it was all of sixty-five years ago

Well, this is it. I reached a so-called milestone. Sixty-five! The traditional age of retirement... although that concept appears to be no where in sight. I expect to go out the way my father went out. Working every day until  my collapsed body is dragged out from behind my desk, a rigor mortis grip tightly locked on my wireless mouse, right in the middle of making some asshole's logo bigger for the tenth time... that day!

I suppose I should consider myself lucky. As of right now, I have outlived a lot of people who have achieved more fame and notoriety is a shorter period of time. Shorter by one year, to be exact. People like...

Lyndon Johnson and Franklin Pierce both served as president of the United States. Johnson became president after the assassination of President John Kennedy. Some pretty significant laws were passed during his administration including those concerning civil rights, gun control and social security. However, his escalation of the Vietnam War was heavily criticized. After serving a full term, he did not seek re-election. Franklin Pierce's policies were determined by historians to have contributed to the start of the Civil War. He is consistently ranked as one of the worst presidents in United States history. Both Johnson and Pierce died at the age of 64.

Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis was one of the most recognizable First Ladies in the history of the United States. Her iconic fashion style and genial personality made her extremely popular. She was by the side of her husband on that day in Dallas and famously wore the blood-splattered dress for days afterwards. She married shipping magnate Aristotle Onassis under much public scrutiny. Jackie became a respected editor at Viking Press and Doubleday. She died at 64 and was interred next to JFK at Arlington Cemetery.

Sammy Davis Jr. began his celebrated career in show business at the age of two. As the featured performer in the Will Mastin Trio, little Sammy delighted vaudeville audiences with his dancing, singing and personality. He went on to become an all-around, multi-talented entertainment icon, with great success in films, in nightclubs, on television, on recordings and on the Broadway stage. As a charter member of the notorious "Rat Pack," Sammy rubbed elbows with Frank Sinatra and Dean Martin, yet continued to battle racism and discrimination even at the height of his career. A lifelong smoker, Sammy succumbed to throat cancer at the age of 64.

Waylon Jennings was an influential singer and a pioneer in the "Outlaw Country" genre of music. In 1959, as part of Buddy Holly's "Winter Party" Tour, 22-year old Waylon gave his seat on the plane to J.P. Richardson (The Big Bopper) who was suffering from the flu. Waylon would take the tour bus instead to the next stop. Buddy Holly argued with Waylon about the transportation choices, until finally agreeing to take the plane, quipping to Waylon "I hope your bus freezes." to which Waylon jokingly replied: "I hope your plane crashes."  Waylon lived another 42 years, dying in 2002 at the age of 64.

Hannibal was a general and war strategist who famously led the Carthaginian army across the Alps on elephants to battle the mighty Roman Empire. His assaults spooked the Roman so that the cry of "Hannibal ad portas" (Hannibal is at the gates!") was applied to any grave and threatening situation. Hannibal lived to be 64.

Donna Reed was a popular pin-up during World War II, right alongside beauties like Betty Grable and Rita Hayworth. Always a favorite in films, Donna won an Oscar in 1953 for her out-of-character turn as a prostitute in From Here to Eternity. Based on the role, Donna was inexplicably recruited to play a typical suburban housewife in the long-running sitcom The Donna Reed Show. She later briefly took over the role of family matriarch "Miss Ellie" on the night-time soap Dallas. When original actress Barbara Bel Geddes opted to return to the role, Donna sued for breach of contract. She passed away a short time later at the age of 64.

"Shoeless" Joe Jackson was a pretty good baseball player. He had a career batting average of .386 and set several team records that still hold today. In 1919, as a member of the Chicago White Sox, Joe, along with his teammates, was accused of throwing the World Series as part of a deal with organized crime. Although he admitted to accepting bribe money, Joe made several spectacular plays and  hit the only home run in the series. Nevertheless, ruthless baseball commissioner Kennesaw Mountain Landis imposed a lifetime ban from baseball on eight players. Joe went on to manage a few amateur teams and later opened a dry cleaner with his wife. He died in 1951 at 64.

Malcolm Young was a founding member of the Australian band AC/DC. With his younger brother Angus on lead guitar, Malcolm assembled the band who opened a 1977 European tour for headliners Black Sabbath. Their stage presence, searing guitars and screeching vocals by Bon Scott catapulted the band to international stardom. Malcolm suffered from alcoholism, then later lung cancer and heart ailments. An eventual diagnosis of dementia ended his playing career in 2014. He retired from the band and passed away in 2017 at the age of 64.

Tiny Tim was born Herbert Khoury and had been performing his brand of folk singing since the 1950s under a series of stage names. He performed on a stage at the Expo 67 World's Fair, where the crowd pelted him with beer cans. Tiny Tim appeared on the very first broadcast of Rowan & Martin's Laugh-In, much to the bewilderment of co-host Dick Martin. Tiny Tim went on to appear on the show 22 more times. He became a pop culture curiosity, with stints on The Ed Sullivan Show, The Tonight Show and even charting on the Billboard Hot 100. He enjoyed a nine-day run at Caesar's Palace in Las Vegas. He remained an enigmatic performer into the 90s. In 1996, he suffered a heart attack on stage while singing his signature "Tip Toe Through the Tulips." Several attempts at resuscitation were unsuccessful. Tiny Tim was 64.

Al Jolson was wildly popular in his day. He was known as "The World's Greatest Entertainer" years before Sammy Davis Jr. Al's unique song stylings and exaggerated facial expressions were keys to his success. His appearance in 1927's The Jazz Singer, the first "talking" picture, only added to his mystique. Al was the first performer to entertain troops overseas during World War II. He even provided his own voice for actor Larry Parks to lip-sync in the biopic The Jolson Story. He died four years after its release at the age of 64.

Lisa Loring played the adorably morbid "Wednesday Addams" in the 1964 sitcom The Addams Family, based on the cartoons of the equally-morbid Charles Addams. Later, Lisa was "Cricket Montgomery" on the long-running CBS soap opera As The World Turns. Lisa stayed in the industry, working behind the scenes as a make-up artist. She frequently appeared at conventions where she loved to mingle with her fans. She died unexpectedly from a stroke at 64.

Gig Young was a well-known and popular actor, although reportedly difficult to work with. Always an intense performer, Gig won the 1970 Best Supporting Actor Oscar for his role in They Shoot Horses, Don't They? His reputation as an alcoholic lost a lot of acting roles for him. Producer Mel Brooks offered Gig a "comeback" role in his comedy Blazing Saddles. Gig showed up drunk for the first day of shooting, experiencing an episode of the delirium tremens on set. He was fired, with Gene Wilder taking over the role. In 1978, just three weeks after marrying his fifth wife, Gig fatally shot her then shot himself. He was 64.

