he would raise his voice to make sure everyone was apprised of his negative opinion. "Sucks!," he'd spew and punctuate his statement by tossing a crumpled piece of paper at the artist whose work was being actually critiqued by the class instructor. Between classes, this guy would walk the halls and deliberately bump into people with the grace and finesse of a hockey defenseman. He'd offer his favorite, all-purpose, all-encompassing "pet name" to any and all that crossed his path. "Shit stain" he'd call them.

This behavior continued for the entire four years that I was a student. It never let up for one minute. After graduation, I figured I never see this guy again.

Nearly a decade into the 21st Century, an effort was made by some of my art-school classmates for an extremely informal twenty-fifth anniversary class reunion. Plans were made to meet at one of our old haunts — a small Irish pub in one of Philadelphia's narrow alleys. In our younger, more rambunctious days, many a Hussian student downed many an alcoholic beverage at this establishment, so it was the perfect venue. (Although I no longer drink alcohol, I myself ended up on the floor of this pub more times that I'd care to admit.) When the designated date rolled around, I hopped a train from my suburban home. I headed for the tiny bar with the hopes of reconvening and reminiscing with classmates and friends I had not seen in a quarter of a century. Many things had changed in that time. I was married for twenty-five years, having tied the knot just two months after my graduation from art school. I had a son that was about to turn 22. I was working in the marketing department of a large law firm in Philadelphia. I was genuinely anxious to see the paths my various classmates' lives had taken.

I arrived and entered the bar through the familiar heavy wooden doors. In the dim light, I immediately recognized some faces that had strangely not changed in twenty-five years. Sure, there were plenty of folks who I did not recognize, but after some awkward guessing I was able to make identification. As for my appearance, at the time, I had been coloring my hair a vibrant and decidedly unnatural red-orange, so I was subjected to a certain amount of scrutiny by those who knew me with mousy brown locks. 

The conversation was lively. I honestly dread events like this (I haven't attended a high school reunion since my first one — a five year milestone), but I was really glad I came. I talked with people who had not entered my thoughts for years... and it was very nice. During the course of the afternoon, a fellow approached me whom I did not recognize. He knew me, though. The first thing he did was offer an apology. As he spoke, hanging his head and expressing regret over his past actions, I realized who he was. It was my belligerent asshole classmate. He looked totally different, but once he began talking, it all came back to me. He acknowledged his poor behavior and asked for forgiveness for his less-than-amiable personality. He explained that he had grown as a person and turned himself around as his life progressed. He never pursued a career in art, but found a satisfying and rewarding vocation elsewhere. I shook hands with this former asshole. I had never shaken hands with him before.

As I became more active on social media, I have reconnected with a number of people with whom I attended art school. I see their vacation activities and their acquisitions of new pets and sad passings beloved ones. I see what they've eaten for breakfast. I've seen the marriages of their children and births of their grandchildren. I have received comments on my various silly posts and welcomed well-wishes on my birthday. Somewhere along the way, I reconnected with my asshole classmate. He has made comments here and there, although Facebook activity does not appear to be a priority in his life. Recently, however, he has made a few comments that harken back to his art school days, each one dripping with the same venomous loathing once so prevalent in those early 80s classrooms. Several consecutive comments — on different posts relating to different topics — smacked of that dismissive "you blow" and "this sucks" that I remember hearing an apology for.

What's that they say about old dogs, new tricks and a leopard's spots never changing?

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

u got the look

Let's talk about this asshole, shall we? Why is he an asshole? I'll get to that in a minute.

Remember back before March 2020? Before we were all sent home from our office jobs to "work from home?" Unless you are over 100 years old and you lived through the last pandemic that was experienced worldwide, this was a whole new experience for almost everyone. As the tedious, unsure days of the pandemic raged on, going out in public and mingling with your fellow human became a rare event. However, a strange phenomenon occurred almost organically. People began to express a compelling feeling of camaraderie. An overwhelming "we're all in this together" attitude arose among humankind. A feeling of goodness and benevolence. Helping your fellow earth-dweller through the hard times became an everyday occurrence. Helping those having difficultly dealing with the pandemic — both physically and mentally — became second nature. Then we all got vaccinated and we all went back to our offices and we all started going out in public and we all regained our disdain for our fellow humans.

Back to normal.

My wife and I went to BJ's Wholesale Club yesterday. The store was fairly busy for 4:30 on a Saturday afternoon. It was the weekend before Thanksgiving, so I could understand the added crowd... although the woman exiting the store with merely two boxes of Cheerios and a container of sour cream puzzled me, but who am I to question someone's holiday traditions. We, too, were there to purchase some of the ingredients for our Thanksgiving meal in what would be the second of possibly four grocery store stops.

Once our cart was filled, we made our way up the the check-out area at the front of the store. That's where we encountered the asshole I alluded to earlier. But wait.... I'm getting ahead of myself.

The check-out lines were long. So long, in fact, that they snaked way back into the retail area of the store. Still-shopping customers had difficulty navigating the featured Christmas department while weaving around other customers who had already made their selections. The recent, pandemic-related practice of "social distancing" was somewhat relaxed, despite bright red labels affixed to the floor instructing customers to maintain a gap of six feet between them and fellow shoppers. Being respectful (pandemic or not), we kept a comfortable amount of space between us and the guy in front of us.

