and he keeps it out of sight

It is no secret that I love visiting cemeteries. Visiting cemeteries (without a funeral to attend) is something I have been doing for over twenty years. I been to many located all over the country, but, of course, I've been to the most in the Philadelphia area. My fellow cemetery enthusiasts (or taphophiles) have different reasons for cemetery visits. Curiously, none of them are specifically for funerals. Some like to see a particular style of grave marker, like those made of zinc (referred to as "zinkies") or cradle graves, used as planters or to designate the grave of a child. Others like to find unusual epitaphs. Still others seek porcelain portraits that adorn headstones, a practice that was popular in the 19th and early 20th century but has enjoyed a resurgence of late. My main goal on cemetery excursions is to locate and photograph the graves of famous people. "Famous" is a relative term. I've seen the  graves of actors and actresses, musicians and politicians, gangsters and sports figures and those of individuals who have made a notable contribution to society but whose name is unfamiliar. I am referring to people like Septimus Winner, who wrote a number of popular songs including Where Oh Where Has My Little Dog Gone? and Listen to The Mocking Bird or Cesare Cardini, who invented Caesar salad.

Visiting cemeteries or "grave hunting" as it known by those within the hobby, is fun (if you're into that sort of thing), but it is, by no means, easy. It takes a lot of preparation, a lot of walking, a full charge on your cellphone and a whole lot of patience. Before I go to a particular cemetery, I check with findagrave.com, an invaluable website with mostly detailed information about the famous, the unsung and regular folks like you and me... except they're dead. I look to see if the cemetery I have chosen to visit has a map that I can print. Then I check for plot locations of the graves I'd like to photograph and I mark them off on my printed map. More recently, grave listings have included GPS coordinates, making grave hunting somewhat easier. Because Find-A-Grave relies on user input, sometimes those GPS coordinates are wrong. Very wrong. That's when frustration starts to set in. I have often found myself walking around in circles, criss-crossing the same 20 square feet in a cemetery, expecting a long-buried corpse to pop up from under a headstone and scream "Hey! I'm over here" while he waves me in with his skeletal hands. So far, that has never happened. What has happened, though, is I have returned to a few cemeteries to try — over and over — to locate that one grave that has eluded me. I have succeeded a few times. 

Rosetta Tharpe — Sister Rosetta, if you will — is interred in a cemetery just a few blocks from my house. I tried for years to find her brown marble headstone to no avail. Until a fellow taphophile helped me out with some easy-to-follow directions. I offered my account of that incident HERE.

Owen Wister, the author who defined the Western novel, is buried in nearby Laurel Hill Cemetery. I have been to Laurel Hill many times, both for community events (like a concert or a flea market) or just to wander through the graves. On each visit, I have tried in vain to find Owen Wister's grave. I even asked a fellow who claimed he was a volunteer tour guide. His confusing directions nearly had me tumbling down the steep banks of the adjacent Schuylkill River. But, just last year, my quest ended when I breached a heretofore unnoticed hedge to find the entire Wister Family plot, with Owen's weather-worn marker as the centerpiece, staring back at me in unspoken defiance. If headstones could smirk... (That adventure in chronicled HERE.)

My third "white whale" is the grave of composer Marc Blitzstein. While his name is not as well-known as his contemporaries, you no doubt know his music. Marc wrote the English lyrics for Kurt Weill's and Bertolt Brecht's renowned Threepenny Opera - the German version of The Beggar's Opera featuring the malevolent, knife-wielding antagonist MacHeath. You know that version of Mack the Knife made famous by Bobby Darin in 1959? Well, he was singing Marc Blitzstein's lyrics to the tune Die Moritat von Mackie Messer, presented in its original German when Threepenny Opera premiered in 1928. Marc went on to compose the critically-acclaimed The Cradle Will Rock, a so-called "agitprop" musical directed by Orson Welles and produced by John Houseman. The show, an eventual hit, was shut down on its debut performance by federal authorities citing its antigovernmental overtones. In his career, Marc Blitzstein was very critical and dismissive of his contemporaries, although he mentored a young Leonard Bernstein and formed a lifelong friendship with the future conductor-composer. In 1964, while on vacation in Martinique, the openly gay Marc (unusual for the time) solicited sex from a trio of sailors in a bar. The sailors accepted Marc's offer, but once they reconvened outside in an alleyway, they brutally beat Marc and left him to die. His body was eventually identified and returned to his hometown of Philadelphia for burial. A small marker decorates his unassuming grave in Chelten Hills Cemetery... a marker I have looked for over and over and over again. (Marc's mother, sister and brother-in-law are also interred within the same plot. Each grave has its own marker.)

