searchin'

This story appeared on my illustration blog twelve years ago, complete with a drawing of my father. It's a funny story that wasn't too funny while it was actually happening.

I'm pretty sure my dad's intentions were good, but he had his own quirky method of making them known.

My father followed an old-time, though slightly skewed, set of ethics. He was a hard worker and blindly devoted to the company he worked for — no matter how little that company gave a shit about him. He tried to instill his work ethic into my brother and me and he somewhat succeeded, as we are both hard workers. However, the Pincus boys just never bought into the "blind loyalty" part, as we came to know after years of working for various employers, that most employers feel that their employees are expendable and easily replaced.

My father loved his family and his way of showing love was to keep constant tabs on their schedules and their whereabouts. As my brother and I came into our teens, that task proved increasingly difficult for my father. Where are you going? How long are you staying there? When will you be home? Who will you be with? these were all part of the regular barrage of questions my brother and I were riddled with when we made a motion toward the front door during our adolescent years. My older brother's teenage antics made a wreck of my father's sense of family order and when I reached "driver's license" age I was no better.

In the summer of 1980, when I was 19, I ran a sidewalk produce stand for my cousin at 16th and Spring Garden Street in downtown Philadelphia. My cousin awakened in the wee hours of the morning and would spend several hours purchasing stock for the stand at the massive Food Distribution Center in South Philadelphia. He'd load his van with crates of fresh fruit and vegetables and I'd meet him at the stand around 8 a.m. to help unload the van and set up for the day. I did this every weekday for the entire summer and, even though I would sometimes stay out fairly late on weekday evenings, I was never on that corner later that 8 a.m. the next day. No matter what. Never.

At the beginning of that summer, I went on my first vacation without my parents. I went to Florida with three of my friends. When I returned home, my cousin recruited me to hawk plums and lettuce and I was just getting into the daily routine that the job required. I had also just met a girl at a local record store and we made plans for a date. Late one afternoon, I came home tired from a full morning of weighing out cherries, bagging bananas and persuading passers-by to pick up some tasty spuds for their family's dinner. After a shower and a change of clothes, I was ready to take this new girl out to a restaurant and who-knows-what-else. I met my father on the front lawn as I was leaving the house and he was arriving home from work. Right on schedule, the questions began.

He opened with his old favorite — "Where are you going?"

"I have a date."

"When will you be home?"

"I don't know. Later, I guess."

"You know, you have work tomorrow.," he informed me, as though I would not have otherwise been aware of my employment.

"I know.," I answered as I opened the driver's door of my mom's car and slid behind the wheel. My father stood on the lawn, arms folded across his chest, and watched me drive off. It was apparent that he was not pleased with my limited answers to his inquiries.

I arrived at Jill's house and offered her the passenger's seat in my mom's tank-like Ford Galaxie. We chatted as we drove and at one point I glanced in her direction as she nonchalantly popped a Quaalude into her mouth. We pulled into the parking lot of the Inn Flight Steakhouse on Street Road and I helped Jill through the entrance doors as her self-medication affected her navigational ability on the short walk from my car. At dinner we talked and joked and exchanged other typical "first date" pleasantries. Before we knew it, we had spent several extended hours at that table, although I'm sure I was more aware of the time than she was. (Under the circumstances, I sure I was more aware of a lot of things than she was.) She invited me back to her house, explaining that her parents were away for a few days (hint, hint). We drove to her house and, once inside,  she motioned to the basement, telling me she join me in a few minutes.

Meanwhile, my father was manning his usual post at the front door. He stood and stared out through the screen with an omnipresent cigarette in one hand, checking his watch approximately every eight seconds.

"Where the hell is he?," he questioned my mother.

"He's on a date. He told you. You saw him when you came home from work.," she replied, as she had countless times before.

"He has to go to work early tomorrow morning. Doesn't he have a watch? Doesn't he know what time it is?" My father was convinced that if he personally didn't inform you of the current time, you couldn't possibly know. He fancied himself humanity's "Official Timekeeper". He would have made a great town crier.

My mother — that poor exasperated, sleep-deprived woman — tried to reason with my father. "He'll be home. He knows he has to work. He's responsible. You know  he's responsible."

Suddenly, he grabbed his coat and scanned the living room for his car keys. "What are you doing?," my mother asked, suspiciously.

"I'm gonna go look for him. Maybe he has a flat tire.," he said, trying to sound concerned, but my mom was not convinced.

"You don't even know where he is. You don't know where the girl lives. You don't even know her name! Where are you going to look?" My mother knew he was up to something. No one could get anything  past my mother. Especially my father.

