strangers stopping strangers, just to shake their hand

I am very disappointed. Not surprised, but disappointed.

June has been designated as Pride Month — unofficially — since 1970, when four US cities held pride marches to commemorate the one-year anniversary of the riots (and subsequent victory for gay rights by the gay community) at the Stonewall Inn in New York City. In 1999 — more than a quarter of a century ago — President Bill Clinton issued a proclamation naming June "Gay and Lesbian Pride Month." In 2011, President Obama expanded the recognition to include the entire LGBTQ+ community. Since then, Pride Month has been recognized and celebrated by individuals — both gay and straight. Corporate America jumped on the potentially lucrative bandwagon, incorporating the ubiquitous rainbow flag into their logos and product labels, in hopes it would A. display their support for the gay community and B. put them in line for a quick boom in business. Whatever ulterior motives big companies had, their hearts (if corporations have hearts?) seemed to be in the right place.

Lately, there seems to be a wave of unprovoked and unfounded hate washing over our country. I'm not saying that hate disappeared and then suddenly reappeared. The hate has always been there. It just appears that people have become more brazen, more vocal and more venomous in the age of the internet and social media. Behind the anonymity of a Facebook account or an X handle, folks spew the most vile, narrow-minded, fear-induced rhetoric without concern for possible repercussions. I've seen social media posts (and comments on posts) that reveal the most backward-thinking, prejudiced sentiment that I mistakenly thought was on its way out as my parents' generation dies off. I am really shocked (and disappointed) that people of my age — or younger — still maintain the bigoted ideals of a shameful time in our country's history. I really hoped we were headed in a better direction.

There was one group I thought was exempt from this parochial mindset. Deadheads. Turns out.... I was wrong.

The Grateful Dead has not existed for thirty years. (Don't count The Other Ones, Dead & Company, Furthur, the Rhythm Devils, Phil Lesh and Friends, RatDog, Billy & the Kids or any other offshoot assembly of former and fringe members of the original band.) The fans of the Grateful Dead — Deadheads — have always presented themselves as free-spirits. They promoted love, kindness, peace, cosmic consciousness and all that other hippie philosophy — long after the first generation of hippies started wearing suits and ties and working in the corporate world. Hoards of fans — too young to have experienced the psychedelic "love-in" vibes of the band first hand — have proliferated the message of brotherhood (and sisterhood) for decades after the demise of Jerry Garcia and his colleagues, through bands like Phish, Umphrey's McGee and other "Grateful Dead"-ish bands. Still, thirty years later, they sport joyful tie-dye clothing and flash the peace signs in photos splashed across Instagram, Facebook, TikTok, Snapchat (is that still a thing?) and other internet platforms with which I'm unfamiliar.

And just like Pride Month, several companies have jumped on the Grateful Dead's monetary bandwagon to capitalize on the band's popularity, legacy and image. Grateful Dead merchandise is still a hot commodity. Whoever controls the band's interest has licensed the familiar iconography for inclusion on t-shirts, stickers and hundreds of other items. (As KISS's Gene Simmons once said "Anything that can have KISS on it, should have KISS on it." Obviously, the marketing department of Grateful Dead Enterprises have sat up and taken notice.) I'm not knocking this practice. Oh no! Anywhere there's a buck to be made — have at it, I say. I'm just stating a fact.

One of the many licensees of Grateful Dead merchandise is a small company called Grateful Fred. Grateful Fred started in 2020 as a way for its founder to display his love of the Grateful Dead on his electric car. Soon, his company was producing well-crafted metal badges in a variety of Grateful Dead symbols that could be permanently adhered to your vehicle just above the manufacturer's factory-applied badge, where it would seamlessly and subtly integrate.

Like this....

Pretty clever, huh?

