joyful noise

On Mothers Day, Mrs. P, our son and I went out for breakfast. We went to a good, old-fashioned diner in South Philadelphia, not too far from our son's house. Apparently, we were not the only people to have this idea, as the parking lot was full, the place was packed, there was a lot of people waiting to be seated standing in a line that was winding out of the entrance. But we waited. After a surprisingly short amount of time, a hostess grabbed a handful of menus and led us to a cozy booth in the far back corner of the multi-sectioned dining room.

Our little booth was adjacent to a large table, at which was seated a group of women. With little deduction, it was very obvious that the women represented a multi-generational family. There were young women snapping photos on their cellphones. There were older (and by "older," I — of course — mean "my age.") women posing for those pictures, snuggling up to one another and flashing wide and happy smiles. There was one woman seated next to an aluminum walker. She was smiling, silently taking in all of the hustle and bustle going on at her table and the tables surrounding. 

My family perused our menus as a waitress brought over huge plates, overflowing with typical breakfast-y foods and placed them before each woman at our neighboring table. Every so often, the sound of silverware clinking against ceramic plates was drowned out by loud, joyous singing. These women burst effortlessly into song as though they were the cast of a 1940s big-screen musical. They sang a few choruses of Motown classics. They sprinkled in some rhythmic selections from the 70s disco era. A few of the women — those seated at the accessible ends of the table — stood up and danced in place, waving their hands in the air like they just didn't care! When the waitress returned with refills of coffee and a few side dishes that were late from the kitchen, several of the women grabbed the staff member to pose for a picture.

During their meal, they all exchanged colorfully-wrapped gifts and beautiful bouquets of flowers. And there was more singing and more photos and more laughter and more joy. At one point, one of the women asked my son if he could take a group picture of everyone in their party posing with the owner of the diner, as though he was some sort of celebrity. Even the quiet matriarchal woman was included in this shot, her chair turned to face the camera. Her smile grew impossibly larger than it was before.

Our breakfast arrived and our meal was accompanied by the loud elation from our neighboring diners. Their singing, their outbursts, the tone of their conversation erupted in pure delight. It was infectious. I made a quick scan of the surrounding tables and everyone appeared to be enjoying these women enjoying themselves.

While we ate, I shot a look across the table to my wife and she shot the same look back at me. We have known each other for 44 years. We've been married for almost 42 of them. We sort of know each others thoughts at certain times — without saying a word. This was one of those times. The meaning of our "silent glances" was confirmed later during the drive back our son's house. We both believed that my father — who died over thirty years ago — and her father — who just celebrated his 90th birthday — would have both been furious! They both would have complained loudly about the women seated next to us. They both would have felt this behavior was inappropriate, disruptive, rude, undignified and unwelcome. They both would have asked for a different table, far out of earshot of these inconsiderate women. And once moved to a different table, they would have continued their complaints. They both were from a different, less tolerant generation.

But it was joyous! Very joyous! Very very joyous! The thought of complaining never even crossed our minds. If perhaps it was a screaming infant... maybe. But even Josh Pincus can't complain about joy.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

don't talk to strangers

I'll never learn.

I have been working at my current job for a little over four and a half years. The job is fine, something I have been doing in one form or another for over forty years. Everyday, I arrive at work two hours before my scheduled shift time. I sit in an empty, quiet office — all alone — and I knock out a lot of work. Quickly. Efficiently. And — most importantly — uninterrupted by the banal, droning, meaningless, inane conversation carried on by my co-workers. When my co-workers arrive at work, I do not participate in any of their conversation. I work. I am very focused, mostly because my job requires me to be focused. I cannot understand how my co-workers can carry on lengthy conversations about reality shows and films in the Marvel Cinematic Universe and problems with various family members. One day recently, I overheard a particularly loud co-worer make multiple phone calls to line up a cleaning service for her mother's house. I heard every painful detail of the process loud and clear... and this person's desk isn't even in the same office as mine. She's down the hall, and yet, it was as clear as if she was sitting next to me.

