I just had to laugh, I saw the photograph

If there's one thing I've learned about the internet, it's I'll never learn.

A few days ago, I posted the above picture on my Facebook page. If you are not currently my Facebook "friend" or if you are unfamiliar with the weird, wonderful and often wacky world of Josh Pincus, let me tell you... I post a lot of stupid shit on Facebook. I know, I know — everyone posts stupid shit on Facebook. But, the stuff that I post has only one purpose — and that's to make me laugh. Not, necessarily to make you laugh, but to make me laugh. If you happen to laugh along the way, well good! But, believe me, that was not what I set out to do. I find a lot of things funny and they may not be the same things that you find funny. Honestly, more often that not, you won't find them funny. But, as long as I do... well, mission accomplished.

So, as I started to say before I interrupted myself, I posted the above picture on Facebook. It is allegedly one of the last pictures taken of The Beatles as a group. Supposedly, it was taken as part of a photoshoot at John Lennon's home on August 22, 1969. The caption I wrote to accompany my post read:

When this photo was taken...

John Lennon was 30.

George Harrison was 27.

Paul McCartney was 28.

The drummer was 30.

Now, the purpose of this post — as I have previously stated — was for my own amusement and it covered a few of my... um.... uh... shall we say "obsessions." First, there's my long-standing fascination with people's ages. I am constantly confounded by old photos of stalwart-looking celebrities or actors on television sporting gray hair and wizened features, only to find out that they were twenty or even thirty years younger that I am now. I still can't get over that fact that Carroll O'Connor was just 46 when All in the Family premiered. 46! Or that Brad Pitt and Art Carney were the same age when they won their respective Oscars — and that age was 56. I just discovered that Julie Andrews was just 28 when she filmed Mary Poppins. 28!

Secondly, this photo plays into my long-running, exclusively one-sided nonsensical feud with beloved (by some) Beatles drummer Ringo Starr. I have have a completely unfounded disdain for the left-handed Liverpudlian stickman. I regularly post jabs at Ringo for no other reason than it makes me laugh and it pisses Beatles fans off. Folks who know Josh Pincus personally and have kept up with my internet antics, know of my feelings towards the probiscusly-endowed percussionist — and they know (I think) that's it's all just a stupid joke that has gotten way out of hand. Now,  it's too late to stop. It's also too funny to stop.

Speaking of Beatles fans, especially Beatles fans of a certain advanced age — they are a relentless bunch. Beatles fans as a whole, are predominantly old, predominantly white and predominantly uncompromising and very defensive of those four mop tops. They spend a good portion of their time on the internet trying to educate members of the younger generation on how great the Beatles were and how you should not be listening to any band except The Beatles. Never mind the fact that the Beatles' last album of completely original material came out 56 years ago. 56 years ago! That is ancient history to someone in their teens. This was five years before the Vietnam War "officially" ended. To someone currently in eighth grade, the Vietnam War was fought between the United States and England and ended when the Constitution was signed. And Paul Revere announced "I shall return" somewhere along the way. Nevertheless, die-hard Beatles fan love to expound on how there would be no Oasis or Nirvana or Metallica or Taylor Swift or hip-hop or sliced bread or NASCAR if it weren't for the Beatles. But, younger generations (with a few "old soul" exceptions) couldn't possibly care less. To them, the mighty Beatles were just another band that their parent's parents listened to. 

So, I posted that picture and that caption and I moved on. I'm sure I posted a stupid sign or a misspelled headline or the death of some obscure celebrity. By that time, I have forgotten all about my Beatles post. But... the internet would not let me forget. The post got 87 reactions, 5 "shares" and a whopping 46 comments — mostly from people that I am not connected to... or even know. Most of them were furious that I did not identify Ringo by name, with several going so far as to actually tell me his name. Others haughtily corrected me on the date of the photo and the ages of the subjects. A few of those people went on to contradict each other on the actual ages. One of them pointed out that John (in the photo) looks like his son Sean, who is now 50. (Off topic and I don't give a shit.) One commenter felt compelled to leave the single word "Nope" as their assessment. I decided not to respond to any of the comments. Any reply would have set off a lengthy argument and I have learned that no one is wrong on the internet. 

My friend Kathy summed things up nicely by inquiring: "Doesn't anyone here know you at all?"

No, Kathy, they don't. Evidently, I'm not as famous as the Beatles' drummer.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

i think i'm in trouble

Last week, I wrote about baseball. The week before, I wrote about being an instigator on the internet. This week, I combine the two.

I spend a lot of time on the internet, specifically Facebook. On any given day, I get a lot of suggestions to join various Facebook groups based on my interests or something I may have clicked on or something I searched for on Google or something I discussed with my wife or even something I may have just thought about. You know how the technology has advanced in those algorithm things.

Because I have shown an interest in baseball, primarily my hometown's team, I get a lot of suggestions to join Facebook groups that are devoted to all things Philadelphia Phillies. In an effort to entice me to join, I get to see a post here and a post there from the particular group — sort of a "free preview" as though it was a weekend of free HBO MAX. In typical "Josh Pincus" fashion, I feel compelled to leave smart-ass comments mostly for my own amusement, but also hoping they will cause the algorithm to immediately reject such unwarranted — and unwanted — behavior. So far, it hasn't worked, but I am still mildly amused.