"Then, I'll drive around and look for him." Ignoring her words, my dad got into his car, backed down the driveway and sped off to a planned destination. He had no intention off driving around. He knew exactly where he was going. Somewhere around the time that Jill was descending her parent's basement steps wearing little more than a blanket and a smile, my dad was bursting through the doors of a police station several blocks from our home.

"My son is missing.," my frantic father shouted at the policeman on duty, "I don't know where he is!"

The unfazed officer grabbed a pen and, with it poised above a notepad, asked my father, "When did you see him last?"

"About seven hours ago," my dad replied, "when he left for a date."

The policeman dropped the pen, cocked one eyebrow and stared blankly at my father. "He's probably still on the date, sir." He instructed my dad to go home, assuring him that I'd probably be home any minute. Annoyed and dejected, my father shuffled back to his car and drove home. A few minutes after he pulled into the driveway, I steered my mom's car along the curb in front of my house. As I walked up the front lawn, searching for my house key, the front door opened and the shape of my father was silhouetted by the living room lamp. My mother was lurking several feet behind him.

"What are you still doing up?," I asked.

"Where the hell were you?," my father yelled, "I just came from the police station looking for you."

With this information coming to light for the first time, my mother and I simultaneously emitted a loud, angry and incredulous 'WHAT?'

"You went WHERE?,"  I screamed, "You knew I was on a date! Are you INSANE?"  I glanced down at my watch (contrary to my father's beliefs, I did own one and I referred to it often). "I don't have time to talk about this. I have to wake up in a couple of hours to go to work." I echoed my father's ingrained work ethic and looked him square in the face. "And so do you.," I finished.

With that, I stomped upstairs, flopped down on my bed and drifted off to sleep to the muffled tones of my mother's reprimanding voice coming from my parent's bedroom below.

I know my father's main concern was my safety and well-being and his intentions were honorable, but he desperately needed to take a course in Parental Behavior. Lucky for him, I think my mom taught those classes.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

leave those kids alone

My ten-year old nephew loves, lives and breathes basketball. He talks about when he goes pro, not if, as though it is already decided. He plays on a traveling basketball team with other ten-year olds, some of whom exhibit moves on the court that belie their years.

A few weeks ago, I got to see my nephew's team play against another team of ten-year olds. The kids took to the court and each one played their little hearts out. They looked to be having a great time passing and dribbling and shooting and blocking and scoring. The excitement was infectious and the fun was palpable. As the youngsters ran up and down the court, their teammates on the bench cheered them on and their coaches sporadically shouted out direction and words of encouragement.

But, from the bleachers side of the game, it was a different story.

I sat with my wife and my nephew's parents. Nearby were a few gentlemen that behaved as though this was the crucial series-deciding game of the NBA finals. Their entire existence hinged on this game. I don't know who's parents they were, because these few fathers were calling out strategy to everyone on the team, not necessarily just their kid. There were determined yells of "Block that!" and "On your left!" and "Behind you!" Some of the call-outs were louder than the coach's instructions, distracting the young players' focus from the game. These same fathers grumbled and stamped their feet against the wooden slat seats when a referee blew his whistle against the home team. Some even vocalized their displeasure with the rulings. At the end of the game, with a lopsided score, one second left to play and no chance of a comeback, I heard a few of the parents giving audible snickers.

It was embarrassing. I never played sports as a child, (Who am I kidding? I never played sports as an adult, either!) but, I always heard stories of frustrated "stage parents" living their failed sports dreams vicariously through their children, however witnessing it made my blood run cold. Their self-serving actions undermined the fun and sportsmanship that these games are supposed to nurture. After the game, some fathers didn't even congratulate their budding athlete. 

Can't these kids just have a little fun without your shortcomings entering into it?  Come on... they're only kids once. You had your chance.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

shake that rat

I used to fixate on — actually, I still do — the uncomfortable fact that my parents took me to see The Godfather when I was eleven. This bothered me a lot. What were they thinking? What kind of parent subjects an impressionable child to that kind of gritty violence? Were there no babysitters available? Did they discuss this and conclude that, as responsible parents, this was an admirable thing to do? I even wrote a lengthy blog post about this a few years ago, so the people that I couldn't tell in person wouldn't miss out on some serious parent shaming.

A few nights ago, I was scanning the multitude of entertainment options available through my cable television provider. I stopped at Turner Classic Movies — one of my favorites — to see what they were offering. I scrolled through to the schedule and soon found myself viewing the movies that TCM reserves for the wee hours of weekend nights — a period they refer to as "The Underground." While most folks are fast asleep, Turner Classic presents films that fall into the category of "cult." Just after midnight on Saturday, such forgotten gems as Coffy starring an ass-kicking Pam Grier and Hillbillys in a Haunted House, a painfully campy romp that Jayne Mansfield turned down, are screened for the pleasure of insomniacs everywhere.

