safety dance

In 1920, the Chicago Motor Club and the St. Paul, Minnesota Police Department each created a program involving elementary school children acting as crossing guards and safety monitors at the city's public schools. With more and more automobiles on the roads, children's safety was becoming a major concern. With strong support from the Catholic archdiocese in St. Paul, a small squad of young volunteers were outfitted with badges and Sam Browne belts and were stationed at various locations along common walking routes to schools. With instruction from working traffic police officers, the young charges were tasked with maintaining a safe passage to and from school for the younger students. They took their positions very seriously and the other students offered their respect and obedience to these new "authority figures." Within a few years, other cities launched junior safety programs of their own, with support and backing from local automobile clubs and police departments. By the mid-1930s, Junior Safety Patrols formed in municipalities across the country with membership numbering over 11,000. Currently, the program boasts participation from over 50,000 schools nationwide... and girls are permitted entry to the once all-male ranks.

Thinkin' 'bout the times
you drove in my car

In 1949, 11-year old Marvin Klegman was assigned to noontime duty at Lowell Elementary in Tacoma, Washington. As he walked to his assigned post, just before noon, he felt the ground begin to rumble. He spotted second-grader Myrna Phelps in the school yard and instructed her to remain still and stay clear of the school building. Marvin ran inside the building as an earthquake began shaking the structure. He found kindergarten student Kelcy Allen alone in a hallway. Marvin led Kelcy outside to safety, but was unable to make it clear of the crumbling building. Marvin lay on top of Kelcy, shielding him from the shower of rubble. Marvin was killed but Kelcy and Myrna were saved due to the young safety officer's direction and quick action. While undoubtedly stirring, this, of course, was not typical of the Junior Safety Patrol.

When I was in elementary school in the 60s and early 70s, of course, there was a Junior Safety Patrol. Perhaps you have visions of obedient, fresh-faced young men sporting that white Sam Browne belt accented with a shiny silver badge. Maybe you are envisioning a confident young man standing attentively at a busy street corner, taking extra care to ensure the safety and well-being of the tiny younger students on their way to another informative day of public school education. If that's the mental picture you have when you think back about the Junior Safety Patrol of your youth, then you probably didn't go to elementary school with me.

Cream of the crop

There were no "Marvin Klegman"s in my neighborhood. If there was, I'm sure he would have been verbally pummeled with the same anti-Jewish rhetoric I was subjected to. My neighborhood was chockful of street tough boys, just a few years away from a full-blown life of crime. They were sneaky, lying, deceitful little bastards who thought nothing of shoplifting, stealing a bike, or rummaging through Mom's purse for a few unaccounted for dollar bills. They would regularly pick fights with friends, throw snowballs at passing cars and spew a nasty stream of racial epithets when the mood struck. It was from this cesspool of humanity that my elementary school had to select members for their Junior Safety Patrol. Left with no choice, school officials weeded through the dregs of the dregs and came up with the least offensive they could find... like naming the nicest Klansman. Their final choices were unsavory little shits who, once adorned with a badge and a modicum of jurisdiction, became power-drunk enforcers wielding their minuscule authority as though they were sanctioned by J. Edgar Hoover himself. Some roamed the school hallways with their chests puffed out, their arms swinging at their sides and a snarl on their lips, silently daring anyone to challenge them. Others were assigned to "keep order" on the school buses on the morning commute as well as on the ride home in the afternoon. They would pace the center aisle of the bus, gripping the edge of every seat as they passed. They'd glare at the small, intimidated occupants of each seat with a beady-eyed threatening stare. Sometimes they'd stop at a seat where two trembling lower-class students were sitting. The "safety" (as they were colloquially named) would announce some trumped-up accusation ("You were talking too loud during announcements" or "You stood up while the bus was in motion"). As the scared student fought back tears, the "safety" would point an accusing finger in their direction and seethe though clenched teeth: "You're going up!" This was a threat that no one wanted to hear. "You're going up!" meant that once the bus arrived at school you would be taken straight to the principal's office — do not pass GO!, do not collect two-hundred dollars. It was a promise that was rarely — if ever — carried out. "Safeties" were just as scared of the school's principal as other students were. But, they didn't want you to know that. Instead, they behaved as though they were special agents, working on behalf of the principal's master plan of a tight grip on every student at his school. But, if the principal passed them in the hallway, they would choke up with paranoia just like everyone else. (Kind of like being followed by a police car and knowing you've done nothing wrong.) I don't know anyone who was taken by a "safety" to see the principal, but I witnessed numerous threats. (In reality, the principal was an easy-going, not remotely intimidating guy who enjoyed playing street baseball with the neighborhood kids, some of whom were my brother's friends.)

