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

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.

CLICK HERE TO ENLARGE

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

book I read

Recently, as part of a promotion at the radio station that employs my son, E. was asked to select a few special books from his youth to share with the listening audience. He was at our house, wherein his childhood bedroom remains a veritable shrine, practically undisturbed since that traumatic day he moved into his own house several years ago*. His bookshelf is still stacked with a large library that reflects the progression of reading material collected throughout his formative years. Okay, we sold his bureau, desk and lamp at a yard sale, but still....

When E. was little, bedtime always included a story. I loved to read to him and he loved being read to. The nightly ritual was always the same. After a bath, E. would get into his pajamas and choose a book. Then he'd climb up on his bed, where we were joined by our cat Scarlett — without any sort of prompt or enticement. The two of them would settle in as I read the evening's selection, be it an installment from the "Curious George" series or a dose of Dr. Seuss silliness or any number of off-kilter volumes that Mrs. Pincus and I thought would tickle E.'s developing sense of humor or trigger his budding imagination.

E. browsed the spines of each well-worn (and well-loved) and picked out three books. Three books, I assume, that had special meaning to him and stirred pleasant memories from his youth. The first book was Where The Wild Things Are by Maurice Sendak, a familiar book, popular since its publication in 1963. The version that E. chose, however, is translated into Hebrew and reads from right to left. (Curiously, the illustrations are mirror images of the original.) The second book was It Happened in Pinsk by Arthur Yorinks. This quirky tale concerns shoe salesman Irv Irving, who wakes up one day without his head. The story unfolds with nary a sense of panic, as Irv's wife fashions a new head for her husband out of a pillowcase stuffed with socks. E. loved this story and the "matter-of-fact" way it was told. I provided different voices for the different characters that Irv met in his pursuit of his missing head — much to E.'s delight. The third book was The Giant Jam Sandwich by John Vernon Lord and Janet Burroway. This implausible yarn — presented in rhyme — addressed a terrible wasp problem in the fictional town of Itching Down. The inhabitants of the town constructed the title assemblage as a way to trap the pesky insects.

Of course, we read a lot of books over the years. We read classics like The Wind in the Willows and A Wrinkle in Time (which I remember being a lot better in my youth). We read a number of Roald Dahl's twisted tales, as well as the first Harry Potter novel, just after its publication. (I found it to be a Roald Dahl rip-off.) And we read a lot of silly stories about pigs and bears and other amusing characters. We enjoyed reading together. I like to think that it had a positive and memorable impact on E.'s development into the adult he has become. 

On occasion, I have called E. — out of the blue — to ask if he looks back and has good memories of his childhood. Once he confirms that I am not dying, he answers "yes," and then realistically adds "for the most part." 

I'm okay with that.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

*Don't bring this up to Mrs. Pincus

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

keep telling that same dumb joke 'til we both think it's funny

I have always loved watching stand-up comics. I remember how cool it was staying up late to see Don Rickles or Buddy Hackett of The Tonight Show. Watching them deliver a few minutes of anecdotal shtick and spotting Johnny Carson in the shadows, bent over his desk in hysterics, always made me laugh. I enjoyed The Ed Sullivan Show and his knack for mixing up-and-coming comedians with the respected names of the field. George Burns and Jack Benny shared a stage with George Carlin and Richard Pryor. Even though the humor was from opposite ends of the spectrum, it was all funny.

When I got older, I was able to go to see comedians in local clubs. My favorite was "The Comedy Works," a cramped, narrow room two flights above a Middle Eastern restaurant (aptly name "The Middle East") in the historic district of Philadelphia. For under ten bucks, you could see an emcee, three warm-up comics and a headliner of some note. At different times over several years, I saw Bob Saget, Jackie "The Joke Man" Martling and Tom Wilson (a year or two before he went on to play "Biff" in the the Back to the Future trilogy). One night in the early 80s, the billed headliner was Richard Jeni, fresh from a few appearances on The Tonight Show. Before Richard took the stage, a young man performed... and he had the entire place rolling in the aisles with laughter. He was so funny that everyone missed parts of his routine because they were unable to be heard over the laughter. When poor Richard Jeni began his act, no one was paying attention. Everyone was still laughing and talking about the young man who had preceded Mr. Jeni. The young man was named Eddie Murphy.