Joseph Pulitzer was a renowned newspaper publisher and a leading figure in the Democratic Party. He had a fierce professional rivalry with William Randolph Hearst. He set up and subsidized the world's first school of journalism and Columbia University. Six years after his death at 64, Columbia University awarded the first prizes for journalism named in Pulitzer's honor.

Allan Pinkerton was a barrel maker by trade. While out in the woods looking for wood, he stumbled upon a band of counterfeiters. Allan observed their actions and reported them to the local sheriff's office. This led to his appointment as Chicago's first police detective. This led to his own private detective agency. Allan foiled an early plot to assassinate President Lincoln. He also provided military intelligence for the Union Army during the Civil War. Later, he became a major opposition to the labor movement in the United States, generally tarnishing the Pinkerton legacy. In 1884, Allan slipped on a sidewalk and bit his tongue. He contracted gangrene and died at the age of 64.

Malcolm McLaren served as manager for early punk bands including The New York Dolls, Bow Wow Wow and Adam and the Ants. In 1977, he introduced the world to Johnny Rotten and the Sex Pistols. Malcolm dabbled in fashion merchandising, as well as a solo musical career and an unsuccessful run for Mayor of London. He was diagnosed with peritoneal mesothelioma and died from the disease at 64. His last words were "Free Leonard Peltier," referencing an imprisoned Native American activist convicted of murdering two FBI agents.

None of these people lived long enough to collect Social Security, be eligible for Medicare or obtain a SEPTA senior pass for free transportation. I may not have started a detective agency or a journalism school. I may not have represented famous rock bands. I may not have dodged death in a plane crash or been elected president of the United States (or even married one), but I'm here to write about it.... and they're not.

Happy birthday to me. Another one down.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

the last time

I remember my final day of high school. I remember leaving the school building and thinking to myself, "Well, this is the last time I will ever come to this place." I remember, two weeks after giving my two-weeks notice to an employer, thinking to myself, "Well, this is the last time I'll ever set foot in this godforsaken place." I'm sure you have some of the same memories of school, or terrible jobs or any number of unpleasant (or sometimes pleasant) experiences, knowing it will be the very last time you will have that experience.

There is an author named Jason Pargin. He's a pretty interesting guy. He was, at one time, an executive editor of Cracked.com, the online humor website which has branched out to become more of a catch-all for pop culture and interesting trivia... sort of a Ripley's Believe It or Not meets Jeopardy! by way of Alex Falcone. Jason is also the best-selling author of John Dies at the End. I follow Jason on social media where he regularly posts little clips dealing with things you never noticed in movies or bits of trivia about past world events or, sometimes, just plain old thought-provoking ideas. 

Recently, Jason did a short commentary about traditions. Family traditions, to be specific. In this little piece of internet content, he talked about things that people do all the time, either as part of their everyday rituals or as annual traditions connected to a holiday. He mentioned things like putting a certain special ornament on top of your Christmas tree or your dad walking around the house on Christmas afternoon with a large trash bag to gather up discarded gift wrap or a specific side dish your mother always prepares for Christmas dinner (okay... okay, maybe he recorded this piece around Christmas time.) The point he made was: one day it will be the last time you ever do that particular activity. One day, that special ornament will be misplaced or it will have broken in storage or someone bought a different ornament to top the tree. He pointed out that, due to illness or, possibly death, or some other reason, your dad will not walk around the house with that trash bag this year. He noted that when a particular, regular event or activity is happening, you will have absolutely no idea that it will be the very last time it will happen. Unlike leaving a job or graduation from school  — two events in which you know when the finality occurs  — there are other times that offer no clues that this time will be the last time. He went on to say that things you do all the time  — all the time  — someday, it will be the last time you do them.... and you won't know it.

Many years ago, after my mom decided that she would no longer prepare and host our family Thanksgiving meal, my sister-in-law took over the holiday duties. My sister-in-law invited all the same family members and even prepared a kosher turkey to accommodate my wife and me, despite that fact that my sister-in-law is not Jewish (something my mother never did). For several consecutive years, we gathered at my brother's house for Thanksgiving. In 1993, however, my sister-in-law announced that she would be skipping a year as host for Thanksgiving. She had given birth earlier in the year and was not up to having a houseful of people and tending to a newborn. So, everyone made other plans and we would all plan to reconvene the following year. My father died unexpectedly at the end of that year. We never gathered at my brother's house for Thanksgiving again. However, no one knew that the previous year would be the last time.

One morning in 1967, the cast of Gilligan's Island assembled at Paramount Studios to film the final episode of the show's third season. Production wrapped and the cast members expected to see each other in the fall. However, during the summer, CBS executives decided not to proceed with a proposed fourth season. When John Lennon ate breakfast on December 8, 1980, he didn't know that it would be the last time he would eat breakfast. When two-thousand seven-hundred and fifty-three people went to work on Tuesday, September 11, 2001, they had no idea it would be the last time that would happen. One day, when you were little, your mother picked you up and put you down.... for the very last time.

It's a very daunting concept to grasp. It's a bit sad and a bit eerie. Just a little reminder about the reality of life. Remember the words of Warren Zevon.

Enjoy every sandwich.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

will you still need me, will you still feed me

Tomorrow is my 64th birthday. 

In May 1956, 14-year old Paul McCartney started writing a little ditty about being 64. Despite the onslaught of rock and roll on young Paul's radio, he decided to compose the song in a cabaret style. Eleven years later and riding high on worldwide popularity, Paul dug out his composition and convinced his bandmates in the Beatles to record the tune for inclusion on their groundbreaking Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band. I'm sure John balked, as he often derided a lot of Paul's songs as "Granny music," but the bespectacled Beatle contributed some additional lyrics to the song and it proved to be both endearing and enduring. It went on to be covered by dozens of other artists from Cheap Trick and John Denver to Claudine Longet, The Flaming Lips and Keith Moon. Well, Paul, I find myself asking the same questions that your chorus poses.

When I reached my 60s, I started to think about my own mortality. I know I'm not going to live forever. No one lives forever. For the past few years, around this time of year, I have written about folks that have achieved great notoriety, but that I have outlived. Here are some people you may have heard of that didn't live to see their 64th birthday.

John Banner was an actor who fled his native Austria in 1938 when Hitler's regime annexed his homeland as part of Nazi Germany. He ultimately got his own little revenge by playing buffoonish German soldier "Sgt. Schultz" in the 60s sitcom Hogan's Heroes. Portraying the character as a dimwitted goof gave John a lot of satisfaction. He played other roles — both humorous and dramatic — on television and in movies. He died on his 63rd birthday.