Evidently, not comfortable enough for him.

Since another pandemic-related practice — wearing face masks — has been implemented, our immediate interpretations of another person's feelings via facial expressions have been seriously impeded. The only thing we have to go by now is someone's eyes. Y'know, they say "the eyes are the windows to the soul." The guy in line in front of us.... well, there was no mistaking what was going on in his soul. If his eyes were lasers, they would have bored a hole through everything in our cart before moving on to our respective foreheads. From the look he gave us when we joined the line, and without hearing a word from him, I instinctively backed up a few feet. After his initial glare, he stood and silently surveyed each and every item in our cart. I could actually see his eyes stop and align themselves with each bag, box and plastic container. Before his eyes shifted to the next item, they would narrow angrily and reveal a palpable judgement of disgust. 

I stood by our cart as Mrs. P wandered in and out of the nearby aisles. Every so often, she would return with an interesting game or toy to show me. We would have a brief conversation about what she brought over. In my peripheral vison, I could sense the guy in front of us intrusively hanging on every word of our conversation. I could also see him silently shaking his head in an equally judgmental capacity, previously bestowed upon our grocery choices.

The line actually moved at a pretty good clip, bringing us within visual proximity of the cashier area. At this point, the single line fed each of the operating cash wraps. The guy in front of us — the asshole — chose the cashier to the left. We went right. As my wife entered her membership credentials into the electronic terminal, I began to arrange our soon-to-be purchases on the conveyer belt. I glanced over to our former line-mate, curious to see his progress. He was standing behind a woman who was methodically, albeit slowly, rifling though her purse, obviously searching for some form of payment. Our former line-mate — the asshole — stood rigid, arms tightly folded across his chest, his laser eyes burning a hole in the back of the woman's head.

Yep, we are on our way to "back to normal." There's a light at the end of the tunnel. Unfortunately, it may be a laser.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

meeting across the river

I hate meetings. Meetings are stupid, non-productive and a colossal waste of time. For the most part, they serve to give office dead weight somewhere to go to justify their coming into work everyday. At my last job, meetings were a daily event for a lot of my co-workers. Topics were discussed in a series of cliches and buzzwords, most of which baffled a lot of folks in my department. Corporate jargon was bandied about in cryptic cadence, often mixing up the mysterious metaphors — like "getting your cats in a row" or "herding ducks"— making them even more confounding. My close colleagues and I would exit those grueling marathons with absolutely no clue as to what had just transpired. We were clueless as to whether we were headed in the same strategic direction as a department.

But, there was always lunch, so it wasn't a total loss.

Years ago, I worked in the advertising department of a large, national after-market auto parts supplier (you probably know which one). I was one of a dozen graphic artists whose responsibilities included the production of the company's weekly advertising circular for the Sunday newspaper. These multi-panel broadsheets consisted of hundreds of items jammed into postage stamp-sized blocks arranged in large, colorful grids that were spread over four (sometimes six) pages. Every week, it seemed, the same items were featured in the ads but their positions were rearranged like a big Rubik's Cube. Before a new ad was composed, the production department (of which I was a part) would meet with the executive advertising team, as well as the product-line buyers, to discuss what would be included in the coming week's circular. The groups would assemble in a large, paneled conference room, everyone jockeying for position at the oblong table. Department members would do their best to sit together in order to compare hastily-scribbled notes. Sometimes, due to prior commitments, late arrivals had to find a seat far from their department colleagues, forced to "wing-it" on their own. These meetings were pointless because the same items were advertised over and over and, throughout the course of the week, the decisions made in the meeting were overridden by the "powers-that-be" who couldn't remember what they decided three days earlier.

One meeting in particular, I was able to grab a seat near the Vice-President of Advertising. The actual President of Advertising, curiously, never attended these meetings. As I recall, he was rarely even seen, usually spending his days behind a closed office door at the end of a hallway. On the rare occasion when he was spotted, he was only glimpsed for a few seconds as he carried a cup of coffee back to his office, his tanning-booth skin tone harsh beneath the overhead florescent lights. His "second-in-command" — a bespectacled, lanky gentleman who, I swear to God, was stoned off his ass every second of the day — led the meetings in his superior's stead. And there I was, seated to his right, the faint smell of marijuana between us (although that could have just been the power of suggestion and reputation). I was surrounded by others from my department, all waiting with a fresh page of a legal pad and our ball-points poised at the ready. The room began to fill up with buyers and assistant buyers, along with representatives from the pricing department. Minutes before the meeting commenced, my pal Steeveedee, a copywriter from the advertising department, rushed in looking harried and scanning the room for an available chair. He spotted one  in the far corner and snaked and shuffled his way through the crowded room to get to it. The meeting began. Buyers shouted for attention and the production team asked everyone to slow down with their directions as they feverishly jotted down instructions as quickly as possible. I watched Steeveedee arrange and rearrange papers and notes in his hands, a look of deep concentration on his face. 

That's when I decided to be an asshole.