The once-dominant Phillies have hit a late-season snag. After a rocky start, the Phillies turned things around, riding high and defeating opponents left and right... until they didn't. While they still hold a substantial lead over the other teams in the league, the gap has begun to narrow as the season winds down to its final weeks — weeks that will determine who moves on to the coveted post-season. With a glimmer of hope for ending this nasty slump, the Phillies scored a whopping 11 runs on the Kansas City Royals on August 24. The Phils' offense was on fire with bats a-swinging, including catcher J.T. Realmuto knocking two over the outfield wall and racking up 7 RBIs. Every starter in the Philles line-up recorded a hit. Well... almost everyone. Poor Alec Bohm, the Philles usually-stellar third baseman, couldn't hit nuthin' despite five times to the plate. At the end of the evening's contest, the Royals retreating to their clubhouse with their collective tails between their legs, the fraternal assembly that is the current Phillies roster, hung around to congratulate their efforts. Photographers captured a tender and intimate moment as first baseman Bryce Harper, who went 1-5 with an RBI in the game, threw a brotherly arm across the sagging shoulders of Alec Bohm in a gesture of camaraderie, consolation and compassion for his beleaguered teammate. A Facebook group called A2D Radio posted the image with the single word caption "THIS!". Hell, it didn't even need a caption. Everything you needed to know about the team bond these players have for each other was apparent in this photo. Harper's Jesus-like expression of benevolence. Bohm's sadness and frustration with just a touch of hope at the words of his colleague. The dimly-lit, slightly out-of-focus, slightly off-center composition. It was all there. I didn't even need the thirteen hashtags A2D thought were necessary. The initial post generated 41 thousand positive reactions as well as 276 comments, most offering some sort of variation on the "I love this team!" sentiment.

I say most offered a positive comment. Most, not all. Let us not forget about one Josh Pincus, the internet's favorite redheaded stepchild who was only put here to be the cynical smart-aleck that you have come to know and love... or loathe... whichever the case may be. 

Among the outpouring of love, I commented: 

Yeah. I did that. Yeah.... I know. But it made me laugh and that is what is most important. Jeez, it even garnered 32 reactions — granted three of them were angry. But, as they say, there's no such thing as bad publicity. Honestly, I was just making a joke. I'm always making a joke. Some are funny. Some are not. I know that. Depending who you are, none of them are funny, but I can't help that. We each have our own taste in humor. Personally, I don't find Sebastian Maniscalco to be funny, but I think Andy Kaufman was hysterical. I love the Marx Brothers but Laurel and Hardy do nothing for me. I understand that my sense of humor isn't for everyone and I will happily admit when one of my jokes bombs. Just like I'm sure you'll happily admit when one of my jokes bombs.

And then along came a wave of folks who were only too happy to tell me exactly how funny they thought my comment was. On a scale of 1 to 10, they found it to be not funny at all.

I was told, in no uncertain terms, to:

• get my head out of the gutter
• grow up
• grow the fuck up
• come out of the closet (After all, where would the internet be without a homophobic slur. One thing you can say about Facebook, it is consistent.)

In addition, I was informed that "one day I would make a friend," that I'd "probably start gooning all over [my] living room" (I didn't understand that one.) and that I had made a "douche bag remark." (That one I understood.) I was questioned with "Dude? Really?" and "Are you 10?" All in all, it was a funny diversion until I got bored and looked for the next post just begging for a "Josh Pincus" comment.

Will this make me stop making comments on the internet? Are you kidding? Does the Pope shit in the woods? (Oh, you know what I mean.) No sir. This is only the beginning. I am on a mission.

And that mission is to make me laugh. Me. Not you.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

silver threads and golden needles

It's coming up on a year since I left the vile, bubbling, hate-filled cesspool that Twitter has become. I was pretty active on Twitter for years, but after psycho melomaniac Elon Musk purchased the ubiquitous social media platform, things just took a nosedive. Twitter became rampant with heinous, venomous bullshit and I no longer wanted to be a part of it. Besides, I was already getting my fair share of bullshit on Facebook.

In July 2023, the folks who brought you Instagram and Facebook launched Threads, a near carbon copy of Twitter specifically created to unseat the mighty microblogging giant. In its first week, Threads signed on over 100 million — 100 million — new users. I was there at the beginning, watching the joy unfold, seeing familiar names greeting an abundance of potential followers with heartfelt greetings of "What's up Threads?" and "What's this all about?" By week number two, the excitement subsided and things evened out and I began to ignore Threads, focusing more on Instagram and Facebook, both of which I use daily. One morning, while posting on Instagram, I noticed that a "share to Threads" option had been added along with the similar Facebook option. This way, I post to Threads and Facebook without ever opening up the Threads app. Great! I was growing weary of Threads and the "Hey everybody" messaging that was prevalent over there.

There's a music guy in Toronto named Eric Alper. Not being Canadian, I was first made aware of Eric Alper on Twitter. Eric Alper's MO was to pose (mostly music-related) "conversation starters" and then not wait around for the conversation to start. He'd post things like: "What was the first concert you attended?" or "What was the first album you purchased with your own money?"  Soon, he was branching out beyond the music business. "Does mayonnaise belong on every type of sandwich?" or "Do you like summer or winter best?" Then, while the replies would pour in, Eric Alper would already be on to the next question, never checking back to review the answers from his faithful followers on the first question. He never commented or countered or even cared about how many followers were responding. I found this to be rude and frustrating and just adding to the overall attitude that was slowly turning me off from Twitter. Elon Musk was just the rancid icing on the stale cake.

Recently, I logged on to Threads — possibly out of boredom — to see how and if things had progressed. I found Threads to be chock full of Eric Alper wannabes. Threads was overrun with nonsensical questions and easily Google-able trivia. "Who's the most famous person you ever met?" and "What are the best vegetables to put in chicken soup?" and "Do you put on a sock and a sock and a shoe and a shoe or a sock and a shoe and a sock and a shoe?" and the often posed "Does pineapple belong on pizza?" Twenty or so minutes of scrolling will reveal dozens and dozens of these inane non-sequiturs, all posted with the intention of bringing the author untold internet fame and the proud title of "influencer." All of this prompted the inner Josh Pincus to unleash his redheaded ire. I decided to answer some of these questions in the most Josh Pincus way possible, keeping up my brand as the internet's most loveable smart-ass.