Last summer, when I was headed out to West Laurel Hill Cemetery for a return trip (a long overdue follow-up on a trip a decade earlier), I stopped at Chelten Hills. This time, I was armed with newly-posted GPS coordinates. I figured that I would spend fifteen minutes tops, now that an outer-space satellite would be guiding me right to Marc Blitzstein's grave. With a Google Earth map on my phone and an automated voice telling me where to walk, I was led to a spot near a large tree that did not — I repeat DID NOT! — contain the immortal remains of composer Marc Blitzstein. I was in the unfortunate situation I had been in many times before. Standing in the middle of a cemetery — fucked! — because some moron doesn't know how a GPS works. I traced and retraced my steps so many times, if someone was watching me, they would have assumed I was drunk and aimlessly staggering among the dead.

Here was the problem...

See that red pin? Well, according to a Find-A-Grave user, that's the location of Marc Blitzstein's grave. Now, do you see that yellow circle? That is the actual location of Marc Blitzstein's grave. While following the walking directions, that electronic voice announced that I had arrived at my destination, when, in fact, I had merely arrived at a bare patch of grass that had been hit by a lawn mower too many times. I slowly walked around that tree and a few others like it until I gave up, got back in my car and drove West Laurel Hill, where I had a very easy time finding each and every grave I sought. The GPS coordinates were accurate there in every case.

A few months ago, I sent an email to the Find-A-Grave user that had posted photos of Marc Blitzstein's grave. I asked if he could shine some light on the location of the plot. This past Friday, my email was answered... first with an apology regarding the lengthy response time. More importantly, the user supplied a photo, detailed directions and an accompanying map showing the precise location of the grave sought. One I could not pinpoint among the pathways that snake through Chelten Hills Cemetery.

This afternoon, instead of watching the Phillies drop a heartbreaker to the Miami Marlins, I drove out the Chelten Hills Cemetery to settle my score with Marc Blitzstein. Chelten Hills is just a short drive from my house. I pulled into the entrance and drove straight to the first bisecting path. I drove right past the spot where I had trounced the grass flat just a year earlier. I made the first left, drove to the end of Section C and parked. I took three steps out of my car and - goddamn! - if there wasn't the plaque identifying Marc Blitzstein's grave, just as "Mr. Sowerberry" (the helpful Find-A-Grave user) had promised.

I had written about Marc Blitzstein on my illustration blog, with hopes that particular post would end with a photo of Marc's grave, one taken by me nearly in my own backyard. But it was not to be. However, thanks to the assistance of someone else who thinks there are more interesting pastimes than collecting stamps, this tale has a happy and satisfying conclusion.

Would you like the see the other cemeteries I have visited? You can find them HERE.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

metal health will drive you mad

When I was a kid, I was fascinated by those old guys who roamed the beach with metal detectors. On family trips to Atlantic City, I could always count on a few things. My parents would take my brother and me to the beach. My dad would gingerly wade into the ocean while wearing his sunglasses, indicating that he had no intention of putting his head anywhere near the water. Then he would invariably disappear from the beach, sneaking off to watch the slick-talking hucksters set up on the Boardwalk demonstrating those "handy-dandy" vegetable peelers/cutters that the likelihood of his purchasing one were about as good as his putting his head in the ocean water.

We could always rely on my mom buying an ice cream treat from one of those borderline-homeless guys who toted their frozen wares in a dented cooler, layered alternately with rock-hard dairy products on a stick and dangerous, but tempting, dry ice. We could also be sure that we'd see at least one old guy (but there were usually more) in torn shorts and a faded, threadbare t-shirt following his extended metal detector around like a handler displaying a prize-winning show dog. We would often see these mysterious figures in the early morning hours on the infrequent occasion that we were renting bicycles to ride on the Boardwalk. (Always with my mom. Never my dad). As the sun was slowly rising over the ocean, the silhouettes of these guys wandered intently in the freshly-combed sand, a pair of large headphones enveloping their heads under a ratty, but concealing straw hat. They'd listen closely for little "beeps" or "boops" indicating the presence of some hidden metallic treasure just below the sandy surface — or twenty feet below the sandy surface. It was a crap shoot.

Seeing these treasure seekers was a true sign that summer had arrived. Just like popping a salt water taffy in your mouth or flicking a wooden ball down a Skee-Ball alley, an unkept old guy on the beach with a metal detector let you know that school was out, surf was up and summer had begun. 