Robin Williams was a multi-faceted, multi-talented actor and comedian. His breakout role as TV's loveable alien "Mork from Ork" was the springboard for a celebrated career that included stand-up comedy, numerous dramatic and comedic films, voice-over work and even an Academy Award. Robin secretly dealt with a lifetime of depression and, after a diagnosis of Parkinson's disease and Lewy Body dementia, he took his own life on August 11, 2014 — my 53rd birthday. Robin was 63.

Audrey Hepburn was the perfect combination of poise, beauty and talent. She starred in a number of popular films from light comedy to musicals to harrowing suspense — turning in stellar performances in each and every role. She was awarded an Oscar, an Emmy, a Grammy and a Tony (the rare and coveted EGOT) and earned herself the moniker of "legend," a term often applied to non-deserving celebrities. But in Audrey's case, she embodied "legend." A life-long humanitarian and advocate for UNICEF, Audrey passed away at the age of 63.

Franklin Delano Roosevelt served as President of the United States longer that anyone else. He was elected for four consecutive terms and is considered by political experts as one of the greatest presidents in US history. Just prior to a scheduled appearance at the UN, he posed for a portrait by artist Elizabeth Shoumatoff. The president said, "I have a terrific headache" and slumped forward in his chair, having suffered a fatal cerebral hemorrhage. He was 63 years old.

Ulysses S. Grant led the Union Army to victory in the Civil War. In 1869, he was elected the 18th President of the United States. He advocated the Fifteenth Amendment to the Construction and is generally considered to have served an effective presidency. After leaving office, he wrote a memoir which he completed on July 18, 1885. He died five days later at the age of 63.

Wilt Chamberlain was arguably one of the greatest basketball players of all time. Standing at a little over seven feet tall, Wilt held 72 NBA records, including the only player to score 100 points in a game. After his retirement, Wilt was the commercial spokesman for several companies including TWA, American Express, Lite Beer and Volkswagen. He owned a nightclub in Harlem and invested in thoroughbred horse breeding. He claimed to have had sex with 20,000 women. He died of congestive heart failure at 63 — with a smile on his face.

Donna Summer enjoyed a successful career as a singer in the disco era. Her string of hit songs earned her the well-deserved nickname "Queen of Disco." She released 18 albums (ten of them certified gold) and almost 90 singles. She even dabbled in acting, playing the aunt of "Steve Urkel" in an episode of the 90s sitcom Family Matters. A non-smoker, Donna passed away from lung cancer at 63.

James Baldwin was a writer, poet and outspoken activist for civil rights. His 1955 collection of essays "Notes of a Native Son," elevated James as a influential voice for human equality. His works raised awareness of sexuality, race, gender roles and class designation. He died at 63 in 1987, while working on a memoir. His publisher, McGraw-Hill, sued his estate for the $20,000 advance they paid for the proposed book. The suit was dropped in 1990.

Mickey Mantle was considered one of the greatest ever to play the game of baseball. With 563 career homeruns, he is the only player in baseball history to hit 150 homeruns from each side of the plate. "The Mick" appeared in 12 World Series and holds eight World Series records. Off the field, his life was filled with tragedy, including a failed marriage, infidelity, poor business decisions and alcohol abuse. He died from liver cancer at 63.

Alfred Nobel was an inventor, holding 355 patents. He is most famous for inventing dynamite. When he died, at 63, he donated his fortune to fund the Nobel Prize which annually recognizes those who "conferred the greatest benefit to humankind."

Rembrandt Harmenszoon van Rijn is widely regarded as one of the greatest visual artists in the history of Western art. He produced work in a wide range of subjects including portraits, landscapes. biblical scenes, animal studies and allegorical depictions. He was a master of light and dark and composition. However, his personal life was fraught with turmoil and legal and financial shortcomings. He died nearly destitute at 63.

William Holden was a celebrated actor, with starring roles in Sunset Boulevard, Sabrina and his Oscar-winning turn in Stalag 17. He held is own alongside Humphrey Bogart, Glenn Ford and George Raft in Westerns and gangster films. He remained popular into the 60s and 70s, as part of an all-star cast in The Towering Inferno, Network and an Emmy-winning performance in TV's The Blue Knight. In 1981, a drunken William Holden tripped and fell in his Santa Monica apartment. He hit his head on a table and bled to death. He was discovered four days later, just inches from a working telephone. He was 63.

Guglielmo Marconi invented the radio. He founded the Wireless Telegraph & Signal Company and was awarded the Nobel Prize in Physics in 1909. Sure, he was a fascist anti-Semite, but — c'mon! — the goddamn radio! He died in 1937 at the age of 63.

Patrick Henry was a noted figure in the American Revolution. A patriot of the first order, he famously declared "Give me liberty or give me death!" Liberty did eventually come, but so did death — 24 years later — at the age of 63.

Tommy Cooper was a popular British comedian known for his manic delivery, silly magic tricks and signature red fez. He died on live television in the middle of his act. He was 63.

Dock Ellis holds the Major League Baseball record for pitching a no-hitter while under the influence of LSD. A famously colorful character, Dock purposely tried to hit every batter in the Cincinnati Reds line-up until he was pulled from the game by his frustrated manager. A heavy drinker, Dock died at 63 while waiting for a liver transplant.

Tomorrow, I turn 64. I never invented anything of worldwide significance. I never set any sports records. I never won an entertainment award. I never inspired a nation to seek independence. My artwork has never been revered for its technical achievements. But... I will — most likely — make it to 64.

I'll let you know tomorrow.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

who's that girl?

Mrs. Pincus and I made plans to meet some friends for dinner. We decided on The Pub, a restaurant that is somewhat of a local legend in the Philadelphia-South Jersey area. The Pub, as we often joke, is the "land that time forgot." It boasts an enormous dining room appointed with dark wood, suits of armor, various coats of arms and a number of taxidermied animal heads. (Perhaps some which have made it to the menu?) The Pub prides itself on serving huge hunks of steaks, broiled right before your eyes by a battalion of toque blanche-wearing chefs, plying their cooking skills over flaming coals. What — you may ask — would a vegetarian such as myself find to eat at a steakhouse? (Okay, maybe you didn't ask, but I'm telling you anyway.) In addition to a wide selection of animal-based dinners, The Pub also has twin salad bars that stretch a good thirty feet, laden with freshly-cut vegetables, giant vats of dressing, huge bowls of prepared cold specialty salads, house-made corn bread and zucchini bread, wedges of cheese from which guests can cut their own preferred-size slice and their locally-renowned Caesar salad. It's terribly overpriced, but you can help yourself as many times as you like.