The Comedy Works also featured an "Open Mic" Night. At these mid-week, marathon shows, patrons paid just a few dollars to sit and watch a combination of club regulars trying out new material and amateurs taking a stab at a possible career path. I went to "Open Mic" nights often with my friends. Most nights were pretty uneven with average Joes delivering poorly written, unfunny material. Their few minutes in the spotlight seemed like hours and their embarrassment was palpable. Then a pro would take to the stage and bring the meager audience back to life before the next human anchor would drag the waning crowd down again. After attending a few "Open Mic" Nights, I was persuaded by my friends (my drunk friends) to make an onstage attempt at stand-up comedy with words of encouragement like, "You're funnier than these assholes!" Not one to balk at a challenge..... who am I kidding? I balk at a lot of challenges. But, in this case, I answered the call. Over the course of five months, I observed everything that went on around me and wrote down everything, hoping something would be funny. When the big night came, I stocked the audience with friends and family. The show started at 9. I went on at midnight. By this point, the audience was hammered. I could have read the Yellow Pages aloud and got laughs. Honestly, I did not bomb, but I never made a return engagement, labeling my one-and-only foray into the world of stand-up as "Mission Accomplished" (and not in the George W. Bush sense).

I love watching comedians on TV, but lately I have been disappointed by the recent crop of comics. It seems to me that a great many are just not funny. Or ones that were funny are no longer funny. My biggest complaint is the way comedians are presented. There's an audience filled with people sitting and waiting for a funny person to come on stage and be funny. It is implied "This is a comedian, therefore, he is funny and you must laugh because that is what you do when you see a comedian." Then, they proceed to go on for an hour and offer five, non-consecutive minutes of funny material. But, if you watch the reaction shots, the audience is hysterical for the duration.

In the last few years, I've been to comedy clubs in Philadelphia, where I saw one funny headliner and a gang of lame warm-up acts. Ben Bailey, the host of the TV game show "Cash Cab," was very funny, but the supporting acts elicited crickets from the audience. Emo Phillips (admittedly an acquired taste) was great, but the opening comics were awful.

I have seen recent stand-up specials by Jim Gaffigan, a comedian I once thought was really original and very funny. He is no longer funny and his "I'm fat" shtick is repetitive and not amusing. I have seen Patton Oswalt, whose last special started and ended with a bang but the forty-minutes in the middle were totally forgettable. I watched Demetri Martin, who I thought was very funny — but not for as long as his special's entire running time. I saw Norm MacDonald, who I thought was surprisingly good, but I can't remember any part of his act. I saw T.J. Miller, who I loved on HBO's "Silicon Valley," but I couldn't make it past the first five minutes of his painfully manic and unfunny performance. Recently, Mrs. Pincus and I watched Ellen DeGeneres's new Netflix special — her first in sixteen years. I always liked Ellen's irreverent routines on Johnny Carson's show and previous specials, but this one was disappointing. It was very uneven and her overarching premise of "now I'm rich" wore thin after a while.

Other comedian's specials have been recommended to me, but I have to admit, I am a little gun-shy. I don't want to invest an hour of my time watching a comedian who is not funny. They have one job —to make me laugh. Instead, many have become preachy and introspective and unnecessarily philosophical. You wouldn't go to a dentist and sit in the chair to have your shoes shined, would you? (Wait, the way some people fear dentists, perhaps that is a poor analogy.) I guess I'll have to scroll endlessly through the selections on Netflix, HBO and other entertainment offerings to find that elusive comic that will just simply make me laugh.

Or maybe I'll just watch the old-timers on YouTube. Although, they're sometimes not even as funny as I remember.

Hmmm.... maybe it's me. 

Now that's funny!

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

i love the dead

With so much going on in the world — so many important topics up for discussion and debate — I thought I'd focus on a subject that holds the utmost importance to me.

Me.