In its short existence, Grateful Fred has extended their line to include stickers, barware, badges for water bottles and cellphone cases and keyrings. They have evidently garnered a pretty large customer base, likely comprised of holdover Deadheads now in possession of expendable income, thanks to pensions as they reach the age of retirement and their dependents have moved out on their own. The badges are not cheap — running between ten and thirty dollars apiece. Just this year — this month, as a matter of fact — Grateful Fred introduced ten products in their "Pride Collection," including the iconic "Steal Your Face" logo with a bold rainbow background. Measuring almost two-and-a-half inches in diameter at a cost of thirty bucks, this little metal badge can easily be mounted on your Volkswagen microbus to let the world know you are a proud dual member of the Grateful Dead and LGBTQ+ communities — or an ally thereof. Pretty sweet, if I say so myself. And something that would surely be welcomed among the loving, inclusive Grateful Dead fold.

You would think

The post announcing the Pride Collection on Grateful Fred's Facebook presence was flooded — flooded! — with a plethora of comments expressing anger, disdain, and — most surprisingly — homophobia. Comment after comment showed unabashed hatred for Pride Month, gays and, now, Grateful Fred. Many declared they would never purchase another item from the company. Others dismissed the LGBTQ+ community as "bullshit," "sad," "mentally ill," and a variety of equally misguided, uninformed and repugnant labels. A few said "Go woke and go broke!" as they, once again, totally miss the point of what "woke" actually means. Others wondered when "Straight White Male Month" will be celebrated, turning a blind eye to the fact that straight, white males are celebrated everyfuckingwhere you look! Still others questioned why someone's sexuality should be celebrated, as they continually post photos of themselves hugging their wives and kissing their girlfriends. What are straight people so afraid of? They've been in charge for like.... ever!

I have seen similar posts on other company websites and Facebook pages regarding their support for Pride Month or the gay community in general. But.... from Deadheads? Really? A group that allegedly prides (no pun intended) itself on love and loving and spreading love. I suppose hate is just everywhere and nothing is immune from its infestation.

I am disappointed. Not surprised, just disappointed.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

all apologies

June is designated as "Pride Month." This is a story I've wanted to tell for a while.

High school is a brutal period in most people's lives and memories. I went to high school in the late 1970s. I hated high school and I attended as little as possible. For me, this was a fairly easy task, since there were 1100 students in my class alone, making an overall student body quadruple that number. So, blending in as a faceless entity was not difficult. I cut a lot of classes to avoid interaction with fellow students or I hung out in an art class when I should have been learning calculus or doing chin-ups. (A cool student teacher, just a few years older than I was, offered me sanctuary in her classroom and covered my actions with convincing excuses to the other teachers.) 

With over 4000 teenagers packing the halls and classrooms, nearly everyone was subject to judgement and ridicule and bullying at one time or another. Unfortunately, it was a time when this common behavior was not addressed with any sort of disciplinary action. It was usually dismissed by those in authority as "kids will be kids" — if it was addressed at all. I had a few "run-ins" with some guys who, I suppose,  got some sort of thrill threatening a skinny, pacifistic artist they knew wouldn't fight back. I was shoved a few times and, of course, several antisemitic slurs were levied at me, because that always makes for good "bully" ammunition. I did my best to avoid my infrequent tormentors and, eventually, they moved on to someone else (or maybe they were finally expelled).

If I was being picked on for being a free-spirit and just a little "out of step" with the "norm," I could just imagine the wrath that any of my gay classmates suffered — not that I really knew anyone who was gay. I'm sure there were gay students in my class. There had to be. It's just statistics. I just didn't know which ones were gay. I suppose they had to remain closeted because.... well, it was high school in the 70s. Calling someone "gay" when I was in high school was an insult of a pretty high level. In hindsight, that was horrible, just horrible. So, that added unnecessarily to the oppression that any gay student already endured. When I said 'I could just imagine the wrath any gay classmate suffered,' I really can't. How could I? But it must have been.... well, horrible. I can only understand that now.

In the 1990s, I was working at as a layout artist at a composition house, something that really doesn't exist any more. I did layout for a bunch of newspapers (something else that barely exists any more) that served small local communities, colleges and a few special interest groups. One of those newspapers was Au Courant, an independent weekly publication with a fairly large circulation in the Philadelphia gay community. The small contingency that formed the staff at Au Courant had broken away from the mighty Philadelphia Gay News over editorial disagreements and started their own tabloid, which was scrappier and hipper than PGN. Every Monday morning, I would lay out the composition boards for the anticipated 32-page issue of Au Courant and soon, I would join my fellow artists in assembling the weekly issue in a "cut-and-paste" method. (Now you know where the "cut" and "paste" commands in various computer programs originate. TMYK.) The entire editorial and advertising staff of Au Courant would file in to the office (Don't be impressed. That only amounted to four or five guys. It was a small paper.) and offer direction for placement of articles and ads.