Someone asked: "What's one Mexican food that you will NOT eat?" I answered: "Chihuahua."

Someone asked: "What do you think of when you hear the word 'debunk?'" I answered: "De summer camp."

Someone asked:" Did you ever like something so much, you bought two of them?" I answered: "Yes. Shoes and gloves."

Feeling cocky, I mistakenly tread into an area of Threads occupied by a bunch of folks with absolutely no sense of humor — Beatles fans.

Someone posed the question: "Who is the best musical trio?" Among the responses of The Police and Rush and Cream, I replied "The Beatles." and I sat back and waited for someone to take the bait. Just a few minutes after my reply, a fellow named "Bakemaster420" with a profile picture that screamed "I am so stoned," corrected my answer in a very matter-of-fact manner. He said: "Trio," to which I quickly replied "I don't count Ringo," Understandably, not everyone is familiar with my long-standing "pseudo feud" with the Liverpudlian quartet's drummer. But, this, of course, was the response I wanted to complete the joke. I laughed to myself because I do this for my own amusement and I am, admittedly, my own best audience. A few hours later, "Mr 420" added: "Well, that's pretty fucking stupid." I laughed some more.

Not content with ruffling some feathers in the staid Beatles camp, I wended my way over to an even less humorless group of musical faithful — Bruce Springsteen fans. Springsteen fans — the current ones, anyway — are an odd bunch. Way back in high school, I numbered myself among the loyal legion of Asbury Park's guitar-slinging pride-and-joy. Over the years, however, my love for The Boss has waned and I find his current persona as the raspy-voiced elder statesman of Americana rock & roll to be grating, tedious and downright irritating. Unfortunately, you take your life in your hands if you mention this to a Springsteen fan. Most Springsteen fans are in my age group (late 50s to early 70s) and spend their surplus free time trying to convince the younger generation that not only is Bruce Springsteen the greatest singer-songwriter-performer of all time, but that any other music by any other artist (save for Springsteen-adjacent acts like Southside Johnny) aren't worth listening to and one should be ashamed and even berated for doing so. Knowing full well of the consequences ahead of me, I decided to — in  RFK Jr. terms — "poke the bear."

Someone innocently asked, with the hope of becoming an internet celebrity: "What celebrity did you used to be a fan of but aren't anymore - and why?" I answered: "Bruce Springsteen. I think it's pretty obvious." The bear had officially been poked and the angry retirees lifted themselves out of their golf carts to come to the rescue of their beloved New Jersey crooner (that isn't Frank Sinatra). The first salvo came from a guy that asked "It is? What are you referencing?" I replied with a link to a blog post I wrote in 2014 in which I first confessed my love of all things Bruce but went on to explain how my admiration dissipated as Bruce's music — in my opinion — became less heartfelt and more of an exercise in corporate branding. I thought I did a good job of explaining my disillusion. (To date, that post got 585 views. You can read it HERE, if you really want to.) Well, this particular Springsteen fan couldn't bear to have someone — especially snotty little Josh Pincus — not like Bruce Springsteen. So, he tried to convince me in the most eloquent way possible. He told me "Your writing is fucking atrocious." Several more of Bruce's disciples chimed in. They attacked my writing, my opinion and my musical tastes. I am fairly certain that if I gave undying praise to Springsteen, my writing would have been compared to Hemingway. But maybe that's just wishful thinking. Oh, and each angry response was punctuated by "Dude" either at the beginning or at the end of their statements/threats. I ignored all of the replies and just watched as the palpable frustration grew and grew until they all just gave up... or I just stopped reading them.

For the time being, I have decided to lay off mocking the musical opinions of the ultra-defensive, ultra-fragile "Classic Rock" devotees. I certainly wouldn't want to keep them from cashing their pension check or taking their afternoon nap. So, I'll stick to telling everyone that "Fiona" is my favorite kind of apple and that kitty litter doesn't belong on pizza.

But pineapple does.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

we're off to see the wizard

Tired of searching through countless channels for something to watch, Mrs. P and I settled on a repeat showing of The Wizard of Oz that was just starting on Turner Classic Movies. Of course we have both seen The Wizard of Oz numerous times, but there is something comforting about watching the venerable film on real-time broadcast television (without commercials) that feels like a 102-minute visit with an old friend. (Honestly, there are some "old friends" that I couldn't spend 102 seconds with... but that's a story for another blog post.)

Cut!

Although it was released 22 years before I was born, I am obsessively familiar with The Wizard of Oz. Most people my age share my familiarity with the film and have fond memories of its yearly showing on television. The reason for its cross-generational "beloved" status, I believe, is the fact that the storytelling moves along at a pretty brisk clip. Unlike the current crop of bloated, backstory-heavy, CGI-laden, three-plus hour films being churned out of Hollywood, The Wizard of Oz wastes not a second of footage. Every scene is meaningful and adds to the flow of the story. Perhaps, this is why so many "Oz-adjacent" movies were failures at the box office. They suffered from too much explanation of a subject with which the audience was already familiar. They were bogged down with unnecessary subplots that added nothing but time. As a matter of fact, in an effort to keep the film concise, a scene was cut from The Wizard of Oz after initial screenings. The producers felt a particular musical number slowed the action down. (This was the notorious "Jitterbug" dance sequence, clips of which are readily available on YouTube.) 