Specifically, my wonderful and turbulent relationship with the internet. Over a decade ago, I entered the world of the World Wide Web when I published the first entry* on joshpincusiscrying.com, my illustration blog. My blog consisted mostly of entries for the weekly challenge posted on Illustration Friday, a sort-of community of artists from all over the world. Illustration Friday offers a single word of inspiration and allows artists a week to interpret that word until the next Friday brings a new word. I have actively participated in this process for eleven-plus years, never missing a single week (even when Illustration Friday missed a few themselves). I began small, hesitant to post anything controversial, fearful of editorializing, expressing my opinions or — gulp! — causing a stir. In between my weekly drawings, I began to create drawings of my own inspiration, under the category title "from my sketchbook."  But, over time, I began to inject some of my unorthodox sense of humor that has become the unofficial Josh Pincus trademark. 

In 2008, I posted this drawing of aspiring actress Peg Entwistle, who met an untimely demise in 1932. A distraught Peg, weary of the cruel treatment she received from film executives who crushed her glittery dreams of stardom, flung herself from the top of the massive "H" in the famed "Hollywood" sign that loomed over Tinsel Town. My illustration pissed a reader off so much that he contacted me with a series of threatening emails. I was so pleased that someone took that much time and effort with something that I created, I couldn't have been more flattered. As an artist, as far as I'm concerned, there is no such thing as bad publicity. I would rather have my art evoke anger than joy. Anger is a much stronger and more passionate emotion. 

But it didn't end there. I was reprimanded by the admin of another illustration website. I received more threatening emails regarding a drawing I did of session drummer/convicted murderer Jim Gordon. I pissed off a fellow artist who accused me of being a bully. The list goes on and it's all documented under the "About" tab on my blog's homepage.

In 2008, I joined Twitter, which — depending how you look at it — was the best or worst thing I could have ever done. Twitter became the ideal place for Josh Pincus to flourish. It became an outlet for  my jokes, commentary, sarcasm and stream-of-consciousness thought. To date, I have logged over 55,000 tweets. It's a wonder I ever get any work done. Soon, I began to promote my drawings on Twitter. I gained more followers and widened my audience, although, I maintain, that I draw primarily for my own amusement.

Troublemaker

Last year, while looking to amp up my illustration output from what had dwindled to just one per week, I began a new series on my illustration blog. I kicked off 2016 by posting the first drawing in my series I decided to call "Dead Celebrity Spotlight." As I stated in the premiere entry, this would marry two of my prime interests: drawing and celebrities who had passed on. The "drawing" part was obvious. I have been drawing since I was a child. The "dead celebrity" part stems from my love of old Hollywood, chock full of obscure tales of fleeting fame and spectacular deaths and my affinity for visiting cemeteries (yeah, I do that). So, after drawing and writing about a different dead celebrity (some that you recognize, some that you hardly even heard of) every week for an entire year, I continued the series into the current year, adding some special "mid-week" entries as the news of the passing of a beloved and renowned public figure broke. There are (as of right now) one hundred and twelve drawings and stories in the Dead Celebrity Spotlight series. I plan to keep posting new ones every Friday. I hope they garner the reaction that my most recent post achieved.

Early Friday morning, I woke up at 5:45 and, after showering and brushing my teeth and warming up the Keurig, I lumbered up to the third floor of my house to post the daily celebrity death anniversaries on the Josh Pincus Facebook fan page. Then, before heading back downstairs for a cup of coffee, a bowl of Raisin Bran and a couple of episodes of The Andy Griffith Show prior to catching my morning train, I selected a draft from the backlog library of "Dead Celebrity Spotlight" section of my blog to publish. This day, I chose a personal observation of teen idol David Cassidy, whose death just last week at a youthful 67 shocked and saddened a generation of fans who grew up watching and loving him on The Partridge Family. My drawing and commentary went live at 6:19 AM and, little did I know, all hell was about to break loose. My tweet, which is set up to automatically generate from Facebook, got some "likes," some "retweets," and some "replies" — one of which was quite displeased by my sentiment.

A Twitter user named Mar offered this reply:

In typical Josh Pincus fashion, I responded:

I thought this was funny enough to post as a screenshot on my Facebook page as well.