Did any of these determined fellows ever find anything of any real value? I'm not sure. Obviously, they did have the funds with which to purchase a metal detector. Perhaps they were just digging in a random spot on the beach and they discovered a long-forgotten pirate chest... or a wallet stuffed with twenties. Whatever the case, they were able to purchase a much-needed piece of equipment to assist in their quest for additional wealth. I surmise, however, that since they are still scouring the beaches, they are not yet financially sound and must continue their search in order to make ends meet. Or maybe greed is their motivation

The absurdity of their quest became even funnier to me as I got older. In 1991, children's network Nickelodeon broadcast a thirty-minute special that eventually became a series called The Adventures of Pete & Pete. It chronicled the quirky exploits of one Pete Wrigley and his little brother, also named Pete. This special focused on the Wrigley brothers encounter and subsequent search for their friend, Mr. Tastee, the local ice cream truck driver. Along the way, they visit a beach, where, with the aid of his trusty metal detector, the senior Mr. Wrigley finds a 1978 Cutlass Supreme buried in the sand. My son and I roared with laughter as the Petes helped Dad unearth the car and drive home in it. (That's right! It was buried with a full tank of gas!) I was immediately reminded of those optimistic old men on the Atlantic City Beach, wishing for a similar reward.

Just a few days ago, Mrs. Pincus and I were circling the block on our daily afternoon walk, when I spotted a familiar figure in nearby High School Park. Fifty or so feet into a large expanse of neatly-trimmed grass, in the shadow of some landscaped shade trees, there was an older man in ragged pants, faded t-shirt and straw hat methodically ambling about with a metal detector at arm's length. I suppose April is too soon for the beach, so perhaps he was keeping his finding skills sharp until that time when he could trade his sneakers for sandals and his ragged pants for ragged shorts.

There are coins or jewelry waiting to be found. Maybe even a Cutlass Supreme. 

www.joshpincusiscrying.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

freeze frame

There are two things I love: concerts and technology.

I have been going to concerts since I was a teenager, that means, for those of you keeping score, over forty years. I lost count how many shows I've been to. Unlike many of my contemporaries, I do not have every single ticket stub carefully preserved and filed in an intricate, cross-referenced filing system. I just have to rely on my memory and, so far, it has not failed me yet.

I remember taking a Kodak disposable camera to a Queen concert in 1978. In the glow of the stage lighting and from seventeen rows back, I snapped shot after shot of Freddie Mercury, pirouetting like a choreographed top across the stage. When I had the photos developed, I was disappointed in my photography skills when I viewed a stack of out-of-focus figures in washed out browns, reds and greens.

Years later, as technology advanced and improved, cameras got smaller and better. Now, I had a camera that was lightweight and could take thousands of pictures on a tiny storage disk. Plus, I was now able to shoot video, so I could watch my favorite bands perform my favorite songs over and over again. Thanks to the miracle of the internet, I could share my pictures and videos with the entire world. Of course, everyone in the world wanted to — no, needed to — see my pictures!

The last picture I took at a concert
and the band wasn't even on stage yet.

Now, I was going to concerts and staking out a prime spot stage side so I could record live versions of my favorite songs. I watched bands — bands I really wanted to see live — perform through a three inch by two inch screen. Then, when I got home, I watched my grainy video on my computer screen. Just hours earlier, I could have seen the actual band if I had just lowered my stupid camera. Soon, I wasn't even watching the videos anymore. It took me a while — too long of a while — to really get the absurdity of this situation.

I have since given up recording songs at concerts, Although the videos still remain on the internet, I removed the YouTube link from my website because I'm not posting anything new. Now, I just take one or two pictures on my cellphone during the first song and put my phone in my pocket for the rest of the show. I am enjoying concerts once again  — the way I used to.

If only I could get other people to put their phones away, too. They'd see what they are missing.

***** ***** ***** ***** *****

My annual Christmas music compilation is available as a 
FREE DOWNLOAD
at ge.tt or jumpshare.com for a limited time.

This year, it’s a whopping 71 minutes worth of Christmas cacophony that’s sure to ruin your holiday celebration within seconds. You get two dozen eclectic Christmas selections plus a custom full-color cover with track listings – all for you and all for FREE! (That’s right! FREE!) 

  

(Please contact me if you have trouble with the download.)