Even though I love The Wizard of Oz, watching the movie with me is akin to watching The Rocky Horror Picture Show at a Saturday midnight showing. I recite dialogue along with the long-dead actors. I comment on the action. I make up on-the-spot, smart-ass jokes and repeat tried-and-true ones from previous viewings... and I question some of the more peculiar and nonsensical things that occur. Yeah, I know that it's about a girl that travels over the rainbow via a cyclone and lands in a full-color world filled with talking scarecrows, green witches and flying monkeys (blue ones, too). That aside, there are lines of dialogue and action sequences that make no sense — even in the context of a fantasy story. I think the fact that it was made in 1939 and included some of the same snappy dialogue that was so prevalent in films of the era is part of the "problem" I have with The Wizard of Oz. But there are other things that, even after zillions of viewings, still don't sit right with me.

How old is Miss Gulch supposed to be? Clara Blandick (who played "Auntie Em") is 63. It can be surmised that she has known Miss Gulch for years. Auntie Em acknowledges that Miss Gulch owns "half the county," however Margaret Hamilton — obviously disguised by theatrical make-up and costuming designed to hide her age — is only 37 years old. And what sort of successful business venture allowed a 37 year-old to "own half the county?" And who owns the other half?

Frank times five.

When Dorothy stumbles across Frank Morgan as "Professor Marvel," the first of five roles he portrays in the film, he rifles through her belongings while offering the young girl a crystal ball reading. I find this very creepy. In true "fake psychic" fashion, he alludes to Dorothy's aunt. "Auntie Em!," Dorothy confirms. The good Professor corrects her, stating that the woman in question is, in fact, named "Emily." How does he know this? Her name is not written on the photo he finds in Dorothy's basket. Her full name could be "Emma" or "Emmaline" or "Embeth" or "Emmylou." Hell, it could even be a nickname for "Melissa" or "Gemma." What does this guy know? He didn't even get the reference Dorothy made about the "crowned heads of Europe" and that's painted right on his fucking wagon!

Jerk.

Once Dorothy gets to Oz, she meets the true villain of the story. No, not the Wicked Witch of the West, but Glinda, the so-called Good Witch of the North. This seemingly sweet and nice, pink-clad fiend is the first citizen of Oz that Dorothy meets... and within seconds, she insults the poor girl. "Are you a good witch or a bad witch?," she innocently asks. Dorothy answers that she is not a witch at all, adding that "witches are old and ugly." Glinda giggles and tells Dorothy that she herself is a witch. An astonished Dorothy, wishing to be cordial to her greeter in this unfamiliar land, says, "I never heard of a beautiful witch before." Glinda replies, "Only bad witches are ugly!" So... if she asked Dorothy is she was a good witch or a bad witch, that means she hadn't quite determined if Dorothy was beautiful or ugly, knowing full well that she was a good witch and therefore beautiful. Glinda still required confirmation of Dorothy's "witch" status because her level of beauty wasn't good enough for Glinda. Later in the film, she makes it snow on Dorothy and her companions to counteract the effects of the poppies designed to put the crew to sleep... knowing full well it would rust one of Dorothy's friends. In the film's conclusion, she announces that Dorothy could have returned home to Kansas at anytime, that she always had the power. When questioned "why didn't you tell her?," Glinda smugly replies "She wouldn't have believed me?" Did you even bring it up and let Dorothy decide? For goodness sake, you told her there was a wizard at the end of the yellow brick road and she believed that! Dorothy begged to go home for nearly two hours and you never, ever mentioned that a couple of clicks on her new shoes could provide that in "two seconds." (Those are your words, Glinda!) It's funny when Glinda's "traveling bubble" shows up in the final scene at the Emerald City, the Scarecrow points and says "Here's someone who can help you." Glinda? Really? She hasn't been helpful yet!

When Dorothy meets the Scarecrow, she tells him that the crows in Kansas would be frightened by a talking and dancing Scarecrow. He asks: "Where's Kansas?" Dorothy explains, "That's where I'm from" and the Scarecrow doesn't press her for more information. "That's where I'm from" doesn't answer his question. That was pretty rude! Oh, wait... he doesn't have a brain. Fuck him. He probably forgot the question anyway.

Dorothy's initial meeting with her three traveling buddies in Oz culminates in a similarly melodic song, each specific about what the characters seeks from the Wizard. The Scarecrow and the Tin Man's renditions are seamless with their dialogue and work as a plea to convince Dorothy that they should be included on her journey to the Emerald City. However the Cowardly Lion awkwardly sets his song up with the introduction "I just gotta let you know how I feel" even though they have already decided to take him with them to the Emerald City... but.... he sings anyway.

Why does the Wicked Witch of the West have gripper tape wrapped around her broomstick? Does she use this in case a pick-up game of stickball breaks out on the yellow brick road or among the Winkies at her castle? Are there sporting goods stores in Oz? This is a pretty specialized item to obtain. Sure they have metal buffing services, hay stuffing services and a beauty parlor at the Emerald City, but gripper tape? That's a big ask. They could probably order it, though.

Speaking of the castle, when Dorothy is held prisoner by the Wicked Witch, brave Toto escapes to alert the Scarecrow, the Tin Man and the Cowardly Lion of her location and her predicament. The intrepid trio make their way into the castle and Tin Man begins hacking at the wooden door of the room where Dorothy is imprisoned with his ax. From the other side of the door, Dorothy announces: "Hurry! The hourglass is almost empty?" referring to the timekeeping device the witch left as a reminder of her fate. However, Dorothy's rescuers have never seen the hourglass. How come they don't stop and question: "What hourglass?" You didn't say anything about an hourglass! What are you talking about? Are you still tripping from the poppies? I thought the snow took care of that?" Nope, they just continue to break the door down. When they finally get to Dorothy, not one of them points and says: "Oh! That hourglass!"