Later, another angered Twitter user, suspiciously calling herself  "Laurie," perhaps as an homage to Susan Dey, David Cassidy's TV sister on the 70s sitcom, expressed her displeasure at the choice of terms I used as the title of my illustration series (on my blog).

This one was puzzling. Was she offended? Really? It's not like I said "Croaked Celebrities," or "Celebrities Now Residing in Box City," or "Lifestyles of the Rotting and Famous," or any number of other derogatory euphemisms for "The Great Beyond." "Dead" is a perfectly good, non-offensive word. Funeral directors, doctors, newscasters, even your mother ("Oh dear, I just heard from Fannie that Milton is dead.") use it all the time. 

So, not being one to drop things until they are thoroughly beaten into submission, I questioned:

Laurie replied:

But the criteria for inclusion in this series is the celebrity has to be dead. Not for any particular length of time, just dead. I have done drawings of celebrities within minutes of the announcement of their death (former Phillies pitcher Roy Halladay comes to mind). I tried to stress this in 140 characters or less, but my confusion hindered my ability to be as articulate as I would have liked. Instead, I returned this:

Her brief retort popped up almost immediately, followed by what is commonly known as  a "kiss-off:"

And, just like that, she was gone. Her portion of the debate ended. Her final summation delivered. As Archie Bunker often proclaimed: "Case closed!"

When I was compiling screenshots to compose this entry on It's Been a Slice, I was met by this message when I visited "Laurie's" Twitter account page:

Now we're talking. Or... maybe we're not.

I said it before, and I'll say it again: Oh, do I love the internet!

* Ironically, that initial entry, in March 2007, featured an illustration of Bill Cosby, whose shattered career has been chronicled in recent headlines. How prophetic of me. I think.

***** ***** ***** ***** *****

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

This year, it’s a whopping 81 minutes worth of pure Christmas cacophony that’s sure to ruin your holiday celebration within seconds. Need to clear your house of unwanted guest who have overstayed their holiday welcome? Download this compilation, crank it up and watch those ungrateful freeloaders head for the door. (You may even follow them.)
 You get twenty-seven eclectic Christmas selections that run the gamut from weird to really weird 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

open the door, richard

For however long I have maintained a Facebook presence, I have posted the death anniversaries of notable (and not so notable) people on a daily basis. Each morning before I make breakfast for myself, I scan the dark corners of the internet and select a group of folks whose common bond is the day they took their final breath and joined the choir invisible (as George Eliot so eloquently put it). I find a suitable photo and post it along with the simple, non-descriptive line: "So and so died on this date in this particular year." It's up to the reader (one of the 244 faithful who have chosen to "like" Josh Pincus is Crying) to Google the name to find out more, if they so choose. Hey, it's a hobby. Just like collecting stamps. Sort of.

I also post current celebrity deaths as soon as I can confirm information of their demise. Now, my criteria for "celebrity" varies greatly. Of course, a famous actor or actress, politician or sports figure fits the bill. But, I have also included those with lesser-known sobriquets but well-revered significance in the world of pop culture. Last February, for instance, just a week prior to the passing of Supreme Court Justice Antonin Scalia, one Mary Fiumara, died at the age of 88. Ms Fiumara was prominently featured in a commercial for Prince spaghetti that ran for 13 years. In April, Lee Waas passed away at 94. He wrote the happy little jingle that blared out of loudspeakers mounted on the roofs of Mr. Softee trucks, announcing the welcome arrival of the ice cream man. Though I have been obsessed with celebrity deaths for years, I have taken my little hobby to the internet in an effort to keep better track of the demise of famous people and to bring the information to a wider audience. I have "met" (in internet terms) many people who share my interest, thus giving me a bit of validation. So, I will continue.