My co-workers know very little about me. Some, I'm sure, don't even know my last name. I have had many, many jobs over the past forty years where I was personable, friendly and talkative with my co-workers. But now... at this point in my life... I just don't feel like it anymore. I don't need to feign interest in the lives of a bunch of people I merely work with. The extent of my conversation with my co-workers is limited to work-related subjects. Period. I don't want it to go any further than that. I'm not rude. I just don't initiate conversation and I don't care to "jump in" to an existing one. I just want to do my work, get paid and go home.

Unfortunately, I broke my own rule this week. I'm not sure why or what compelled me, but I did. And I learned why I should keep to myself.

There's a guy who comes into work at 3 o'clock, a scant 90 minutes before I am scheduled to leave for the day. I acknowledge his arrival with a nod or a quiet "hey" uttered under my breath. But that's it. It was almost a month until I found out his name is Tom. Tom sits at a computer at a desk about ten feet behind me. He sits and I sit and we tackle our respective work until 4:30 rolls around. Then I grab my water bottle, my cellphone that has been charging on a pad by my computer monitor and I leave. Sometimes, I raise a hand in parting salutation as I head for the office door.

But this week, a conversation... sort of..... erupted. I still don't remember what prompted it, but I think he brought up the subject of — of all things — "collecting autographed photos." A nerve was struck! Until recently, I collected autographed photos starting way, way back at a time when my son was still in a stroller. (He's now 38 and — SURPRISE! — no longer requires a stroller for getting around.) I have over a hundred photos, all proudly displayed on the walls of my basement. Tom (my late-in-the-day co-worker... remember?) mentioned that he, too, collected autographed photos. We exchanged a few brief anecdotes about obtaining said photos, all the while I kept thinking to myself "Why am I having this conversation?" I glanced at the office clock and quickly ended the conversation and quicklier made my exit.

The next day, Tom lumbered in to work as usual at 3 o'clock. I was busy doing last-minute corrections to an ad that was due to print at day's end. Tom took his usual place behind his computer monitor. But, then, he loudly cleared his throat in a very obvious attempt to get my attention. I turned around to see Tom produce a large photo album from a cloth tote bag he had carried in with him. "I brought this in to show you," he proudly announced as he placed the album on a communal work table and spun it around to allow me easy access to open and peruse its contents.

I opened the book and turned each page. Tom had accumulated quite an impressive collection of autographed photos. The overarching theme was old Westerns. Shows like The Virginian and a number of John Wayne feature films were represented with color and monochrome glossies personally inscribed by the hands of James Drury, Clu Gualger, L.Q. Jones and other "stars' of the same "mid-fame" stature. There were a few I did not recognize and their illegible signatures didn't add any help. However, there they were, perched on a horse alongside the Duke himself, although Mr. Wayne's signature was conspicuously absent from any photo in which he appeared. There were photos of Ernest Borgnine, Ben Johnson and more recent names like Tom Selleck. There were non-Western stars like Mel Brooks and Don Rickles. Towards the back of the volume, cleaved as if in some sort of invisible separation, were a succession of female stars, including Raquel Welch, Debra Paget, Angie Dickinson, early television staple and future game show hostess Ruta Lee, horror icon Caroline Munro, Debbie Reynolds, Adrienne Barbeau and — my favorite — Doris Day. The book ended with a photo of President George W. Bush, who Tom sheepishly admitted was probably inscribed with an Autopen. I nodded approvingly as I closed the book. "This is great, Tom.," I said as I returned to my desk for the final hour of my workday.

There's another guy at work. He's a tall man with white hair and a perpetually confused expression on his face. I don't know exactly what his position is, but he does have his own private office and he often wanders the hallways loudly singing the wrong lyrics to classic rock songs. Just before I got ready to leave for the day, the tall white-haired man walked into the office which I sometimes share with Tom.