I inconspicuously withdrew my cellphone from my pocket and sent a three-word message to Steeveedee's number. I slowly and deliberately typed the fourteen-letter message and hit the "send" button.

"Go fuck yourself" it read.

In a few seconds, I watched Steeveedee fish in his pocket and extract his phone. I watched as he looked down at his phone over the tops of his glasses and pressed the buttons to retrieve his messages. I watched as his eyes darted across the tiny screen of his phone as he read my message. I watched as his cheeks puffed out and he bit his lip to stifle, what was obviously going to be, a very loud and hearty laugh. I watched as Steeveedee closed his eyes to regain his composure and then glanced around the room for — who else? — me.

And there I was — smiling and holding back a laugh myself — when his eyes finally landed on me.

I still hate meetings, but I sure liked that one.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

the way things are going, they're gonna crucify me

Well, I'm certainly not gonna make any friends with this particular blog post. I may even lose some regular readers. But before I get into the gist of this post, I wish to justify my narrative with something of a disclaimer.

On December 8, 1980, I was with my friend Sam at a Bruce Springsteen concert at the storied Spectrum, the self-proclaimed "America's Showplace," in Philadelphia. We were rocking and punching our fists to the sky in unison with our fellow Springsteen fans as "The Boss" poured his rock-and-roll heart out in a balls-to-the-wall rendition of Mitch Ryder's "Devil With a Blue Dress." Those in attendance that night were totally unaware that one hundred miles up the New Jersey Turnpike, John Lennon, the impish and sardonic Beatle, was being shot to death outside his apartment building on the Upper West Side of Manhattan. When the concert was over, Sam and I popped an 8-track tape of Springsteen tunes into the player that was amateurishly-installed under the dashboard console of my Mom's '72 Plymouth Fury. We headed to a diner for a late-night snack. I didn't find out the dreadful news until I arrived home and my parents were still awake. They greeted me at the front door and broke it to me in much the same way Howard Cosell broke it to America during Monday Night Football. I heard my parents' report through concert-weary ears. I shuffled up the stairs to bed. I had just started art school a month or so earlier and had to wake up by 6 a.m. to catch a bus. The next morning, I awoke with only a vague memory of the conversation with my parents. As part of my regular routine, I bought a newspaper to read on my long commute to school. The headline screamed "John Lennon Slain." As I sat silently on the bus, reading the accompanying story, I could feel tears rolling down my cheeks. I didn't even wipe them away. I just continued reading the account of the events outside the grand Dakota the previous evening. I glanced around the bus a few times. I wasn't the only one who was crying. I grew up loving the Beatles and I felt as though a piece of me was taken away.

See, I actually cried when John Lennon died. Remember that. 

However, John Lennon — snide and sarcastic counterpart to perennially sunny band mate and collaborator Paul McCartney — was kind of a dick. Stories of abhorrent incidents have surfaced over the years, some reinforced by the Liverpudlian singer himself. His extremely revealing and sometimes brazen interview in Playboy, just a few months before his life was cut short at 40*, offered a personal insight into the superstar's life — and heretofore furtive past.

Here are some things about John Lennon that you may not know:

• He admitted to a sexual attraction to his mother.
• He hated when disabled fans in wheelchairs were placed stage-side during Beatles performances. He was very vocal about how much he disliked this.
• He cheated on both of his wives.
• He physically abused both of his wives.
• John Lennon notoriously hated to be touched. When actress Jayne Mansfield once touched his shoulder at a party, Lennon urinated in her drink and served it to her.
• The chorus of the Lennon-penned song "Run For Your Life" is autobiographical. (You better run for your life if you can, little girl / Hide your head in the sand little girl / Catch you with another man That's the end, little girl)
• He insisted that Yoko Ono accompany him everywhere, including band rehearsals and to the bathroom. She protested, but he was adamant.
• He beat the shit out of an acquaintance for alluding to a homosexual relationship between Lennon and Beatles' openly-gay manager Brian Epstein. (In the fade-out of "Baby, You're a Rich Man," Lennon sings "Baby, you're a rich fag Jew.")
• Once when his infant son Julian giggled, John told the child, "Your fucking laugh annoys me." He also frequently hit Julian. In the Playboy interview, he bluntly stated the difference between his two sons, Julian and Sean: “Sean was a planned child, and therein lies the difference. I don’t love Julian any less as a child. He’s still my son, whether he came from a bottle of whiskey or because they didn’t have pills in those days. He’s here, he belongs to me, and he always will…Julian and I will have a relationship in the future.” Julian revealed that Paul McCartney was more of a father to him than Lennon.
• In the beloved song "Imagine," Lennon sings: "Imagine no possessions." Twenty years later, singer Elvis Costello (not such a great guy in his own right) sang: "Was it a millionaire who said 'imagine no possessions'"? Paul McCartney often said that Lennon was a hypocrite.

There you have it. Please feel free to research any of these examples of John Lennon's crass and callous behavior. But while you're Googling my allegations, remember... I cried when John Lennon died.

All I am saying is "Give me a chance."

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

*The interview took place in September 1980, but was not published until the January 1981 issue.