Our trips to The Pub always include a pre-dinner visit to a large thrift store right across the street. Over the years, the store has changed ownership several times and now it has joined the ranks of 2nd Avenue Thrift, an international chain of stores — operating under a few different names — with over 300 locations across the United States, Canada and even Australia. Speaking of "the land that time forgot," that's exactly with a trip to a thrift store is. And the shelves at 2nd Avenue Thrift tell a story with every vase, knick-knack, appliance and donated wedding dress on display.

I am not a big fan of thrift shops, but this one I can tolerate. As Mrs. P scours the day's offerings, I usually find myself snapping pictures to post on social media, accompanied by a typical Josh Pincus smart-ass comment that you've come to know and love.... or at least know. 

Our friends — Cookie and Consuelo — arrived a little before we did and already had accumulated a little pile of items in their shopping cart. In the second aisle — the one filled with shelf after shelf of picture frames of varying sizes — Consuelo pointed out something that was definitely right up the Josh Pincus alley. Dotting the shelves among the variety of picture frames, there were a few that stood out like a sore thumb — a sad, neglected, forgotten sore thumb. 

Most of the picture frames were empty. Others had the sample photo that comes in the frame when it is originally offered for purchase in a regular retail store. It's usually a happy couple staring longingly into each others eyes or a serene view of a lake framed by fall foliage, mimicking a photo that you yourself may have taken on a cherished vacation. Stock photos like these are placed in frames much in the way an appetizing photo of a pizza slice or a gravy-drenched Salisbury steak appears on the packaging of a frozen dinner with the inconspicuous disclaimer "SERVING SUGGESTION" tucked just above the net weight. But a few frames showed a photo of a smiling Asian young lady in several different surroundings and in several different outfits. In one, she is beaming, seated at a restaurant table between two women around her age. One of the women's faces is slightly obscured by a large price sticker. The other woman is actually just an arm, but it is most definitely a feminine arm. The subject of the photo is wearing a dark blue shirt with white pinstripes. She is also sporting a blue lei around her neck, leading me to believe that this is a moment from some sort of celebration — captured in time. There is a hint of a gift bag in the foreground, offering further support for my "celebration" theory. Next to this photo was another one of the same young lady. In this shot, she is displaying the same smile as in the other photo. She is seated — rather closely — to a man whose face is mostly covered by a price sticker. They appear to be in a formal setting, like a reception or a fancy restaurant, as the man is wearing a sport jacket and the young lady is wearing a red, sleeveless top, possibly a dress.

Further along the shelf was a fancy frame with another photo of the same young lady. In this one, she is crouched down to put her on the same level as a perky-eared German Shepherd. She's wearing a spaghetti-strap dress and she has a different style to her hair, a possible clue that this was taken in a different year than the other photos. Next to that was a smaller gold frame showing an older couple with a young child between them. Upon closer inspection, one can surmise that the young child is the young lady from the previous photos. The child is wearing pajamas or a costume of some kind and her face is dabbed with colorful make-up, specifically a big red dot on her nose. She is smiling in a similar fashion as the young lady in the adjacent frames. The same older couple (though slightly younger) are in an nearby framed picture. In that one, they are pictured without the little girl, but it is absolutely the same couple. 

Then, there was a larger frame with a slightly older version of the little girl in a swimming pool. She is floating inside an inflatable ring decorated with colorful stripes. Her bowl-cut hairdo is wet against her head, but the smile gives her away as being the same child. Then, there's a group photo in a square frame. It's a typical family including — I can only imagine — brothers, sisters, spouses, cousins and their children posed on the front steps of a home. At the very bottom, next to a happy woman holding a baby and a toddler, is the young girl. Again, she is smiling. It should be noted that everyone in the photo appears to be stereotypical "white bread and mayonnaise" Caucasian, right down to their restricted country club outfits and corporate America haircuts. The young lady is the only Asian in the photo... adding to the gathering mystery unfolding on the thrift store shelves. Further down, separated by several empty frames propped up on their built-in easel backs, was another photo. This one was sort of faded as though its original display spot was a windowsill or a shelf in the path of daily direct sunlight. But there was the young lady, this time in her pre-teen years. She appears to be about eleven or twelve and is posed with two Caucasian girls and a Caucasian boy, all about her age. The four youngsters are gathered excitedly around Chip, the beloved Disney chipmunk, sans his otherwise ubiquitous "partner-in-crime" Dale. Noting the collapsed beach umbrellas in the background, this picture was probably taken on a family vacation at the Walt Disney World resort. I don't recognize any of the other children from the group photo on the house front steps, but I'd venture to guess that they are close acquaintances or maybe adoptive family.

I spent a little bit more time in the picture frame aisle as my wife made her way towards knick-knacks and a wall of bagged, mismatched toys. I looked at the photos on the shelves for a good long time, devising a story about how these frames met their final fate and wound up for sale on the shelves of a thrift shop in Pennsauken, New Jersey. Based on the approximate age of the constant young lady in the photos, I imagine that she was adopted by a member of the Caucasian family also featured in the photos. I envisioned a young couple enrolling into an international adoption program and filing for the adoption of a child from a distant Asian country. They probably took a long flight to the other side of the world to meet their new child and bring her to her new home. On the return flight, they anxiously discussed introducing her to their family — and what would become their new daughter's new family. At first, Mom and Dad (or Grandma and Grandpa) did not approve of the whole affair. Their rigid, upper class, elitist and segregated upbringing shunned the mingling of races. The very thought of an Asian grandchild was positively unheard of and could prove to be an embarrassment in the eyes of their longtime friends at church, the tennis club and other social circles. But, as time went on, they softened. They relented and, most importantly, they came to love their granddaughter as much as they loved their natural-born grandchildren (as is revealed in the third photo described above). The young girl grew up and was accepted by her adopted family. She was welcomed with unconditional love and became a part of the family. And she loved being with her family — really the only family she ever knew.