"I hear you brought in pictures of naked broads!," he bellowed through the smirk on his face. Tom explained that he brought in his collection of autographed photos as a follow-up to a conversation we had the previous day. The tall white-haired man hefted the book into his large hands and began to page through it. "Where are the chicks?," he demanded, as he turned each page after disappointing page. He commented on a few of the photos of men until — midway through the tome — he arrived at the first female image. "Woah! Ho! Ho!," he exclaimed as he closely examined a photo of Doris Day, bringing the book right up to his face. "She's got a fuckin' great body!," he stated as he gave the black & white image the ol' "once over." From then, he gave his un-asked for impression and assessment of every single photo of a woman included in Tom's collection, punctuating each lascivious comment with words like "boobs," "hooters," "knockers" and "chest." He even threw in a stray "sweater meat." He went off on a detailed commentary of Adrienne Barbeau when he reached her photo, injecting his already creepy remarks with uncomfortable analysis of her ample endowments. "Wow!," the tall white-haired man continued, as he poked an exploratory finger at the decidedly not provocative photo of Debbie Reynolds, "Talk about a fuckin' hot body!" Tom and I said nothing. We were both taken by such surprise by these uncalled for assertions that we were rendered speechless — simultaneously! The tall white-haired man finally put the book down, leered for a moment at the closed volume and left the office. I gathered up my stuff and said goodbye to Tom.

And THIS, my friends, is why I don't talk to my co-workers.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

hot diggity! dog ziggity! boom what you do to me

Every July 4th, I park myself in front of my television and watch the Annual Nathan's Hot Dog Eating Contest. Why am I obsessed with this annual summer holiday event? Well....

I don't know.

The contest began in the early 1970s, although a Nathan's marketing promoter named Morty Matz told of an impromptu contest held at the famed Coney Island hot dog stand in 1916. The alleged first contest was held between four men boasting over who was the most patriotic. They decided that eating hot dogs - America's beloved main dish - would prove their love of country. The story went on to claim that the contest was judged by then-popular entertainers Eddie Cantor and Sophie Tucker. However, in 2010, Matz revealed that he had made the whole thing up.

So, the actual date of the first Nathan's Hot Dog Eating Contest was July 4, 1972. It received little to no fanfare. The following year, a fourteen-year old boy won the contest, but due to a nationwide meat shortage, the gluttonous contest was downplayed and eventually denied by Nathan's that it ever took place.

But, Nathan's was determined to make this contest a media event, generating interest as well as  business. They were successful, with the contest gaining national attention in the mid-1990s. Under the regulating eye (or mouth) of the IFOCE (The International Federation of Competitive Eating), the Nathan's Hot Dog Eating Contest has grown to become the "Super Bowl" of competitive eating events. In the early 2000s, the contest was dominated by Takeru Kobayashi, a cocky, young Japanese citizen who would swoop in on July 4th and down over four dozen hot dogs and buns in 12 minutes. Kobayashi did this for six consecutive years until 2007, when upstart Joey Chestnut consumed an unheard-of 66 frankfurters to unseat Kobayashi. Since then, Chestnut has won the contest handily, out-eating his competition by dozens. In 2021, Chestnut wolfed down a whopping 76 hot dogs and buns in ten minutes to set a still-standing world record. There's even a separate women's competition held just prior to the men's event. In past years, diminutive Sonya Thomas, a sweet young lady who looks like a stiff breeze could knock her over, has eaten 45 red hots to earn the coveted "pink belt" of glory. She has since relinquished her title to up-and-comer Miki Sudo, who holds first place status in other competitive eating events like tamales, buffalo wings and spare ribs.

But why.... why? .... am I fascinated by this event? I haven't eaten a meat hot dog in almost twenty years. When I did eat hot dogs, it wasn't more than two or three at one sitting... and certainly not under a time constraint. I think it's the way the contest is presented is what I enjoy most. First of all, it is broadcast on sports network ESPN as though it is a real sporting event. It draws thousands of spectators who pack the corner of Surf and Stillwell Avenues in Brooklyn's Coney Island to cheer on their favorite eater. The faux pageantry is hosted by the charismatic George Shea, the co-founder of the IFOCE. George is a character, setting the stage for the tongue-in-cheek attitude that contest exhibits. Sporting a straw skimmer, George announces each contestant with a lengthy, often-exaggerated, mostly-nonsensical introduction worthy of a heavyweight boxer or a Greek god. Once the competition begins, he offers play-by-play that rivals Monday Night Football and sometimes sounds like the narrative of a Dr. Seuss book.