Unread

On the last day of school, I was riding the bus home for my final time as a fourth grader. I remained quiet for most of the ride. Suddenly a "safety" named Danny, an older boy from my neighborhood who — on several occasions — had levied some anti-Semitic comments in my direction, stopped at my seat and told me: "On Monday, you're going up!" My lower lip began to tremble and I could feel tears welling up in my eyes. Just then, one of my older brother's friends reminded me that this was the last day of school and there were no more "Mondays" left in the year. He added, reassuringly, that there was no way Danny would remember his unfounded threat three months from now when school resumed. I sighed with relief. Sure enough, my first September as a fifth grade student was unspoiled by a trip to the principal's office.

However, years later, Danny stole my bike.

www.joshpincusicrying.com

is this the real life, is this just fantasy

My mom was a character.

She had a wicked — somewhat twisted — sense of humor. She loved a good, dirty joke. Actually, some of the best dirty jokes I know were told to me by my mom. She taught me curses in Yiddish. She listened to rock and roll, once beating me to Peaches Records to purchase a copy of Queen's 1978 album Jazz when it was released at midnight.

Growing up, my friends loved her. Not many of my friends knew my dad, but everyone knew my mom. She was the "cool" mom before there even was such a thing. When I attended elementary school, she made a few extra dollars driving kids to kindergarten, so she was always around and visible. At the end of the school year, she ran the face-painting booth at the school fair, plying her artistic abilities to the faces of many of my classmates. In later years, she regularly volunteered to drive my friends and me around to the movies, and eventually, concerts.

My mom didn't take too much too seriously. So, when she expressed an interest in the supernatural, everyone was a bit leery. She started hanging out with a group of ladies to discuss reincarnation and past lives. My father wanted no parts of this, so she would often go to these little, informal gatherings alone. Once in a while, though, I would accompany her. Seated around someone's living room, these women would pour themselves a glass of wine (except for my mom, who did not drink) and earnestly discuss the afterlife. One member of the group, an older lady who resembled actress Anne Bancroft in The Graduate, but not as attractive, told about a form of hypnosis called "regression." My mom leaned in closer as the woman elaborated on the process of inducing a subject into a deep, hypnotic sleep and jogging their subconscious memory with a series of suggestive inquiries to ultimately have them reveal and describe the details of a past life. My mom was a skeptic from waaaay back, which is why her interest in any of this was puzzling. But, my mom was pretty mischievous, so who knows what she had up her sleeve.

She ended up taking a course in hypnosis and had a framed certificate hanging on the wall in our den to prove it (as if that proved anything). Soon, she was hypnotizing willing friends and family members with the mumbo-jumbo words and incantations that she learned. At first, she read the steps and recitations straight from a paperback "textbook" she balanced on her knee. She strained to read the words, as the room was dimly-lit for purely atmospheric purposes. Maybe my mom's soothing voice offered relaxation to those needed relaxing and maybe relaxing led to a dreamlike state, but — dammit! — if she didn't get some pretty entertaining results from her little parlor trick. Several of my friends happily volunteered to be "regressed." At various times, one of my friends would stretch out on the sofa in our living room. My mom would pull up a chair next to the prone victim subject and recite her little spell. Much to the surprise and delight of the onlookers, my mom's suggestive hoodoo seemed to have worked. With some gentle coaxing from my mom, my friend would begin to spin some incredible tales of ancient Rome, ancient Egypt and even 17th century, witchcraft-threatened Salem, Massachusetts. Word of my performing mom spread throughout my high school. Soon, my mom had a regular gig with kids clamoring to find out who they were hundreds (or even thousands of years) ago.

Actually, it's Scrabble®

My mom was having a blast and she was ingratiating her standing as the "cool" mom. How ever she was able to get a bunch of teenagers to dream up whatever scenarios popped into their subconscious mind was a testament to her ability and the power of her suggestion. Did she really believe she was evoking actual "first hand" accounts of past lives? I doubt it. Was she getting a kick out of the whole thing? You bet! She even began supplementing her little dog-and-pony show with a foray into OUIJA® boards, creating a homemade version with letters from a Scrabble® set and an inverted wine glass. I'm pretty sure that was bullshit, too.