Then, tragically, the girl passed away. Suddenly. An illness, undetected and undiagnosed at first, but sadly, untreatable, took her swiftly and unexpectedly. When she died, at such a young age with her entire life still ahead, her family was devastated. Soon after the funeral, several members of her family volunteered to gather up her belongings in her small apartment — the apartment she just moved into after landing a new job. Feeling helpless and distraught, they dropped the few boxes of clothing and other belongings off at 2nd Avenue Thrift. In their hurry, they didn't even take the time to remove memory-filled photos from frames. It was just too painful and they weren't thinking straight. The family just wanted to move on and, in the process, hastily erase the memory of their young daughter/granddaughter/cousin/niece. The unfettered employees at 2nd Avenue Thrift just did their jobs. They assessed the haul, priced the individual items and placed them out for sale in the appropriate sections of the store — laying bare the short, bittersweet life of this poor young lady for the vulture-like clientele of 2nd Avenue Thrift to pick over, like the carcass of a mangled animal exposed on the African veldt.

Or maybe she just had enough of this shit cluttering up her apartment.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

sixty years on

I recently... celebrated? .... let's go with "acknowledged" my 62nd birthday. It's a pretty inauspicious milestone. Too young for retirement (as though I could actually retire). Too old to check those survey boxes that list "35-59" as an age demographic for marketing purposes. But as a new 62-year old, I am happy to report that I have outlived some pretty significant folks. Sure, these people accomplished way more than I ever dreamed of, but I have surpassed them in time on Earth, thus offering more time for achievements equal to or perhaps even greater than theirs.

Sally Ride was the first American woman in space, as well as the youngest American astronaut. After a career at NASA, Sally was a professor of physics at USC-San Diego. She passed away in 2012 at the age of 61.

Ernest Hemingway was a Nobel-winning author, widely regarded as one of America's greatest writers. In addition, he was a noted war correspondent, covering The Spanish Civil War and World War II. He was pretty handy with a shotgun, using one to take his own life in 1961 at the age of 61.

Anthony Bourdain was a chef and an adventurer. His legions of fans lived vicariously through Bourdain's travels and endevours across the globe. He lived a life of chances and risks, eventually taking his own life in 2018 at the age of 61.

Aisin-Gioro Puyi became Emperor of China in 1908 at the age of two. He mostly served as a puppet ruler, carrying out atrocities on his country at the behest of the Japanese government. He was eventually jailed by the manipulative and powerful authorities in Japan. He died of cancer at 61, expressing deep regret for his actions.

Sergei Prokofiev was a celebrated pianist and composer, best remembered for his ballet Romeo & Juliet and his "symphonic tale for children" Peter and the Wolf. He composed seven complete operas, seven symphonies, eight ballets, five piano concertos, two violin concertos, a cello concerto, a symphony-concerto for cello and orchestra, and nine piano sonatas before his death in 1953 at the age of 61.

Cynthia Myers was a popular Playboy Playmate in the 1960s. A copy of her centerfold was secretly smuggled aboard the 1969 flight of Apollo 12. Cynthia made frequent appearances on the TV series Playboy After Dark and later served as a spokesmodel for Schlitz Beer. She was an early vocal witness of Bill Cosby's illicit behavior at the Playboy Mansion, as later related in a 1994 interview. Cynthia died in 2011 at the age of 61.

Roderick Toombs adopted the name "Roddy Piper," based on his proficiency of the bagpipes. He gained worldwide popularity for his antics in the wrestling ring and, despite his villainous persona, he was a fan favorite. Roddy dabbled in film and television and made regular appearances at conventions where he mingled with his fans. He died in his sleep from a pulmonary embolism at the age of 61.

Billy Martin was a second baseman but gained his notorious reputation as a manager. Billy served as manager for several Major League Baseball teams, including five separate stints with the New York Yankees. Despite 5 World Series Championships, Billy regularly butted heads with Yankees owner George Steinbrenner. Following a dismissal at the end of the 1988 season, Billy was killed in a single-car accident on Christmas Day 1989. He was 61.

Huddle Ledbetter, better known as "Leadbelly," was a multi-instrumentalist who introduced a number of compositions into the American songbook, including "Goodnight, Irene," "In The Pines," "Midnight Special" and "Cotton Fields." He sang and wrote about topical subjects including politics and racial issues. He often advised his black audiences to "stay woke," in one of the earliest known uses of the term. Leadbelly died in 1949 at the age of 61.

Peter Lawford was an actor and cohort of Frank Sinatra in the illustrious Rat Pack. He was a constant companion of the singer. Peter married JFK's sister Patricia, giving politically-connected Sinatra an "in" with America's so-called "first family." But a politically-charged falling out with Lawford led to an end of their friendship. Peter popped up on television throughout the 60s and 70s without Sinatra's help. After years of various substance abuse, he died from a heart attack at 61.

Goru Suzuki was born on a ship in en route to Japan. Although they were residents of Oakland, his parents wanted their son to be born in Japan. Goru lived in Oakland until his family was sent to an interment camp in Utah during World War II. With a leaning toward entertainment and hoping to avoid Japanese prejudice, Goru changed his name to the more Chinese "Jack Soo" and worked as a stand-up comic and singer in a Cleveland nightclub. He appeared on Broadway and many guest roles in television before landing the familiar role of "Detective Yemana" in the sitcom Barney Miller. Jack died during the fourth season of the series at the age of 61.

I don't expect to manage a baseball team or fly into space or write a symphony or rub elbows with political figures or appear in a sitcom or write the "great American novel," but at least I have time ahead of me to accomplish at any and all of those.

I guess...

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

you've got a friend

Did you have someone you knew but weren't sure why you were friends? I did. There was one guy — Wally — who was always "in the picture." As best as I can figure, I was "friends" with Wally because he was in my homeroom for four consecutive years, based purely on the fact that those classes were formed alphabetically. Just because Wally's last name began with the same few letters as my last name, we were — as they say — stuck with each other. 

Where it all began.

When I first met Wally, we made small talk about music and concerts. Then, he invited me to his house... which I'm sure I declined on the first few invitations. You see, I had come to realize that Wally was a jerk. He was very full of himself. He bragged. He was a loudmouth. Among my group of upper middle class friends and acquaintances, Wally and his family were — what was considered — rich. His father (who I met only once or twice) possibly owned a construction company — which in 1970s euphemisms — meant connections to organized crime. Wally's father owned a giant silver Lincoln Continental at a time when other dad's drove second-hand Chevys. Wally lived in a big house with an in-ground pool on the furthest outskirts of the Philadelphia City Limits, still allowing him to attend Philadelphia public schools. The official county boundary was across the street from his house.

Wally's pride.