In the final scene, Dorothy is saying her tearful goodbyes before she heads back to Kansas with the Wizard in the hot-air balloon he absconded from the Omaha State Fair. She says goodbye to the Tin Man who tells her his new heart is breaking. She says goodbye to the Cowardly Lion who acknowledges that he would have never gotten his courage if it weren't for Dorothy. Then she turns to the Scarecrow and — right in front of the other two — she tells the Scarecrow that she will miss him most of all. The Tin Man and the Lion can hear you, Dorothy! We can all hear you! That is pretty insulting! After all, what exactly did he do that the others didn't? Geez! Worst of all, the goddamn Scarecrow doesn't even say a word! He doesn't thank her for her assistance in getting a brain. He doesn't even say "goodbye." I guess being named "Interim Wizard" went right to his newly-gifted brain!

So, finally, Dorothy is going home. But, Toto jumps out of Dorothy's arms to chase the Oz equivalent of a cat. If you watch carefully, the balloon just doesn't "up and go" without Dorothy. No, the Tin Man continues to unravel the docking rope and barely makes an attempt to pull the balloon back down... even though he is still holding the rope! It is obvious that he selfishly wants Dorothy to stay in Oz. Only he knows why.

I didn't even bring up curious lines of dialogue, like "Here, have some cruellers" or "You're more trouble than you're worth one way or another" and, when Dorothy asks a castle guard if she can have the witch's broomstick after melting their tormentor, he replies, "Yes! And take it with you!" Well, of course, she going to take it with her! She doesn't just want to hold the witch's broomstick, she wants a murder trophy.... like a serial killer.

Oh! And what about that bucket of water! If you know that water will melt you, why are you keeping open buckets of it around your castle? You are just asking for one of your disgruntled employees to dump that bucket on your head after denying a perfectly reasonable vacation request. The witch should have banned all open containers of water from her castle. She knew about the magical powers in her sister's shoes, but didn't think leaving buckets of water all around  her castle was a bad idea.

One more thing.... Where does the red brick road lead to? 

Oh look.... I can watch The Wizard of Oz anytime I want! I think I'll watch it now.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

i started a joke

I think I'm a pretty funny guy. It doesn't matter if you don't think I'm funny... as long as I think I'm funny, because my humor is purely for my own amusement. If you happen to think the things I say are funny, well, that's just a happy by-product of me amusing myself. As a matter of fact, when someone doesn't "get" my humor, that makes it all the more funny. And if they get angry at the "playing dumb" sarcasm, which is the tone of a lot of my humor, well.... it just gets funnier. For me, anyway... and that's what's most important.

Since I hopped on to Facebook, I have had a great time amusing myself by posting silly pictures with sillier captions or leaving slyly sarcastic comments on other people's legitimately earnest posts. I just sit back and marvel at how many people don't get that I am joking. I laugh at how many people will "mansplain" a topic of which I am clearly making light. Well, clearly to me, anyway, and, as we have already established, that is the goal. The people who have known me personally (IRL, as it were) usually know when I am joking... which is always. The folks who only know me through an internet connection should figure things out within a few posts. C'mon, did I really think that Dennis the Menace found Mr. Wilson dead on the sofa... no matter what the screenshot of my television depicts? Do I need someone to explain that George Reeves was not wearing his Superman suit under his Civil War-era garb in his brief appearance in Gone with the Wind? It's a joke! I'm joking! They're all jokes!

A few days ago, MeTV, the retro television network I spend an inordinate amount of time watching, posted a little quiz about the final episode of M*A*S*H in which the character of "Radar O'Reilly" appears. A brief intro was followed by a series of multiple choice questions aimed to test readers memories about details of the show. I discovered the post through a Facebook link under the headline: "How well do you remember the ''Good-bye Radar'' episode of M*A*S*H?" It was accompanied by a photo of actor Gary Burghoff in character as the naïve company clerk with suspect extrasensory powers. At this point, there were just a few comments from readers, mostly affirming their sentimentality towards the series and that  episode in particular. This was the perfect — perfect! — scenario for a little of that patented Josh Pincus "smart-ass" humor that I've come to know and love (I cannot speak for you.) 

I have been a fan of M*A*S*H for years. I watched it in first-run and have watched reruns dozens — possibly hundreds — of times over the past forty years. (That's right, M*A*S*H had its final original episode broadcast forty years ago.) I like some episodes, I dislike some episodes. I like some characters. I dislike some characters. Overall, It's a show I will watch and one with which I am very familiar. Heck, my favorite all-time television episode is a 1974 episode of M*A*S*H called "Adam's Ribs." (I even wrote about it HERE.) Eventhough I like M*A*S*H, I will gladly make fun of it, because I make fun of everything... because everything is funny. So, injecting a little bit of sarcasm in the otherwise staid comment section was something that was custom-made for ol' JP. Here is my comment:

Of course M*A*S*H fans will recognize this as a deliberate misquote from the poignant 1975 episode "Abyssinia, Henry," that marked McLean Stevenson's swan song as the befuddled commanding officer "Lt. Col. Henry Blake." The line was delivered by Gary Burghoff to an unsuspecting cast and the tearful reactions in the episode's final scene were real. But, the internet is a relentless, humorless place, fraught with serious people who feel it is their self-appointed duty to keep the internet honest. Instead of putting their focus on inconceivable concepts like a child sex-trafficking ring operated by a former US senator under the cover of a Washington DC pizza parlor or the gubernatorial appointment of a religious zealot to a municipal board of directors, after he claimed that the public water system is responsible for turning men gay, they choose to put their time and energy into setting me straight on my confusion over a four-decade old sitcom. This is the battle they choose to fight. This is the hill they choose to die upon. The responses to my comment came in thick and fast.

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It was hysterical! Do these people really think I was being serious? Let's analyze this for a second... First of all, if I can post a comment on Facebook, then I have access to the internet. If I have access to the internet, don't they realize that I can look this quote up in a matter of seconds? And, if they are such experts and bound to uphold the good and decent legacy of M*A*S*H, don't they see that the quote is spot-on accurate, except for the substitution of Radar's real name for that of Henry Blake's? And, most of all, don't they realize that this line was delivered by RADAR HIMSELF?!?! The whole thing is stupid, obviously comical and far from serious. 