Just this week, I acknowledged the passing of a character actor named Richard Karron. Karron was a stand-up comic who was performing at New York City's famous comedy club Catch a Rising Star, when actor Dustin Hoffman took a liking to his routine. Through this connection, Richard began getting bit parts in television and films based on his distinctive, gravelly voice and boisterously fun personality. He appeared in television dramas and sitcoms, as well as taking small roles in Mel Brooks' History of the World, Part I and Anne Bancroft's slapstick but endearing Fatso, her feature-length directorial debut. In addition, he was in a series of commercials on TV and radio for the regional auto parts chain Royal Auto ("We're Sens-a-tive!"). Karron was a member of the Screen Actors Guild for 35 years, yet his name remained mostly unknown. Well, Karron fit the profile of the type of unsung "celebrity" I like to remember and when I discovered that he passed away on March 1, 2017, I let the internet know that I knew who he was.

I never anticipated the shit storm it would unleash.

At 1:20 PM, on a day nearly two weeks after the fact, I posted an innocuous, "Josh Pincus"-style death announcement for Karron on my Facebook page, like I've done hundreds of times before for similar-level celebrities. The "likes" and comments began almost immediately. First was my pal Steve, who joins me in my love for pop culture and forgotten celebrities. In his initial comment, he reminded me of Karron's Royal Auto commercials. Next came a "thumbs up" from my wife. An hour or so later, a fellow named "Gimmi" commented that Karron had lost a significant amount of weight. It's true. In his early career appearances, Karron cut quite an imposing figure and, based on the type of role for which he was cast, his size was an attribute. In more recent photos, he looks as though he had shed a good portion of his bulk.

Now, for those of you who do not know me personally — I am a bit of a smart-ass. No, actually, I'm a lot of a smart-ass. It's just my nature. I have been known to make jokes at "supposedly" inappropriate times. But that's the beauty of being a natural smart-ass. There are no inappropriate times. Nothing is sacred and everything can be funny. I have done my very best to have that aspect of my personality come across on my blog and, for the most part, I think I've been successful. I try to be funny any chance I get. And, if you don't think I'm funny, rest assured, I think I'm funny and that is what's important. So when Gimmi made his comment about Karron's weight loss, I couldn't resist. I replied:

Well, Steve thought it was funny. Of course, I thought it was funny. Mrs. Pincus, who has been my best audience for the last 35 years, thought it was funny. But, alas, Valerie, in The Beach Boys hometown of Hawthorne, California, didn't see the humor at all. As a matter of fact, I must have struck a nerve, because her outrage prompted her to tell me (with Gimmi in her corner): 

See, this is the stuff I live for! This is what makes the internet the greatest invention since... since.... well, ever! I insulted someone I never met, on the other side of the country with a joke that, technically, she had to search for. (I checked. Valerie is not currently a "Facebook follower" of mine. I guess I've blown that chance now.) I love getting comments on my blogs (this one and my illustration blog), especially negative ones. Sure, I appreciate the ones that tell me how wonderful I am. But the ones from readers that have been offended by something I've drawn or written (or both) are the ones I cherish and remember. It's the angry ones that tell me someone took the time to really study what I have produced and, instead of dismissing it as just another blemish on the face of the internet, they took the time to let me know how abhorrent they found my work. Now, that's a sincere commitment! So, imagine my excitement when this little exchange popped up under my original announcement for poor Richard Karron.

Steve joined in my elation and I offered another snide comment to all participants. Valerie, however, was not amused. As an alleged personal acquaintance of Richard Karron, she found my retort repugnant and Steve's accolade equally deplorable. (All claims to close relationships to celebrities — no matter what the level of fame — is "alleged" on the internet. Unless the claim can be backed up or is made by me.) Plus, Karron began his career as a stand-up comic working in small clubs delivering gritty material. I can only assume that he either heard or told jokes of a similar edgy tone.

My mom taught me to laugh at everything. I get my subversive sense of humor from her. My mom died 26 years ago and I have joked about her death on several occasions. It doesn't mean I am disrespecting her memory. On the contrary, with every snarky comment, I am keeping her memory alive.

Oh, this is not the first time I got into a "back and forth" with a total stranger on the internet. I don't think it will be the last, because you never know what benign statement will set someone off. Since the internet is so vast, coupled with the protection one gets from commenting under the guise of anonymity, these usually reserved voices are riled up without much effort. The more riled they get, the more likely they are to tell me exactly how they feel. 