Wally always had the latest technology gadgets. He was the first person I knew with a VCR, a push-button phone, a big-screen (projection) television. His split-level house had a built-in intercom system. For his 16th birthday, which came in February (before any of my other friends), Wally — of course — got a car. And not just any car... a brand new Datsun B210. It was a cool, sporty little car with racing stripes and he flaunted it conceitedly through the school's parking lot — stopping short of screaming "I GOT A CAR!" in the face of everyone who looked in his direction. However, one day, Wally came to my house to pick me up (I did not have my own car. Not many of my friends did.) in his father's Lincoln. That thing was like a tank and Wally, who was small of frame, was dwarfed by its massive dashboard and gigantic steering wheel. I swear, he had a hard time seeing over the dash and out the windshield. I climbed into the front passenger's seat and we headed out to whatever our destination was (probably a Sam Goody record store at a nearby mall). Wally gunned the engine in a typical "show off" move and we took off up an on-ramp of the highway near my house. As we approached our exit, Wally — who was going way too fast — veered off the blacktop and into the overgrown grassy area that followed the contour of the road. With wide eyes and a grimace of panic across both our faces, Wally managed to bring the mammoth vehicle to a halt. He gathered his breath and turned to me. Instead of what I assumed would be an apology or at least an "Are you all right?," Wally grit his teeth and seethed, "Not a word about this to anyone at school!" Wally was indeed a jerk, but I kept my word.

Wally had a huge record collection. An entire wall of his bedroom was occupied by shelves and shelves of albums. Wally would happily record any one of his albums on cassette for me (if I provided the blank tape) but he would never ever lend an album to anyone. Never! No one was permitted to touch Wally's albums. When he removed one from its protective cardboard sleeve, one was barely permitted to breathe near the vinyl disk as it spun on his expensive turntable. Wally was a big fan of The Who, a band who — to be honest — in the middle 1970s, I was not familiar with. But, they were gods to Wally. I remember I was at Wally's house when the news came out that Keith Moon, the Who's wild man drummer, had died. Wally sank as though he was just informed that his father had died. Actually, I don't believe the death of his father would have elicited the same reaction, until he realized that his source of unlimited funds had now run dry.

During the course of high school, Wally's house (suspiciously)  burned down. Another time, Wally and his girlfriend were accosted and tied up by three men who muscled their way into his house (also suspicious), the place cleaned out of valuables as Wally and his girl sat helplessly. (Again, unsubstantiated.)

After high school, I lost touch with Wally. Actually, "liberated myself from" would be a better way of putting it. A friend of a mutual friend told me that Wally had opened a retail store not far from my home. I was talked into attending the grand opening. Surprise! Wally was still a jerk. Not graciously welcoming his acquaintances to his new venture, but thumping his chest and stopping short of screaming "I GOT A STORE" in the face of everyone who looked in his direction. A few years later, Wally and his new wife wandered into my father-in-law's store, where I worked with Mrs. Pincus on weekends for years until it closed. I introduced Wally to my wife, choking on the words "my friend" as they passed through my lips. Wally's wife, a nice enough woman who I secretly wondered what was she doing with Wally, suggested that we all get together sometime. I smiled... with no intentions of ever making that happen.

A few years ago, I had an accumulation of vacation days from work that had to be used before the end of the calendar year. I took random days off with no real plans to do anything. On one of those days, I found myself in the neighborhood of Wally's store — still in business, but in a different suburban location. I parked my car and entered the store. There was Wally, looking a bit older and a bit grayer, but it was Wally. He was behind the counter, surrounded by stacks and piles of haphazardly displayed merchandise — and not a single customer in sight. He looked up as I entered. He did not recognize me. Granted, at the time I had flaming red hair, something I did not sport in high school. I explained who I was and Wally lit up. Not with a "Great to see you after all this time," but with a barrage of boasts about his business and his overall success.

Yep. Wally was still a jerk and I wondered why on earth I ventured into his store and why I wanted him in life again.

More recently, Wally tracked me down on social media. He made himself known by making a succession of very racist comments on several of my posts. I immediately blocked him.

If only life was that easy.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

karma chameleon

In my last post, I made reference to my wife's friend Randi. Remember, she stayed in our apartment when Mrs. Pincus and I were on our honeymoon. She was the first person to see those ominous white postcards from Bloomingdale's-by-Mail that kicked off the twisted tale that I recounted in that particular post. (If you missed it, you can read it here.) Well, let me tell you a little bit about Randi.

Mrs. Pincus met Randi when they were both on staff at a summer camp in the Poconos. They bonded almost instantly and were nearly inseparable that summer. At the end of the eight-week session, they vowed to stay in touch, a promise that would be fairly easy, as Randi lived in Northeast Philadelphia, just a short drive from Mrs. P's suburban home.

I met Randi on the same night I met the future Mrs. Pincus. To be honest, I was initially interested in Randi, especially since my bride-to-be asked if I had an older and taller brother and proclaimed me — and this is a direct quote — "the most obnoxious person she had ever met." But, once the stars aligned and our rightful paths determined, Randi became a constant companion to my wife and me. Whether it was movies, restaurants, concerts or just hanging out, Randi was always there and we all got along great. I soon discovered that Randi and I had a lot in common, as well. Since we both grew up in close-knit, paths-crossing Northeast Philadelphia, we found that we knew a lot of the same people. I remember she liked to keep up with the latest trends in music and clothes, effortlessly sliding from disco to punk, from "Saturday Night Fever" chic to "Ramones" rage.

Randi latched on to Mrs. P and I and exhibited a combination of admiration with a slight edge of jealousy. She wasn't dating anyone steadily. She dated infrequently, as a matter of fact, mostly a series of "one shot" dates. After each night out, she would gush about this one being "the one," and begin making elaborate life-changing plans in her mind — only to be disappointed.  However, Randi never seemed like a "third wheel." We all got along so well and had such a good time together — that thought never crossed our minds. It crossed other people's minds, but never ours.

Randi was the obvious choice for Maid of Honor when Mrs. Pincus and I tied the knot in 1984. She was esteemed and humbled by the honor, but she knew the position was hers as soon the Pincus wedding plans were announced. As expected, Randi attended our wedding as a single. Actually, she only had one "long term" relationship that I recall. No, it didn't end when her on-again-off-again boyfriend got married to someone who wasn't Randi. They continued to date in spite of his marital status. It ended when he committed suicide. Although, Randi was never married to him, she presented herself and behaved as the bereaved widow — in the most flamboyant manner imaginable.

Even after Mrs. Pincus and I married, Randi remained our friend. We went on vacations with her - short romps to nearby Atlantic City and long, planned-out trips to Walt Disney World. When our son was born, Randi was named his godmother and "Aunt Randi" continued to accompany the Pincus's on family trips. After all, she was part of the family. She was included in holiday dinners and celebrations without a second thought. Randi was treated like a second daughter by my in-laws. She also had the same love-hate relationship with my wife's two brothers — as though she was another sister.