At last count, ten people had made some attempt at correcting me, either with a brief "No" or "Wrong" to some actually taking the time to explain why I am wrong. These, of course, are the same people who enjoyed seeing the added request of "show your work" at the bottom of a lengthy word problem in seventh-grade math class.

A few responses were phrased as though I had just revealed an extramarital affair at a memorial service for Grandpa. How dare you! How dare you sully the legacy of the greatest achievement in the history of broadcast television! M*A*S*H stands for all that is good and decent in this world and making a factually incorrect statement about any aspect of the series is akin to blasphemy... even worse. A couple were written as though M*A*S*H was a documentary, Radar was real person and I flunked the final exam. The more self-righteous responses to my stupid joke were posted, the funnier it got.

I recently began selling t-shirts on the website TeePublic. A recent addition was this one, prompted by my regular response to those who don't "get" me. Perhaps you'd like one too. They can be very helpful... and they come in a wide variety of sizes and colors.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

box set

A few doors up the block is a house where an older woman lived. Recently, due to her advanced age and declining health, the woman was relocated to an assisted living facility. After the woman was settled into her new home, her daughter and her son-in-law moved into the house.

Apparently, the woman's daughter began emptying out the house. Perhaps in an effort to working towards selling it. Or possibly to unclutter a lifetime's worth of accumulation and make the house more livable. Whatever the reason, day after day, a large cardboard box would appear at the curb. It was filled with an unusual assortment of household items, glassware, dishes in once-trendy patterns, magazines and books. Way at the bottom, there was usually some sort of costume jewelry (we presumed) or some gold-leaf appointed oddity that could only be classified as "bric-a-brac." One of the open flaps of the box presented the single word invitation "FREE" scrawled in black marker, as though a box filled with someone's obvious castoffs wasn't enough of an enticement. The clarification that this stuff was being offered gratis was — in my opinion — overkill.

Mrs. Pincus is not one to shy away from a bargain. She loves yard sales and estate sales and sales sales of any kind (Soupy Sales notwithstanding). Many a road trip has been detoured by an alluring display on some local's driveway or the promise of great deals as proclaimed by signage in the window of a store. But, a boxful of stuff barely fifty feet from our front door is the veritable motherlode. As we embark on our daily walks, Mrs. P regularly checks the contents of "the box," often finding something that could be put up for auction on eBay or, at the very least, put out on a table at our own annual yard sale.

Understand that "the box" is not just a collection of random crap that someone never, ever wants to see again. Well... a lot of it is. But, more than once, my wife has nabbed a little tchotchke that has sparked a surprising bidding war on eBay. Mrs. P has begun to look forward to checking out "the box," sometimes twice, at the beginning and end of our walk.

Just the other day, we saw a fresh sampling of items placed at the curb for the taking. Situated among a stack of instructional sports books, a small wooden cabinet, an unidentified plastic fellow with big inquisitive eyes and a bulky pair of ski boots was an unopened, still-intact six pack of Boost^®, which according to the product's official website is: "a nutrient-rich drink that's great as a mini-meal or an in-between meal snack, designed to produce a lower blood sugar response in people with diabetes."

Why the occupants of the house didn't want it is beyond me.

I began to think. Sure, Mrs. P has taken stuff from "the box." and, obviously other people have taken stuff from "the box," as we have seen folks milling about the container in much the same way we have - bent over, gingerly rearranging the contents and then scurrying away with some treasure. I wondered, though, did someone wander along, spot a six-pack of Boost^® and think: "Just what I needed!" I can imaging the poor sap downing bottle after bottle of the drink, eventually feeling ill and consulting a doctor after experiencing stomach cramps, cold chills and all sorts of discomfort. The doctor would ask a list of routine questions, trying to pinpoint the source of his patient's illness. "Did you eat or drink anything unusual?," he'd ask. The patient would explain that he consumed several bottles of the nutritious Boost^® drink, a ritual he's done for some time. The baffled doctor, continuing his probe, would ask: "Was the product past its 'Good Till' date? Which store did he purchase the drink from?" "Oh no," the patient would scoff dismissively, "I didn't get it at a store! I picked it out of a box by the curb next to a pair of ski boots." The doctor would then quickly make a few notations on the patient's file before kicking him the fuck out of his office.

See.... "the box" is more than just a source of merchandise.

www.joshpincusicrying.com

moving in stereo

More than a dozen years ago, my family and I stumbled upon "Bats Day," an unofficial (and I stress "unofficial") event held annually at Disneyland. We had heard about the event prior to our trip, but had no idea that years installment was happening the week we were visiting the Anaheim, California theme park. Bats Day began as an informal group outing among a few friends from the Southern California enigmatic goth community. In each successive year, the numbers of attendees grew and grew exponentially until — the year we attended — the official count (of the unofficial event) had bloomed to the thousands. My family and I ended up returning to Disneyland for several consecutive years there after. It was a  wonderful time. We met some great friendly people and had a lot of fun.

One of the most fun aspects of Bats Day (for us, at least) was seeing the self-proclaimed "Happiest Place on Earth".... inhabited?.... infested?... overrun? by some of the most malevolent-looking characters you've ever seen. Let me clarify.... These folks are, in no way, mean, angry, hurtful, threatening nor any other thing you may surmise by their appearance. They are people just like you and me. It's just that their wardrobe features a noticeable lack of bright colors. Sure, they fancy dark clothing and sport dark make-up. They like skulls and bats and blood-splattered designs. But they are family people and positive, productive contributors to society. I got a real kick out of seeing "Mr. & Mrs. Average Disneyland Visitor" trying to make heads-or-tails out of the goings-on at their beloved theme park.