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

you ought to be in pictures

I think I first noticed how stupid people are one day when I was in Atlantic City with my family. My wife, my then-young son and I got on the elevator at my in-law's apartment building in the small, summer destination town of Ventnor - just outside of the so-called "America's Playground." We were headed out to the beach. My wife carried a tote bag stuffed with sunscreen, snacks, water, toys and other essentials for a day in the sand. Doing my best to help, I gripped two folded chairs in my hands. My son, possibly six or seven at the time, donned a baseball cap and rested the business end of a large plastic baseball bat on his small shoulder. Our descent to the lobby was briefly interrupted by a stop at a lower floor, where we were joined by an elderly woman in a flowing beach cover-up that dated back to the Coolidge administration. She was the type of woman that we Jews refer to as an "altacocker*." She smiled as she entered the elevator and glanced down at my son.

"Ohhhhh!," she exclaimed, dragging the interjection out to double-digit syllables, "You play baseball!" She pointed a crooked finger at the bat slung on his shoulder and added, "You must be smart!" Then, she smiled and winked.

To this day, there are a couple of things that intrigued and baffled me about the pairing of those two short sentences that woman spoke:

1. If a boy is holding a baseball bat and wearing a baseball cap, the chances are pretty good that he plays baseball. It's not a longshot of a guess. It's not like, upon seeing the bat and cap, you surmised that he is on his way to ballet class.
2. If you follow baseball, you know that strength, speed and stamina are some basic requirements in order to be a player at a professional level. However, brains, intellect, smarts – whatever you want to call it – are not remotely required to play the game. Those lunkheads that shoot themselves up with steroids and whack homers over the stadium fences are one step removed in the evolution process from single-cell organisms. Dumb single-cell organisms.

It was then that I started to take note of the comments, advice and suggestions that people make, based purely on their own ignorance, as to how the world operates. Look, I know that this woman was trying to be nice and friendly to a little kid, but there are other ways to express that without sounding moronic. Sometimes people gotta suppress their overwhelming urge to just say something to someone.

Since my days in art school, when I was already preparing myself for my eventual career, I have been given uninformed and unprovoked advice on "what I should do with my life." When I was a child, busily copying some of my favorite cartoon characters and eventually creating some of my own, people would regularly say to me "You should sell your comics to The Inquirer (the local Philadelphia daily newspaper)." I know they were well-meaning with their suggestions, but, even as a kid, I knew that comic strips were distributed to newspapers through one of several syndication agencies that represent artists and writers and their work. It is rare that a newspaper, especially one in a city the size of Philadelphia, would run a comic strip by a local artist exclusively in their paper. Plus, in order to have a comic strip eligible for review and selection by a syndication company, one would have to submit six weeks worth of completed work, including full-color versions for the Sunday editions. Even then, there is a slim chance that a first-time artist would be chosen amid the politics and pecking order of a fairly-closed business. Then there's the consideration of agents and unions and on and on and on.

More recently, it has been suggested that I pursue publishing a book of the collected drawings and stories from my blog. I try to dismiss that proposal with a simple, yet gracious, "thank you," without expounding on the difficult process of getting a book published, not to mention the fact that there are thousands of other artists that do what I do, some (most) much, much better at it.

I understand that I was just being praised for my work, but a simple "My, you are talented!" or "Nice work, Josh!" would have sufficed instead of misguided career advice from someone who has no clue as to how a particular business operates.

Open for business!

My wife is a phenomenal baker, often whipping up treats for me to bring to my office, or showcasing her patisserian talents at our annual "Night Before Thanksgiving" dessert party (now in its thirtieth year!), though her baking endeavors have never risen above the level of "hobby." Despite that, people who have sampled her delicious offerings from the oven, frequently insist that my wife sell her wares from our home or, maybe, open a bakery. While I know they are merely offering a compliment to my spouse's prowess with a sack of flour and a rolling pin, opening a home business requires much more than popping out a tray of cookies, opening your front door and placing yourself on standby with a cigar box full of nickels and dimes for change. A home business is subject to numerous ordinances from local municipalities, including stringent zoning and health codes. Then there's the task of figuring how to place a profitable dollar amount on the goods and the recalculating of new formulas for recipes that previously yielded merely two dozen of a particular item. Other considerations include distribution, advertising, insurance, equipment and on and on and on. Opening a bakery means entering a highly-competitive market, selecting a location, paying rent, hiring employees, and on and on and on.

Again, I know that the praise is earnest, but a heartfelt "Gosh, these are yummy!" is more appreciated that the suggestion of a poorly-conceived business plan.

Just before my son landed his dream job at a local Philadelphia radio station, a family member suggested that I look into purchasing a radio station at which my son could work. I swear to God.

I have often wondered if these same people have told stamp collectors that they would make excellent postal workers.