The competition itself is downright disgusting. Hand-held cameras provide close-up coverage of every bite, gulp, teeth gnash and swallow. Participants are permitted to dunk the hot dog buns into their choice of liquid (usually water or lemonade). This provides added splashes and sloshes that heightens the excitement. The visuals are so "in your face" that the camera lenses are often splattered with bits of hot dog buns, specks of meat and even a little sweat. Not only do you feel as though you have a front row seat, you actually get a "hot dog's-eye-view" of the action. It's frenzied and fun and — in a word — barbaric. The whole thing plays out like a modern take on the Christians being fed to the lions (with the Christians being hot dogs, in this case).

So every July 4th, while folks are enjoying a day off from work, a family get-together, a backyard barbeque, or perhaps a day at the beach, I can be found gazing at my television at high noon, watching a bunch of guys prove their self-worth by jamming dozens of hot dog into their gullets for a shot at a few minutes of fame and glory... all while trying not to choke to death.

What better way is there to celebrate America?

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

swinging school

In 1965, Bobby Rydell sang about some mythical institute of higher learning where "the chicks are kicks and the cats are cool." I had this 45 and I played it often. I knew Bobby was a fellow Philadelphian, but I wasn't quite sure which school he was singing about. There certainly weren't any "kicky chicks" or "cool cats" at any school under the jurisdiction of the Philadelphia School District that I attended. School was awful, filled with bratty classmates, rigid, humorless teachers and a curriculum that never got any better or any easier as I struggled my way through twelfth grade. And "swinging?" Ugh! You gotta be kidding me!

I did what I could to get out of going to school as often as possible. I played on my mother's sympathies, milking every little sniffle into the onslaught of the bubonic plague. I suddenly became a devout student of the Talmud when I overheard some of my classmates discussing some obscure Jewish holiday that I needed to observe at home, taking precedent over a typical day at school (preferably a day when a book report was due). My mom (as I later discovered) wasn't as gullible as I had thought. She knew I was full of shit with each and every excuse I employed. But, my mom didn't press me for good marks or perfect attendance. She knew the limits of my academic abilities. She also knew that a day off here and there wasn't going to cause any permanent damage to the person I would become. She picked her battles and putting up a fuss when I wanted to stay home from school wasn't high on her list. My dad, by the way, couldn't have told you what grade I was currently enrolled in at any given time. He left that stuff to my mom. My dad did the important things. He went to work. He came home. He smoked cigarettes and he watched television. Mostly sports.

My dad — and my brother, for that matter — watched a lot of sports on television. A lot of sports. If it involved a ball, a bat, a stick, a racquet, a club, some sort of padding and a final score, my dad was watching it. I was not. I had no interest. Zero. Zilch. Nada. I didn't know a field goal from a lay-up. I couldn't tell you the difference between an inside pitch and an inside straight. But, my dad could. He watched baseball in the summer, football in the winter and basketball and hockey in the spring (although, he did complain that hockey moved "too goddamn fast," but he watched it anyway). 

When I was a kid, Philadelphia sports teams were notoriously bad. The Phillies were bad. The Eagles were bad. The 76ers were above average when they had Wilt Chamberlain in the early 70s, but stunk again until they acquired Julius "Dr. J." Erving (I looked that up). The Philadelphia Flyers, though — that hockey team that moved "too goddamn fast" for my father — were pretty good. And in 1974, the whole city — hockey fans or not — cheered them on as they became the Stanley Cup Champions that season. Of course, the city celebrated by throwing the team a victory parade. It was held on Monday, May 20, 1974 — the day after the Broad Street Bullies defeated the Boston Bruins to take Game 6 and the series.  And it was a school day.