I was never part of a "group" like this. When we attended Bats Day, we dressed the part, but it was like Hallowe'en in the middle of summer* for us. For the overwhelming majority, they wore what they would wear everyday. This made me think.... what if you really wanted to be "goth" but didn't like the "accepted" accoutrements associated with "goths?" What if you wore all black clothing, but didn't care to listen to Bauhaus or Sisters of Mercy. What if you dyed your hair pitch black, had an array of skull tattoos up and down each arm, but enjoyed the cheery sounds of Britney Spears over the dirginess of Souixsie and the Banshees. What if you liked rainbow and pastel hues to adorn your clothing? Would they kick you out?

The same goes for the stereotypical bikers. You own a Harley, but you don't care much for denim jackets with the sleeves ripped off. Are you obligated to go "all in" just to hang with members of the group? What about the reverse? What if you "dressed the part" — leather jacket, long scraggily beard, ponytail gathered in five places by rubber bands, knee-high buckle-and-chain bedecked boots — but drove a Toyota Celica? Would you be accepted? Or would you be deemed as mocking them or labeled a "poser?"

Last weekend, my wife and I went to a craft bazaar (bizarre?) held at an historic Philadelphia cemetery. Touted as the "Market of the Macabre," the event boasted a collection of vendors selling homemade crafts of a decidedly wicked nature. The advertisement for the event encouraged "appropriate dress and costumes." Let me tell you.... the attendees did not disappoint! There were top hats and spider-decorated parasols and fishnet stockings and, as one would expect, a plethora of lurid tattoos on proud display. Again, it looked like an early Hallowe'en exhibit, but — to most of these people — it was just another Saturday in the cemetery. Knowing full well what visuals I was expecting, I was intrigued by a sight of two fellows I saw when we parked our car on a street in the surrounding neighborhood. These two guys checked all the boxes for the stereotypical participant in a marketplace in a graveyard. Except for their vehicle. They wore black... CHECK! Their shirts were emblazoned with some obscure band name and embellished with flames and skulls and demons... CHECK! Their arms were suitably inked... CHECK! But, wait just a second.... they had arrived in a white Volkswagen sedan.... the same kind of car your neighbor drives to the train station every morning to continue his commute to his office job at VersaTech Industries where he serves as the Assistant Vice-President in charge of Logistical Logistics. Not the kind of car you'd expect these dudes to be driving. I suppose they were parking far enough away just in case their friends saw them exiting this four-wheeled embarrassment. Was there really something wrong with the car they were driving? Did I secretly expect everyone to arrive in a hearse?

Or perhaps I was just stuck in my own narrow-minded, pre-conceived stereotype.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

*Bats Day has since moved to May.

down on the farm

I started a new job in August and my morning commute takes me on a lot of highway driving. When September rolled around, I noted that the billboards began to sport colors of browns, reds and golds, mimicking the changing leaves on the surrounding trees. The advertising had taken a noticeable slant towards autumn marketing, with ads for television shows debuting for fall, Thanksgiving offerings available at local supermarkets and pumpkin spice everything at local coffee outlets.

Most of the advertising is pretty standard and predictable, although I really wish the one for Dunkin Donuts read "Pumpkin at Dumpkin." That would make me happy, but I'm not about to pull off to the side of I-195 for a little bit of impromptu vandalism. That's just not me.

There is one billboard that has intrigued me since I saw it rise above the horizon just past the Big Bear Natural Foods store near the Route 13 exit, a few miles from the Pennsylvania-New Jersey border. I silently stare at it as I approach from the Northbound lane and I continue to contemplate its content long after I pass by, when I should be concentrating on the volume of traffic that surrounds me. The object of my — dare I say — obsession is a billboard for something called "Bloodshed Farms." As the Halloween season approaches, many so-called "haunted attractions" spring up in the area. Most of them have fright-inducing names like "Jason's Woods," which evokes the menacing killer from the Friday the 13th film franchise. (I don't think it's a reference to Jason Alexander, although that would be pretty intriguing, too.) "Bloodshed Farms," however, made me think — obviously. The words "Bloodshed Farms" filled my imagination with thoughts of a demented Green Acres of sorts. It makes me laugh to myself every morning. I found it funny enough to want to share it via Instagram. Because I pass the billboard most mornings at around 60 miles per hour, I cannot take a photo. Instead, I searched for a suitable graphic of Bloodshed Farms to post on Instagram along with a suitably "Josh Pincus" comment.... the kind you've come to expect from the Internet's favorite red-headed stepchild.

You see, Philadelphia is surrounded by a lot of rural farmland. There are several actual farms in the area that cheerfully offer tours for those curious about how milk, cheese and other dairy products end up on your kitchen table. When I was a kid, I visited a large orchard on class trips, where apples were grown and they produced apple-centric products right there on the premises. We often took my son to a nearby dairy farm, where he'd run through their annual "corn maze" and later we'd purchase fresh milk and cookies from their small convenience store. That's the type of dichotomy that "Bloodshed Farms" brought to my skewed sense of humor. So, I certainly couldn't keep that to myself!

In my search, I also found an ad for Bloodshed Farms offering their services to accommodate your private event, like birthdays, anniversaries and the like. This gave me more fodder for an even "smart-assier" Instagram post. So, I posted....

 

It reads: "Aside from a few weeks out of the years [sic], was it a wise business decision to choose "Bloodshed Farms" for the name of your establishment?  Is this the kind of place you'd expect families to bring their kids to see cows and horses? Do you expect schools to plan class trips to see how a working farm operates? Am I buying milk and cheese from "Bloodshed Farms?" And private parties and special events? C'mon guys..."

I tagged the Bloodshed Farms Instagram account in post... just for good measure. And then I went about my day.