At 3:45 a.m., Turner Classic presented the 1971 thriller Willard, a heartwarming tale of an awkward young man who befriends a bunch of rats. This was followed by its 1972 sequel, the equally preposterous Ben, featuring a cast of every character actor the 1970s had to offer. An unexplainable wave of excitement shot through me and I instinctively set the DVR to record both movies. 

I hadn't seen either one of these movies in years! Decades! On Sunday morning, I set myself up with a bowl of cereal and a cup of coffee and settled into the den sofa for a "blast-from-the-past" double feature. I remember loving these movies when I was a kid. Hey, what's not to love? It had Ernest Borgnine, excitable "Commander McHale" playing against his TV type (but not movie type, as he portrayed numerous assholes on the silver screen) as Willard's asshole boss. It had the eccentrically other-worldly Elsa Lanchester at the end of her illustrious career as Willard's mother, acting as though she didn't get the same script as the rest of the cast. There was lovely waif Sondra Locke as Willard's pseudo love interest and a supporting assortment of characters from TV including J. Pat O'Malley (Google him, you'll know him) and the delightfully daffy Jody Gilbert, who made a career of playing "Woman" or "Fat Woman" in 115 screen credits. With newcomer Bruce Davison (who has gone on to a five-decade career that included an Oscar nomination) in the title role, Willard was a typical 70s schlock horror film. It was a low-budget, zero production value, poorly-acted 95 minutes of dreck... and I loved it! Movies in the 70s were churned out with assembly-line regard. They followed trends and genres and there was very little originality. Actors wore, what seemed like, their own street clothes — or maybe costumes just mimicked the brightly-colored polyester fashions of the day. It certainly did not try to top Citizen Kane and that certainly was not its goal. It was just crappy entertainment and it delivered. 

Mom and Dad's guide
to parenting

While I watched and chuckled at the over-dramatic antics flashing across my television, remembering my first view of this film, something dawned on me. I saw Willard at a Saturday afternoon matinee at the Parkwood Theater in 1971. I was ten. Ten years old! I went with friends. My mom most likely drove us there in her lime green Rambler, dropping us off and providing me with a few dollars for popcorn and candy. She was well aware of what sort of movie Willard was, as our television was bombarded with ads for the movie. They must have caught Ernest Borgnine shilling on Johnny Carson's show, explaining how the stunts and effects were accomplished after running a promo clip for the audience. So, what was she thinking? Why would she allow a ten-year old to see this? This was not a film for a ten-year old! I should have been seeing Bedknobs and Broomsticks or Million Dollar Duck or The Barefoot Executive or any number of movies more suitable for a ten-year old. Not a movie where a pack of hungry rats rip "Commander McHale" apart right before your eyes. So, I shouldn't be surprised that, a year later, my parents thought it was a fine idea to take me to see The Godfather. After all, once I saw thousands of rats gnaw through a wooden door and attack the once-sympathetic Willard, watching a helpless James Caan get riddled with thousands of rounds of machine gun fire was nothing.... I guess. And that severed horse's head? Piece of cake.

Perhaps my Mom and Dad should have read a good book on parenting skills after they finished Mario Puzo's tale of "family."

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

we're a happy family

This month marks 29 years since I became a father. I have to admit, though, that before I became a father, I had no interest in being a parent. None. Zero. Zilch. However, once my son was born, my feelings took a complete one-eighty. With inspiration from my wonderful wife, I immersed myself into parenthood. Our life had changed. We knew things would be different. We were now responsible for another life, for teaching our son right from wrong. We would be giving love and comfort and guidance and knowledge to a human being that we consciously decided to bring into this world. We were now a family. We would do things as a family. And we would love being a family.

Every part of my son's life was the best part. I loved watching him grow up. I loved watching him learn new things. I loved seeing him beam with pride at all of his accomplishments through the years — an "A" on a test or a gold star on a school project. I loved going on family vacations. My son and I saw Niagara Falls for the first time together. My wife and I, veterans of many trips to Walt Disney World, experienced the theme park from a new perspective during our son's first visit. We cheered him on when he boarded the bus for his first summer at overnight camp — and we fought back tears knowing how much we would miss him during his eight-week absence. We wrote to him — sending four and five letters a day. (The mail room at camp hated us.) We rejoiced in his graduation from high school, then college and were overjoyed when he landed his dream job. He recently bought a house with his girlfriend.