I'm in there somewhere.

Reports on the news determined the Flyers Stanley Cup Victory Parade had a bigger celebratory turnout in Philadelphia  than the announcement of the end of World War II. An estimated two million people lined Broad Street and stood in a shower of ticker-tape as their tough-and-toothless heroes smiled and waved as they rode past the crowds on the open backs of city fire engines. A series of speeches and presentations were offered at JFK Stadium, the venerable venue in South Philadelphia (now gone, with the state-of-the-art Wells Fargo Center in its place). All were welcome and the stadium was a madhouse. I should know. I was there. Yep. On a day that should have been taken up by another installment of seventh grade, I was screaming and yelling and cheering a bunch of guys who played a sport that I didn't watch. My mom gave me permission to skip school and accompany my brother and his sports-following friends to the parade.  Miraculously, he agreed to let me in his car. From the looks of things, a lot of kids didn't go to school that day. An awful lot.

On Tuesday, I went to school.

My first class was math. I hated math. I have always hated math. I still hate math. And, to be honest, math isn't too fond of me either. My teacher was Mrs. Goetz, a nasty, cranky old martinet who looked like my paternal grandmother — a woman I could not stand. (Your grandmother? Josh! That's terrible! Oh yeah? Here's why...) When ever I mentioned this teacher's name, my mother would sing: "Whatever Missus wants.... Missus gets!" It wasn't until years later that I got this reference. As students filed into her classroom, Mrs. Goetz eyed each boy and girl with contempt, leaning forward and following with her gaze as each student took their assigned seat. She squinted and wrung her hands, like Margaret Hamilton in The Wizard of Oz trying to figure out how to get those ruby slippers off of Judy Garland's feet. Before a single integer was reversed or sine was cosined, Mrs. Goetz announced her displeasure with the amount of students who were missing from her class the previous day. She continued her tirade by insisting that everyone who was absent better have a good and valid excuse.... adding that "going to a parade for a hockey team" would not be considered a valid excuse. She spoke the phrase "going to a parade for a hockey team" as though Satan were whispering instructions in her ear. Still putting any mathematical information on hold, Mrs. Goetz ran down the class list — one by one — asking for reasons of absence. A majority of students — boys and girls — explained that they had attended a classmate's out-of-town Bar Mitzvah on Sunday and arrived home very, very late in the evening. They were much too tired and in no shape to attend school on Monday. Mrs. Goetz seemed to accept this lame-ass excuse, I suppose on the fear of repercussions from possible "religious persecution." She nodded to each student who offered the "Bar Mitzvah" reason. "I'll allow that," she muttered, as she made some marking with her pencil on the roll sheet. When she got to me, I was angry. I had already delivered the required note from my mother to my homeroom teacher. School policy didn't require that every teacher be given a separate note for each absence. This ornery old fuck was just being difficult for her own amusement. "Well," I thought to myself, "Fuck her! I'm telling her the truth!"

"Pincus!," she announced, "Why weren't you here yesterday?"

"I was at the Flyers parade." I said

Mrs. Goetz exhaled angrily. "That is no excuse! You get a 'zero' for the day!" Teachers have been using that "zero for the day" threat for years! It means nothing. Absolutely nothing. It doesn't follow you for the rest of your life. It doesn't play into job interviews or loan applications. It's just a stupid, manipulative device that teachers wield to make them appear to have some life-altering control over the course of your existence. Spoiler Alert! They don't. 

I hated math. I hated Mrs. Goetz. Mrs. Goetz taught math. (I can't believe I'm going to use this joke....) You do the math.