Almost immediately, I started getting "likes" on the post, as well as a few comments including one from @jasperdyne, an art school pal of mine, who noted that the name stems from "Ol' Zeke, who got caught in the combine back in '86" and my son, whose claim of getting butter and eggs from Bloodshed Farms is suspect, especially when they're delivered by a hockey-masked driver. Mrs. Pincus had an entirely different take, explaining that she assumed Bloodshed Farms was a summer camp for pubescent girls. Bottom line.... everyone got the joke.

Except for Bloodshed Farms.

Later in the day, I was alerted of a new comment on this Instagram post. It was from Bloodshed Farms.... and they didn't seem too pleased with my making light of their serious business of seasonal fright. They countered my levity with this:

"No. This is NOT the kind of place we expect families to bring their kids to see cows and horses. We do NOT expect schools to bring children and see how a working farm operates. Do we advertise this? No. But we do get buses of kids from Lenape High School every year as well as trips by soccer and baseball teams, dance teams, and more. We even host groups from Bancroft earlier in the day before we officially open. You should really give us a try! :)"

They started off strong and indignant, making vague references to a local high school and then a special-needs facility. Their tone grew a bit softer as they signed off with a smile and half-hearted invitation for me to experience their brand of "farm living." I'm not sure that Bloodshed Farms fully understood that I was joking. But, if you operate an establishment that produces either dairy products or blood-curdling screams (at this point, it's still unclear), do you really possess the most sharpened sense of humor?

Maybe I'll ask this guy. He left the comment: "SMH....." (shaking my head)

Though he doesn't look like a farmer to me.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

I'm on the hunt I'm after you

In keeping with our current campaign of downsizing a houseful of stuff, Mrs. Pincus and I had a yard sale last weekend. I printed out a stack of signs to hang up around our neighborhood. One evening after work, Mrs. P drove me around and I hopped out of the car to tack my paper advertisements on strategically-determined wooden utility poles within a ten (or so) block radius Chez Pincus.

So, we had our little yard sale and when the new week began, we put off the tedious task of taking down the signs until mid-week. (Yes, we are civic-minded people, who do the right thing and take down the signs we put up. Unlike most people who advertise their yard sales, choosing to leave the responsibility of removal for the "sign fairy" or until they deteriorate in the elements.) On Wednesday evening, Mrs. P got behind the wheel of her car and I took the passenger seat, ready to retrace our route through our neighborhood.

As we tooled around our small, suburban community, we saw that someone (or someones) had beat us to the punch. Many of the signs I had attached to utility poles were now just bright-colored corners held in place by heavy-duty staples. In some instances, a long strip of neon green paper sporting the first digits of our address flapped in the breeze. But, for the most part, only corners remained. Sure, there were plenty of signs still intact and I was determined to get each and every one, provided we could remember where we hung them all.

On a long stretch of Church Road, a main thoroughfare that bisects Elkins Park and continues on into the next township, I had hung a number of signs on consecutive poles. I jumped out of the car, finding it easier to just walk the whole way, instead of getting in and out of the car every few feet and have Mrs. P continually halt traffic. So, I got out and my wife drove on ahead to circle the block and eventually meet up with me down the road. I strolled the sidewalk, grabbing and ripping down each sign as I came upon them. At a forked intersection, a small car slowed down next to me and a young man emerged from the passenger side door. He was tall, athletic-looking in a University of Pittsburgh t-shirt and a dark ball cap — the bill pointing backwards — on his head. He hesitantly approached me. I assumed he was going to ask directions like a guy did last week when I was hanging the signs up. (A guy in a rusty heap, its backseat filled with assorted stained boxes and bolts of dirty fabric, leaned over and shouted through the open passenger window, "Which way's Glenside [another nearby town]?" I pointed over my shoulder and said, "Back there." "Back there!?!," he repeated in angered disbelief. He gunned his engine, ignored my reply and continued in the opposite direction.)

The young man smiled. "Sir, would you mind if I took your picture?"

I cocked my head and squinted to indicate I need further explanation. He complied. "My friends and I are on a scavenger hunt. We need a picture of a red-headed stranger." He offered a forlorn look, punctuated by a sorrowful pair of puppy dog eyes.

I laughed. "Sure," I said, "You can take my picture."

A look of relief and elation came across his face. "Really? Cool! I gotta call my friends. They'll be here in a minute." He quickly tapped his cellphone and then shoved it into his pocket. While we waited for his friends, I asked him what else was on his scavenger hunt list. "Any call for old yard sale signs?," I asked and gestured with the stack of spent signs in my hand.

He allowed a small laugh. "Ha! No.," he continued, "We had to walk a stranger's dog."

"Someone let you walk their dog?," I questioned.

"Oh yeah, and she was very nice about it," the young man said proudly.

"I would have run off with the dog.," I joked. He didn't get that I was joking and briefly gave me a look of slight horror. I quickly changed the subject. "So, have you been driving around Elkins Park looking for a red head for a long time?"

"Not really.," he replied, "Well, not too long."

After a minute or two, another small car parked illegally across the street, its two right wheels up on the curb. The doors flew open and four kids in their 20s bounded out, each wearing a heather gray t-shirt emblazoned with the logo of a different college. The group gathered around me like we were posing for a family reunion picture and I was the long-lost relative, discovered after years of searching. I announced, "Before you take your picture, is it okay that I'm not a natural redhead?" They laughed and assured me that it was fine. They took their picture, thanked me over and over again and bounded off in much the same manner they arrived.

My wife pulled up as the episode was ending and I filled her in as I climbed into the car. When I finished, she laughed and told me she had passed them on her drive around the block.

"They were putting clothes on a fire hydrant and taking a picture.," she revealed.

Who says nothing exciting ever happens in the suburbs? 

www.joshpincusiscrying.com