And that makes me love the internet more and more every day.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

that joke isn't funny anymore

See this transit pass? I have been buying one of these every month* for the past nine years. It entitles me to unlimited rides on the SEPTA Regional Rail systems for the entire month designated at the top of the pass (in this case "November 2015"). I ride the train to and from work five days a week. Sometimes, I take the train on weekends. Other times, I take the subway system for quick commutes within the city. My transit pass includes unlimited subway rides, as well.

For the past nine years, I don't believe that my train has ever been on time. Not going to work. Not coming from work and not on those infrequent weekend trips. The train is usually five or six minutes late. Sometimes longer. Sometimes, a lot longer. According to several inquiries to SEPTA (Southeastern Pennsylvania Transit Authority, the entity that runs the public transportation system in Philadelphia and its surrounding area), a train can be up to six minutes behind schedule and still be considered "on time." That is a rail system standard — a standard made up by the rail system. I told a representative from SEPTA that it's a good thing that doctors don't work within similar guidelines. ("Yeah, we'll try to operate within six inches of your heart. If we hit your lung, we're still considering that to be your heart".) It's very frustrating to have the train arrive late every single day. I know I get angry and I can tell by the expressions on the faces of my fellow commuters that I see pacing the train platforms daily, the feeling is shared. Sometimes, an announcement is made over the PA system, but the ancient equipment renders it incoherent. Frustrated commuters look at each other in wonder, hoping someone was able to decipher at least a few important words regarding the status of the next arriving train. Once the train does arrive, no words of apology are ever offered by SEPTA personnel. After all, the conductors and the engineer are already at work. They don't give a fuck if you're late.

Then there's this guy. 

He has been the regular conductor on my morning train for several months now. Every day, the train pulls up to the platform and I board, along with the regular group of commuters I see most mornings. Everyone silently selects a seat (if one is available and not blocked by some inconsiderate asshole's purse, briefcase or other type of bag) and then either reads, sleeps or stares into space until we arrive at their station stop. It's sort of a peaceful time to gather your thoughts before mounting the bustle of a hectic workplace.

But this guy.

Obviously, a frustrated performer, this guy uses the captive audience of the morning train riders to test out his lame attempt at humor, delivered in an unfunny deadpan monotone. Believe me, no one is in the mood for his childish wisecracks at such an early hour. Just take my ticket or look at my pass and be on your way. You don't even have to thank me for being a paying customer. He broadcasts announcements on the PA system from the seclusion of a small vestibule outside of the train car itself, then he enters the car and comments on the announcements, pretending that it wasn't his voice we all just heard. He does the same routine every morning and no one laughs. Y'know why no one laughs? Because it's not funny!

One morning, the train arrived (late) and a few people were walking across the parking lot on their way to the steps to get up to the platform. This guy announces that passengers not on the platform when the train arrives would not be able to board and must wait for the next train. Then, with no expression, announced, "I'm only kidding." I can't believe no one slugged him.

I suppose his little jokes would be funny if SEPTA ran an efficient transportation system. But they don't. Not by a fucking long shot! The train is late every, single morning and every, single evening. I know I am not alone in my anger. Co-workers from other suburban destinations share my experience and frustration. My son has given up taking a bus — one that goes right by his house — because of its unreliability. Instead, he has become a regular user (and advocate) for Philadelphia's new bike-sharing** program. He has said that even walking to work would get him there faster that waiting for a SEPTA bus that may or may not even come.  So, I am in no mood to hear the jokes of a system that can't get their primary function — on-time and efficient transportation  — in smooth running order. After all, the "T" in your name stands for "transportation." It is, quite literally, your middle name! 

You wanna joke? Get your shit together first. Then, by all means, joke all you want. You have my blessing.

In the meantime, SEPTA, invest in an accurate watch instead of a book of one-liners.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

* Note: this was changed from "week" after it was pointed out, by a sharp reader, that I wouldn't be buying my monthly pass on a weekly basis, unless I was an idiot. She was correct on both points.

** I, unfortunately, live too far from work to ride a bike (if I had one), so I remain at SEPTA's mercy.