A few hours from now, the Philadelphia Eagles are going to play the Kansas City Chiefs in Super Bowl LVII. There has been a lot of fervor over the Eagles for the entire season. Philadelphia is a sports town, specifically a rabid football town. Football always takes the forefront, no matter how good or bad the city's other sports teams are doing. I have heard the notorious "E-A-G-L-E-S" chant break out at a Phillies playoff game. Recently, Mrs. Pincus and I inexplicably found ourselves at a Flyers game. The Eagles were playing right next door. Midway through the Flyers game, "The Chant" erupted as word spread of another Eagles win. As the Eagles' regular season wound down, it became apparent that they had a shot at the whole ball of wax. The city was approaching a collective frenzy, as "The Birds" defeated every team they faced in the playoffs, securing themselves a spot in "The Big Game" — The Super Bowl.

There is a one-week gap between the last football playoff game and the date of The Super Bowl. In that time, several surrounding school districts have announced two-hour delays for the opening of schools on the day after The Super Bowl. Just a few days ago, the School District of Philadelphia followed suit and confirmed that its 217 schools will be opening two hours later than normal opening time on Monday, February 13. I'm pretty sure I heard all 124,111 students cheer from my home, just outside the city limits. While this decision does not affect me in the least, I am confounded by it. I cannot remember anything like this occurring in the history of the School District of Philadelphia. When I was an elementary school student, schools closed for Thanksgiving and Memorial Day. There was a ten-day break at the end of the calendar year that encompassed Christmas and New Years Day... and, if we were lucky, Chanukah fell within that time. If it didn't, well... tough. A one-week break covering Easter closed schools in the spring. Because of the unpredictability of Passover, Jewish students were on their own. A little parental convincing allowed for the first two and last two days of Passover to be taken off, while we ate peanut butter on matzoh during the days between. (If I told you that peanut butter is traditionally not eaten during Passover, you'd get that joke.) Sometimes we got Washington's Birthday (later combined with Lincoln's birthday to form the super holiday Presidents Day!) as a day off. Sometimes we got Columbus Day, too. Oh, and Veterans Day... we got Veterans Day off, prompting my father to lament: "I fought in the goddamn war and I have to go to work!"

But a football game? Really? What sort of example does this set for impressionable (and already entitled) children? I think the school boards are making a mistake with this one. Students' education has already been impacted by a worldwide pandemic. Do they really need to interrupt their school day because of a football game. Do they expect every student will be watching the game? Is it required to watch the game? If, by chance, the Eagles win (and they are the favorite), will schools be closed again for the obligatory celebration parade? Again, this decision has absolutely no bearing on me, my family or my life, but... seriously. Philadelphia has had other winning teams before. Jesus, the Eagles won the Super Bowl in 2017 and Philadelphia public schools opened at the same time they always did... providing there wasn't two inches of snow on the ground. I just think this is wrong. Very wrong.

Mrs. Goetz is probably spinning in her grave... assuming she is dead.

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

I always love my mama

Ann Jarvis was a Sunday school teacher in Taylor County, West Virginia in the late 19th century. One particular Sunday, Ann closed her lesson with a prayer, offering: "I hope and pray that someone, sometime, will found a memorial mothers day commemorating her for the matchless service she renders to humanity in every field of life. She is entitled to it." Ann's daughter, Anna, found great inspiration from her mother's words and devoted her life to her mother's honor and sentiment.

After college, Anna briefly joined her beloved mother in the church, working as a teacher, but soon she pursued an opportunity that brought her to Philadelphia. Anna found success as the first female literary and advertising editor at the Fidelity Mutual Life Insurance Company. Later, she became a shareholder in the Quaker City Cab Company, her brother's business. Although she was over three hundred miles away, Anna remained close with her dear mother, corresponding regularly by mail. When Anna's father passed away, Anna convinced her mother to move to Philadelphia and she did so reluctantly. However, Ann Jarvis's health was in a steady decline, forcing Anna to devote the majority of her time to taking care of her ailing mother. Ann Jarvis died on May 9, 1905 at the age of 71. Anna was heartbroken.

Three years after her mother's death, Anna arranged for a memorial service at her mother's church in West Virginia. Anna could not attend, though she ordered five hundred white carnations to be distributed to all in attendance. Anna, herself, spoke at a simultaneous ceremony held in the auditorium at the John Wanamaker Department store in Philadelphia. Anna's heartfelt words brought the crowd to tears. The day — May 10 — was designated as the first official Mother's Day. On May 8, 1914, President Woodrow Wilson signed a congressional resolution designating the second Sunday in May as Mother's Day. Anna was extremely protective of the holiday and took its celebration personally.