After a while, Randi met a guy in an online chat room. She was beside herself. She told us all about her "new love" and how their relationship graduated past the "chat room" and on to real telephone conversations — except... She explained that she had to wait for him to call her. He was divorced, but still lived in his wife's house and she closely monitored the phone. Mrs. P and I exchanged glances during Randi's description and — rightly — surmised that this new guy was married. He eventually came clean, but was, indeed, heading for divorce. He and Randi dated exclusively. Randi was ecstatic about her first, bonafide relationship with the possibility of marriage on the horizon. The new guy was — for lack of a better word — a dimwit. On double dates at a restaurant, we would often catch him staring off into space or contemplating the napkin dispenser like it was a newly-discovered fossil. He rarely contributed anything of substance to a conversation, if he contributed at all. One thing he did do well, was two-time Randi. She would catch him talking to other women regularly. Since he lived in Northern New Jersey, he could easily see other women without Randi finding out — or so he thought in his little pea-sized brain. After a blow-up, he promised to stay loyal to Randi. Once Randi and Mrs. P went away on a "girls' week" in Jamaica. When they returned, Randi's guy was so happy and proud to tell her that he "didn't even see anyone else while she was away." Randi eventually married this guy and that's when things began to head downhill — I think.

You didn't really think
 I'd show her picture,
did you?

Randi had always been a chameleon. She liked to cozy up to people, in hopes they would like her. She would take on their way of speaking and their mannerisms. She would pepper her speech with  expressions she had heard them use. She was like this for as long as I knew her. When she married "her guy," she started hanging out with a group of people who would later reveal themselves to have very outdated views. Randi would parrot their take on minorities — expressing a viewpoint that contradicted her prior feelings. She also became very obsessed with her physical ailments — some real, but mostly imagined. Randi subjected herself to surgeries that we felt were unnecessary, but she insisted were "important and life saving." Randi was becoming something that she never was. We drifted apart, our encounters becoming less frequent until we just never saw Randi anymore. Through social media and mutual acquaintances, we learned that Randi had divorced "her guy" and remarried a retired police officer of questionable background. 

A few years ago, Mrs. P found herself in the emergency room of a local hospital on the same day that her mother was also an emergency patient. I scuttled between the two curtained areas, offering doctor's updates to the familial occupants of each. When I returned to my wife, she was talking to a wizened, tired-looking woman who I did not recognize. I sat quietly in a chair as they continued their conversation. A few familiar things in their exchange jumped out at me. Suddenly, it hit me. This unrecognizable woman was Randi. I looked at her and she bore absolutely no resemblance to the Randi I once knew. And — me being Mr. Subtle — I told her so. Mrs. P was soon discharged from the hospital and we left Randi in our wake.

Recently, we learned through the grapevine, that Randi had moved to Florida. A quick Google search led us to her presence on Twitter*. It appears that Randi — with her inexplicable 12,000 followers — has, once again, reinvented herself — this time, as a hate-filled, conspiracy-theory spouting, QAnon-supporting, fear-mongering, proud and outspoken extreme right-wing racist. A further search revealed a disturbing mug shot from a 2018 booking for charges described as "aggravated assault with a deadly weapon without intent to kill."

Boy... the lengths some people will go to just to be liked.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

*As of this posting and in light of the events in Washington, DC this past week, Randi has deleted her social media presence. 

looking here and there, looking everywhere

Every year, for the past thirty-three, my wife and I have hosted a dessert party the evening before Thanksgiving. The gathering is warm and friendly and the guest list has evolved considerably over those three-plus decades. The only people who have been in attendance at every one are Mrs. Pincus and yours truly. 

In preparation for the annual event, Mrs. Pincus bakes everything that is served to our guests. Everything. By herself. Occasionally, I have been asked to retrieve a canister of flour from a high cabinet or to run down to the basement freezer for another bag of chocolate chips. Otherwise, I am a spectator in the kitchen. Mrs. Pincus is like a fine artist and a warm oven, a Kitchen-Aid mixer and a counter full of ingredients make up her palette. She spends an entire day (and sometimes a few hours the morning of the party) whipping up a vast array of the most tempting baked goods this side of Sara Lee.

Among the pies and tarts and brownies (two kinds), Mrs. Pincus will include her old stand-by and perennial favorite – gingerbread men. Except Mrs. P makes 'em in the shape of bears instead of humans. However, she doesn't use a cookie cutter. She uses a cardboard template that actually predates our holiday parties by a few years. Mrs. P rolls out the homemade dough, lays the thin cardboard bear on top and, with the point of a sharp paring knife, follows the perimeter of the guide until she meets the point at which she started. She removes the stencil and places the bear-shaped dough on a cookie sheet alongside his previously-cut dough pals. (This year, I got to decorate the pre-baked treats with chocolate chip eyes, noses and buttons.) Then, they get popped into the oven for a secret amount of time and come out as deliciously-whimsical tawny cookies.

In the down time, while several pies are in the oven, Mrs. Pincus and I adorn our house in a overlay of Thanksgiving embellishment. We have a big plastic bin filled with earth-toned table runners and mantle scarves and little themed knick-knacks depicting pilgrims and Native Americans. There are twinkly light sets and rustic plaques and every year we place them in the same spots around the first floor of our home. At the risk of tooting my own horn (of plenty), our house looks very attractive and inviting in late autumn, especially when enhanced by our collection of holiday tsochkies. A house full of people have let us know how much they enjoy this yearly soiree – at least that's what we think they have told us. It's hard to understand some folk when their mouths are stuffed with two kinds of homemade pumpkin pie.

After the last guest has left, we begin the tedious task of cleaning up. We have thankfully received help from some friends who hang around later, but the wrapping of breakables and gathering of the tiny novelties is reserved for Thanksgiving morning, when Mrs. Pincus and I have the house to ourselves. This year, I picked each and every little figurine from the fireplace mantle, along with fistfuls of felt oak leaves and stashed them in the dedicated bin with the coiled light sets and die-cut place mats. At the end of my collecting, I had a wad of tissue and an empty box lacking one Hallmark Donald Duck dressed in a black frock and a silver-buckled Puritan hat. I looked every where... and I mean everywhere.

Meanwhile in the kitchen, Mrs. Pincus was rifling through her recipe box for her trusty bear template. And it was nowhere to be found. She scoured the shelf in our kitchen coat closet where the recipe box resides when its not being employed to dispense the secrets of pecan pie or Bubbie Elka's pinwheel cookies. Mrs. P frowned – not unlike the missing bear's expression – and said, with a great deal of disappointment "Someone stole my bear!"