Mrs. P and I like to think that we laid the foundation for our son's life. We hope that our conduct and decisions have influenced him by example. I suppose it has, because he has made us proud many, many times over.

So, I am infuriated by the overwhelming number of parents that I have witnessed bitching and whining and complaining about their children. I cringe when I hear "I can't wait! No children for the whole weekend!" or "It's adult night! Children-free! Woo-hoo!" I hate to see Facebook posts that say "Dropped the kids off! Now it's ME time!" On a public forum? Really? I don't understand this sentiment at all? Why on earth did you have children if you can't wait to get rid of them? Didn't you fully understand the commitment involved when you decided to have children? It's not an obligation because your parents wouldn't shut up about "making them grandparents." Having children is a big responsibility. It is a life-changing responsibility. And if you are not ready to alter your life, then you should have put more thought into what is actually involved in having a family. Your children are your responsibility. Not your parents', not your babysitter's, not your kid's teacher's.... yours. Grow the fuck up and start acting like a responsible adult and parent. And stop being selfish.

Spend time with your children, as much as you can. Be patient with your children. Be loving with your children. Be involved in their lives and in their interests... even if they are not your interests. Give them direction and encouragement and discipline and praise and assistance. If you don't like the way your kids behave, guess whose fault that is?

Didn't you learn anything from "Cats in the Cradle?"

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

papa's got a brand new bag

Through the far-reaching avenues of social media, Mrs. Pincus came upon a wonderful organization called Valley Youth House. Since its humble beginnings over 40 years ago, Valley Youth House has offered shelter and counseling to LGBT youngsters, now homeless and abused, who have been cast out by families that do not approve of their lifestyle. The thought of parents kicking their child out of the house because they are gay is heartbreaking. I have heard first-hand stories of this — where religion (there's that word again!) has taken precedent over a parent's love for a child — and it is just inconceivable.

Valley Youth House presented a program for the holiday season in which their residents compiled wish lists for presents. These lists were posted on the organization's Facebook page and people could chose to buy as much or as little from the individual youth's requests. Then, once purchased and properly identified with the recipient's first name, the gifts could be dropped off at one of several locations for eventual distribution.

My wife was matched up with Diane, a 16-year-old girl who was thrown out of her home by her parents. Mrs. P perused her requests. Diane asked for an iPad right off the bat. Nice try, kiddo, but I don't even have an iPad. Further down (and more reasonable) on the list were some lotions from Forever 21, a trendy and sometimes controversial* chain store catering to "fashion du jour," as well as a gift card from the store. That was more like it.

One afternoon, Mrs. P popped into a nearby Forever 21 and purchased several items – a gift-packaged assortment of lotions and the gift card – from Diane's selections. The cashier gathered everything up and placed them into a sturdy, bright yellow plastic bag emblazoned with the store's logotype. At home, my wife arranged the items in a small, festive gift bag and asked if I could transport the present to Valley Youth House's office just three blocks from the building in which I work in Philadelphia. I said I'd be happy to. (Never let it be said that I am not charitable and won't walk three blocks to prove it.)

At noon on a Tuesday, I put on my jacket, grabbed the bright yellow plastic Forever 21 bag containing the gift and set out for my three-block good deed journey. Fifteen minutes later, when I returned from my goodwill mission, I began to fold the plastic bag to shove it into my messenger bag to bring it home and add to our handy collection of shopping bags that every home has. Carefully folding the bottom of the bag up to the top, I screeched to a halt. Covertly printed in plain block letters along the bottom gusset of the bag were seven characters bisected by single mark of punctuation. I was horrified.

"John 3:16" I recognized it immediately as a biblical reference and I knew (from numerous category appearances on Jeopardy! and that rainbow-wigged nut job at various televised sporting events) it was from the New Testament. To be really sure of its meaning, a quick Google search yielded this:

"For God so loved the world that he gave his one and only Son, that whoever believes in him shall not perish but have eternal life."