Save it, you ungrateful jerk.

In subsequent years, Anna fought tirelessly and viciously against the apparent commercialization of Mother's Day. She brazenly expressed her disgust with the floral, confection and greeting card industries. She publicly railed against making sentimentality a commodity, announcing: "A printed card means nothing except that you are too lazy to write to the woman who has done more for you than anyone in the world. And candy! You take a box to Mother — and then eat most of it yourself. A pretty sentiment." Anna staged protests against the celebration of Mother's Day. In 1943, she organized a petition to officially rescind Mother's Day. However, her efforts came to an end when she was mysteriously placed in a sanitarium in West Chester, Pennsylvania. Executives from within the flower and greeting card industries paid the bills to keep her institutionalized. Anna Jarvis died on November 24, 1948. She never married nor did she have any children.

Now, call your mother and tell her you love her.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

you say it's your birthday

Who doesn't love a birthday? Some of my fondest memories surround birthdays, either my own or someone else's. I remember birthdays when I was a kid. My mom would allow me to invite three friends to go miniature golfing and then out for pizza. It was so much fun, I did that several years in a row. One year, I took the same three friends to a small, year-round amusement park not too far from my house. We spent the afternoon riding unsafe rides and later we sat at a picnic table and had the cake that my mom brought.

As I got older, birthdays, while still fun, were much different. In high school, my best friend Alan planned my one and only surprise party. I was led to his basement under false pretenses, only to discover a room full of people screaming "Happy Birthday" when Alan flicked on the lights. He even was thoughtful enough to invite the girl I was dating while my girlfriend was away at overnight camp. I actually had the whole thing figured out prior to descending the basement stairs, but it was still a great time. 

My twenty-first birthday was pretty uneventful, although I vividly remember my twenty-second. I went to a bar on Philadelphia's hip South Street and the bouncer didn't even ask for ID. I realized then that it was all downhill from here.

My son was born three days after I turned twenty-six. Birthdays took on a new and exciting quality, as my wife and I celebrated vicariously though our child. Mrs. P baked themed cakes and we decorated the house with colorful balloons and pictures of our son's favorite things — Thomas the Tank Engine, Power Rangers, Mickey Mouse. One year, he asked for an "Underdog" themed party, as he had become a fan when Nickelodeon began showing the same cartoons I watch as a child. In the middle 80s, "Underdog" party goods were kind of tough to come by. Later, my boy celebrated two different birthdays at Disneyland and had his first legal alcoholic drink at Trader Vic's in Beverly Hills. He was disappointed, however, when, as a new twenty-one year old, he wasn't carded.

Through my 30s and 40s, birthdays became less and less important. The excitement they held in my youth has dissipated with each year. I usually went to work on my birthday if it didn't fall on a weekend. I usually never told my co-workers that it was my birthday. It was just another day. My wife and I don't exchange gifts for any occasion (not for religious or moral reasons, we just don't), so birthdays were usually acknowledged by a dinner out with our son. Since our son moved out of our house and into his own, birthday dinners have been reduced to just the two of us. Don't get me wrong. I'm not sad or upset. Birthdays are just not a big thing for me.

My in-laws both turned 80 this year, their birthdays just a month apart. My wife's cousin called to ask if we had any plans to celebrate what undeniably qualifies as a "milestone." My wife said that she really didn't consider anything and thought about calling her siblings to bounce around a few ideas. Instead, she just called her parents and offered them a few suggestions. Just as I had predicted, they dismissed almost every idea — parties, trips, big dinners with lots of guests. Instead, they conceded to a small breakfast gathering following the morning service at their synagogue. This, evidently, is how 80 year-olds party hard.

Rest assured. The cops did not have to break things up and nobody passed out. 

At least not from drinking.

Happy birthday.

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