"Oh, come on," I reassured, "who would want to take that?"

Realizing that she was accusing one of her guests of the theft of something they probably didn't know existed, Mrs. Pincus continued her futile search. After too long, we abandoned the hunt. In the days and weeks following Thanksgiving, however, my wife still casually opened drawers and looked behind things that she had looked behind a million times. Nothing. No bear.

November turned into December and the weather has become increasingly colder. This morning, I decided to finally forsake my denim jacket-and-hoodie ensemble in favor of my heavy pea coat and knit gloves. I opened the coat closet in the kitchen and began scanning the various specimens of outerwear stored within. I passed a few coats I still wonder why I am hanging on to until I came across the navy blue woolen ulster that I hadn't seen in nearly a year. I put the coat on and closed the closet door.

It wouldn't close snugly.

I opened the door again and assessed how I had disrupted the arrangement of hangers. I adjusted  and readjusted them and tried the door again. It still wouldn't close correctly. A little more rearranging was necessary and maybe I had to kick my winter boots to the rear of the closet floor. I looked down at the errant boots. Suddenly, against the side wall of the closet interior, I spotted the AWOL bear, its forlorn face staring at me in silent relief. I crouched down and picked the bear off the closet wall. I placed it on the kitchen counter where Mrs. Pincus would surely see it later when she came downstairs.

Now that one mystery in the Pincus house is solved, I will move on to the next one.

If you were at my house the night before Thanksgiving this year... and you took my Donald Duck, please bring it with you next year. No questions asked. There may even be some pie in it for you.

Or a gingerbread bear.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

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

 This year, it’s a whopping 82 minutes of pure Christmas wonderment that'll have you wondering why you downloaded it in the first place. But, as long as you did, why not share it with your family and friends. It's guaranteed to make sure they don't overstay their welcome. 

 You get twenty-eight eclectic Christmas selections featuring a mix of obscure artists giving up on their dreams of stardom and popular artists committing career suicide. These holiday tunes 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!)

praise the lord and pass the ammunition

I did something this year that I have never done before. I went to work on Yom Kippur. And I lived to tell the tale.

I have had a very turbulent relationship with religion my entire life. Growing up, my family was not at all observant. Sure, we knew we were Jews, but we didn't belong to a synagogue. We lived in a predominantly gentile neighborhood and I suffered my share of antisemitic remarks from contemporaries whom I sometimes identified as "friends." I attended a handful of Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur services with some friends from school who lived in "Jewish" neighborhoods and whose families were members of various synagogues. I figured a day off from school was worth putting on a suit and tie and sitting in a room for hours, full of folks who were chanting in a language I didn't understand. Yom Kippur was the tough one, because not only was I stuck in synagogue until sundown, but it was a fast day, so there would be no break for lunch. While I did go to services with my friends, but not every year. The years I didn't go, I just stayed home from school and watched TV. Even though I wasn't attending services, my mother believed it was better to stay home than go to school and have the non-Jews talk about me.

When I met Mrs. Pincus, I was exposed to a whole undiscovered world of religious observance. Her family was very traditional (not Orthodox, but from my parents' standpoint, they were right out of Fiddler on the Roof.) They belonged to a suburban Philadelphia synagogue and attended services regularly, not just on Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur. They went on Simchat Torah, Purim and a bunch of other holidays I swear they were making up (like Shemini Atzeret.) Hell, my father-in-law went several mornings a week! In addition, my new in-laws maintained a kosher home and I soon was informed that, after Mrs. Pincus and I married, we would observe kashrut in our home as well. I was okay with the new rules in my life. Actually, I found it fairly interesting, especially from an historical aspect. Judaism offers a lot of detailed explanation as to why things are done and the importance of tradition (just like that song from Fiddler on the Roof. Maybe my parents were right.) Unlike the blind following of some other religions, Judaism gives reasons for rituals. I'm not saying they are always clear and concise reasons, but they are more that just "because I say so."

When our son was ready for school, he was enrolled in Jewish day school and went through twelve years of intense, dual-curriculum study. In those twelve years, he grew into what we call a "mensch." But he also absorbed and processed the knowledge was offered to him and questioned every single concept and idea that didn't sit right. And he questioned a lot of teachers. He was respectful (something he must have gotten from his mother), but he wasn't about to let anyone pull one over on him. When he graduated from high school, he was fluent in Hebrew, fluent in all aspects of Judaism but anxious to shed the Jewish cocoon he'd been living in since he was born. He focused his attention on secular studies in college with his goal being employment in his chosen field of broadcasting. And he ceased attending religious services. I, however, did not. I continued to go to services on Yom Kippur, Rosh Hashanah and the occasional other holiday.... I just wasn't sure why. This feeling wasn't new. This was something I wondered about for years. What was I doing here? Religious services really made no sense to me. I am not particularly spiritual. When I was a kid, I went because my friends went. When I got older, I went because my wife went and I thought it would set a good example for my child. But now — here I was and my son was off doing something decidedly not "services-y." I realized I was doing this solely to please others... and I didn't like that.

A few years ago, my father-in-law, a pious and observant man, was unceremoniously and unfairly ousted from duties that he had voluntarily performed regularly at synagogue for years. Despite having the proverbial rug pulled out from under him, he continued to attend services. I, however, stopped. That was the last straw. The turning point. My epiphany. Although religion never played a strong role in my life, I had respect for those for whom it did. I always felt that religion offered a common bond for its followers and offered comfort and serenity and a sense of being. But after witnessing the vindictive and underhanded nature of the scheme to relieve my father-in-law of his sense of being, I saw religion and its followers in a whole new light, although it was a light that I had always suspected. Religion is about people and control and stature and ranking and classes and bullshit. Mostly bullshit. I have seen the old men that gather at early morning services. I have seen them look scornfully at one another in their little cliques and whisper. I have seen them gather afterwards and analyze the day's proceedings like a post-game show after the Super Bowl. "This one didn't stand up at the right time. That one didn't sing the correct tune for that prayer." That's what they discuss. Not the meaning of the morning's Torah passage, but who was on the wrong page and who came in late.

See? Bullshit.

And that's why I went to work this year. I don't care about the tedium of religion. I don't see how standing up or sitting down at any particular time can assure me a free pass to Heaven. I don't think that covering my head while reciting a bunch of words in a language that I don't understand will keep me in the good graces of a "higher being." And don't even get me started on that concept.

I had a pretty productive day at work. And I didn't have to dodge a single lightning bolt.