Just a thought.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com


*Its literal translation, from Yiddish, is "old shit."

it was great when it all began

I like to visit cemeteries. It's a hobby that started innocently enough on a family trip to Cleveland in 2007. After visiting the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame and taking in an Indians game, a waitress at the Hard Rock Cafe suggested that we cap off our stay with a stop at Lake View Cemetery. She explained that President Garfield, a suburban Cleveland native, is buried there. So, on our way out of the city, we went to Lake View.

President Garfield Memorial

What a cool experience! My previous cemetery visits were only on the occasion of a funeral or an unveiling (a traditional Jewish ceremony in which a grave marker is dedicated and "revealed" within one year after a funeral). This experience was different. There was no solemnity or sorrow. We were there as sightseers. Within the orderly rows of tombstones, conveniently placed directional signs pointed the way to the final resting places of such luminaries as millionaire John D. Rockefeller and G-Man Eliot Ness. I found myself taken in by the picturesque landscape and the quiet, serene atmosphere. At the actual grave sites, I was intrigued by the connection to history.

I was hooked. From that point on, I tried to schedule a trek to a local cemetery on every family vacation we took... sometimes to the chagrin of the other members of my family. At first my wife and son would humor me, joining me as I traipsed through rows of similar-looking headstones, searching for that elusive find. As the years rolled on, it turned to "Ugh! Dad wants to go to another graveyard!" Our trip evolved into me wandering around with my camera at the ready, while my family dozed off in the parked car. Soon, I was going to cemeteries alone.

John D. Rockefeller lies here

While I appreciate the sculpture and elaborate decoration that marks a vast amount of graves, my main goal is to visit the graves of celebrities — actors, actresses and other people who have made their name in history. Finding these graves is no easy task and requires a great deal of preparation. It's not like you can drive through cemetery gates and look for the sign that says "Famous People — This a-way!" Unlike their treatment above ground, famous people have no choice but to be buried among the commoners. Sometimes their remains are housed in huge, ornate mausoleums, sequestered from the cookie-cutter plots of the average Joe. But, for the most part, death is the great equalizer. When you die, no matter how important you were in life, you're just as dead as the next guy and into the ground you go.

Eliot Ness'  marker

So, before I visit a cemetery, I do a lot of research. I find a map of the property. I check to see the amount of "celebrity" graves on the property. (One or two is hardly worth the trip.) If possible, with the help of my favorite website Find-A-Grave, I find the location of the particular grave sites. Then, I plot out my route on the cemetery map. Sometimes, the available maps are not accurate and I find myself standing in the middle of a mass of headstones, surveying the area like a moron, half expecting a corpse to pop up and wave "Hey! I'm over here!" It hasn't happened yet.

I have found that most cemeteries are not set up for picture-taking idiots like me. They are laid out for family members who are going to the same loved one's grave site year after year. No map required. You've been there before. You can find the spot with your eyes closed. As far as the "grave hunter" (yes, there's an accepted term for what I do) is concerned, most cemeteries are poorly marked with little or no posted directions. Also, with very few exceptions, cemetery employees are not tour guides. The outside workers are there to cut the grass and pick up trash. Inside workers are there to maintain the books and schedule funerals. They aren't interested in leading you by the hand to Judy Garland's crypt. There are some cemetery managements, however, that embrace and celebrate their famous residents, but they are the minority.

We have seen some weird things on our cemetery visits. I don't mean ghosts or spirits or any of that type of bullshit. I mean other visitors just being weird. We saw a woman lovingly stroke the brass plaque that adorns the crypt of Marilyn Monroe, before seating herself on a nearby cement bench, where she unwrapped a sandwich, a bag of chips and a can of soda. She no doubt told her friends that she couldn't make an afternoon lunch date because she would be dining with the late silver screen siren. I watched a woman, sitting on the curb next to the grave of R.H. Macy, spend several long minutes putting on a full face of make-up. We watched kids playing hopscotch, using flat grave markers as their game board. The animal kingdom even got in on the weirdness. I was startled by a fox with a shaved ass zig-zagging between the headstones of a Pennsylvania cemetery and a flock of turkeys strolling through a New York memorial park.

Over the past seven years, I have visited over two dozen cemeteries, dragging my poor spouse along to most of them. She's a good sport. 

My adventures in grave-hunting are chronicled HERE. I hope you enjoy them as much as I did.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

on a clear day you can see forever

I took this photo of the Disney Studios in Burbank, California on Saturday, October 23. This view, from high in the Hollywood Hills, can only be seen from one place.

Wanna know where I was when I snapped it?

Click HERE and find out.