"Wow." was my first thought. "What is this doing on the bag of a retail store?" was my second thought. "Why are they hiding it?" was the thought after that. A little more Internet research revealed that Forever 21's founders, Do Won Chang and his wife Jin Sook, are born-again Christians. Fine. Good for them. But, if they are so proud of their religious beliefs, why isn't the scriptural quote plastered across the front of every one of their stores instead of secretly tucked away where the average person (and possibly-offended customer) might not see it. At least right-wing poultry purveyors Chick-Fil-A (no pun intended) have no problem wearing their Jesus on their sleeve. They have made their views on religion and abortion and gay rights publicly known with seemingly no regard for the repercussions on their business — and there were plenty of repercussions. Plus it's kind of difficult to hide the fact that all Chick-Fil-As are closed on Sunday (the Lord's Day or the Chicken's Day). Sneaking a tiny biblical reference into an inconspicuous spot on a component of your business is just that — sneaky. I wonder if our anonymous gift recipient Diane realizes that she is patronizing a store that has such deep religious beliefs that it feels compelled to preach its message — however secluded — to its customers. Diane, as we learned, was tossed out of her house by her folks because of her struggle with her own sexuality. Instead of love, compassion and understanding from her parents, they chose to forsake their child in favor of... well, nothing should be more important than your child in a time of need. Perhaps Diane would cease shopping at Forever 21 if she knew they shared the same feelings as the parents who turned their backs on her. Perhaps, Forever 21 is aware of the uncomfortable feeling that forced religion may give potential customers, so while they still preach their gospel... they just hide it.

West Coast fast-food darlings In-N-Out Burger have taken the Forever 21 route, as well. Thousands of unsuspecting customers are drinking sodas and munching hamburgers from cardboard cups and containers imprinted with tiny bible verse references not readily noticeable to the naked eye. But if you look carefully, they're there. On the inside rim on the bottom of cups. On the bottom corner of french fry bags. On the bottom of burger wrappers. I guess the next step is opening drive-thru confessionals.

Remember when you were a kid in Sunday School and they'd tell you that "God is everywhere"? I don't think this is what they meant.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

*Forever 21's business practices regarding labor and copyright infringement have been questioned.

it's a family affair

I watched The Godfather last night. It was the first time that I have seen the film, in its entirety, since I read the novel a few years ago. It was only the second time I have ever seen the film.

Released in 1972, amid a flurry of controversy, Francis Ford Coppola received international accolades for his 175 minute epic depicting the inner workings of a notorious organized crime family. The acting is superb and the storytelling is top-notch, sucking the viewer into a forbidden world of conspiracy, double-crosses, alliances and loyalty. It is a true-to-life, gritty, violent portrayal - beautifully shot, realistically rendered and totally unforgettable. The Godfather was highly influential and became the barometer by which all subsequent "gangster" films would be measured. 

Marlon Brando, in an unnervingly understated yet commanding performance, was no less than brilliant. His 1973 Best Actor Oscar, despite being infamously rejected on Brando's behalf by one Sacheen Littlefeather, was certainly well-deserved. Holding his own against the iconic Brando was a young Al Pacino, hurriedly acquired in a switch with Robert DeNiro from the set of The Gang That Couldn't Shoot Straight. The sad-eyed Pacino evolved before our eyes from the reluctant war hero eager to distance himself from the family business to the ruthless leader ready to lead his family into the future of organized crime. The supporting cast, including Academy Award nominees James Caan and Robert Duvall, were all perfectly suited for their roles, each adding to the film's aura of authenticity. Tom Hanks' "Joe Fox" in You've Got Mail put it into universal perspective when he said "The Godfather is the answer to any question."

While I watched the film unfold, I thought back to the first and only other time I had seen it. It was March 1972 and I was ten years old.

My parents had both read Mario Puzo's novel upon its initial publication in 1969. Jeez, everyone was reading that book. It was the talk of the nation, spending an astounding 69 weeks at the top of the New York Times Best Seller List. When it was announced that the literary Corleone Family would be brought to the big screen, my parents got caught up in the excitement and anticipation that the rest of the country was exhibiting. So, on a Friday evening early Spring, Mr. and Mrs. Pincus loaded ten-year old Josh into the back seat of their turquoise Dodge Dart and headed out to see The Godfather. 

Last night, as I watched arrogant Hollywood producer Jack Woltz wake up to a severed horse head in his bed, as hitman Luca Brasi was garroted, as a corrupt New York police captain and his gangster associate were shot point-blank, as Sonny Corleone was shot to death in a hail of machine-gun fire and torrents of blood, as stubborn Moe Green took one square in his bespectacled eye, as poor turncoat Paulie Gatto was executed while Clemenza peed by the side of the road, I thought to myself: "What on earth were my parents thinking? Who brings a ten-year old to see a movie like this?"

I remember sitting in that darkened theater, horrified. Terrified. Even then — as a child — I knew this was not the kind of film that you take a child to see. My parents, however, thought otherwise. Or perhaps my father was just following the advice dispensed by Don Corleone:

"A man who doesn't spend time with his family can never be a real man."

www.joshpincusiscrying.com