After a while, the novelty of regressions wore off and my mom went back to playing mah jongg. At least with that, she could hustle a few bucks from some old ladies.

Anything to keep it interesting. That was my mom.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

what a fool believes

I have been in the marketing field for years. I seek out and admire clever and innovative marketing practices regularly. Everything from Coca-Cola commandeering ol' Santa Claus for their own financial gain to Christian Mingle, the matchmaking website, claiming that God himself has endorsed their services. Brilliant. Just brilliant.

But so far, the best one I've seen is the campaign behind Sony Pictures' film The Interview. Follow this proposed scenario*, if you will...

Seth Rogen, an actor/writer possessing a modicum of talent, wrote the screenplay for a goofy film concerning the implausible concept of two reporters being recruited by the CIA to assassinate Korean dictator Kim Jong-un. When the silly concept was first conceived the object of the would-be assassins was Kim Jong-il, the current leader's father, who died in 2011, while the script was still in development.

As many kinks as possible were ironed out of the one-joke script and an August 2014 release date was set. Rogen, along with regular collaborator and Freaks and Geeks co-star James Franco (another actor that, despite a Best Actor Oscar nomination in 2011, has questionable acting range) were asked by Sony to reshoot and rewrite portions of the film. So, from the beginning Sony had its doubts about the sophomoric romp. The release date was changed to Christmas Day, a long-time popular and profitable day for the release of films.

Suddenly, what appeared (to me, at least) to be a brilliant marketing campaign was launched. Sony announced to the rabid, hungry-for-a-story media that their corporate email system had been hacked, the culprits releasing hundreds of personal correspondences that would prove embarrassing to a slew of executives, producers, directors and actors. The media leaped all over the story like a mouse to a peanut butter-smeared snap trap. 

A day or so later, alleged hackers released several as-yet unreleased films online, to the apparent shock and dismay of Sony (including the inexplicable second remake of Annie).

After days of jarring emails — some deriding famous and beloved actors and their films — Sony announced that the source of the criminal infiltration was rebel group calling themselves Guardians of Peace, based in malevolent North Korea (read: George Orwell's Eurasia). Kim Jong-un himself had condemned The Interview, promising a "merciless" retaliation if the film is released. The Guardians of Peace threatened a 9/11-type attack on theaters daring to show the film. Suddenly, Sony was shaking, giving in to the threats and demands of an evil foreign government who was allegedly behind a massive email attack, although their previous technological know-how resulted in four consecutive failed satellite launches, Sony canceled the Christmas Day release of The Interview. The voice of the people roared with displeasure. Celebrities took to Twitter (the cool outlet of choice) to express their outrage about the decision. Even the President took time out of his busy day to offer an opinion, calling Sony's decision "wrong." With just a few days to spare, Sony did a complete turnaround, standing proud against foreign threats. The studio announced that it would show the film in a select group of theaters, terrorist groups be damned! It would also make the film available to online outlets, like YouTube, Google Play and many, many others, for a small rental fee. Social media exploded in approval. We won! We beat the terrorists! We would now exercise our God-given American rights of Free Speech to see shitty movies! One fellow in the military was even prompted to tweet to Mr. Rogen: "You make me proud with your courageous decision to stand up to North Korea. I support you and am proud to serve you. You are a true American." (Seth Rogen is Canadian, but, y'know... whatever.)  U-S-A!  U-S-A! U-S-A! 

So, defiantly, The Interview was released on Christmas, as promised. It made one million dollars — granted it was only shown in 330 independent theaters nationwide (as opposed to Unbroken, which was shown on 3,100 screens). The home, video-on-demand views, once tallied, will, no doubt, bring that total higher. The critics, however, were less than kind, mostly panning the film as "misogynistic," "racist," "filled with toilet humor and penis jokes," and "vulgar." One critic wanted to know "What was all the fuss about?"

A little more than a week after the hoopla has died down, The US Government (the same one that recently admitted to lying about the CIA's torture methods) revealed that North Korea may not have been behind the Sony hacking, but plans for sanctions against North Korea will still be implemented.

Oh well, you got to see your Seth Rogen movie. You got to wave the American flag for a little while. And you fell right into Sony's master plan.

Happy?

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

* the opinions expressed here are mine and mine alone, but maybe you'll share them.