I have to admit, I was a little leery of these guys, at first. They casually discussed detailed aspects of a lifestyle of which I was totally unfamiliar. It was the first time I had every met anyone who openly and happily acknowledged that they were gay. Initially, it made me uncomfortable, but I also must admit that I was surprised by how normal they were. (In hindsight, that sounds really stupid and narrow-minded.) As the time at this job went on, the more interaction I had with the staff of Au Coutrant, the more I looked forward to Mondays. For the most part, they were a bunch of really nice guys — close to my own age — and I had a lot in common with them. While we worked, we enjoyed lively conversation about movies, music and current events. There was one guy, however, who was a total jerk. That was Michael and Michael was the editor-in chief of the paper. He didn't come to the office often, choosing to leave the composition to his assistant editor who was a smart and funny guy. But when he did come in, he was angry and demanding, barking orders at his staff and belittling those who didn't heed his call on the first bellow. 

It was then that it hit me. Why on earth would anyone dislike someone just because they were gay? It made no sense.... just like any prejudice makes no sense. Gay people are just people. Some are nice and some are jerks. As a self-proclaimed misanthrope, I know there are zillions of reasons to dislike someone long before "gay" makes the list. Michael was an absolute asshole. Conversely, Harry, the head of advertising sales, was a nice guy. A really nice guy. The fact that they were gay had absolutely no bearing or relevance to the types of personality traits they exhibited. They were just like everyone else. (There I go again. You know what I mean.)

After a year or so, Michael's visits became less and less frequent. When he did show up, he looked gaunt and weak and he remained seated most of the time. His voice was hoarse and it appeared to be an effort to speak. His boyfriend Joe, a nice, relatively quiet guy, led Michael around when he was asked. The most ubiquitous tool used in the newspaper composition business was an X-Acto knife. I used one at every one of my early, pre-computer jobs. I became deftly accurate at slicing up "galleys," another job skill that is now obsolete. On one of his last appearances in our office, Michael announced that he was not permitted to handle or be in proximity of an X-Acto knife. Shortly after, the Au Courant staff shared whispered conversations about AIDS. Shortly after that, we were informed that Michael had passed away. I surprised myself by how I felt. I was crushed. Michael was the first person around my own age that I knew that died. Dying was for old people, not for 35-year-olds. I didn't like Michael. Not because he was gay, but because he wasn't a nice person. I did, however, make a donation to MANNA (Metropolitan Area Neighborhood Nutrition Alliance, a volunteer organization that brings meals to those in the Philadelphia area that are battling AIDS) in Michael's honor. I have made yearly donations (when I can) ever since.

I eventually left the composition house and moved on to my first job where I didn't use an X-Acto knife. A few nights a week, I also helped my wife with her blossoming eBay business. One evening, I was wrapping some glassware with old newspapers that we had accumulated. I grabbed the top sheet of the pile as I carefully lifted a fragile Depression glass sugar bowl with my other hand. I'm lucky I didn't drop the piece, as I was startled by a headline I saw in the several-weeks-old newspaper. It was in the "Obituary" section of a recent Philadelphia Inquirer. There was a black and white photograph of Harry, the advertising sales guy from Au Courant, accompanying a three-paragraph synopsis of his brief life. I scanned the story. It highlighted his education and his career, noting, most recently, he was employed in the sales department of the Inquirer itself. What was missing from the story was a life-defining incident that Harry had told me one day.

Harry spent a good portion of his life trying to live up to his father's expectations. His father, he explained, was a Camden, New Jersey police officer — a tough motorcycle cop, as a matter of fact. Harry did his very best to suppress his homosexual feelings, so — as he put it — as not to embarrass his father in front of his cop friends. Harry went to his senior prom with a girl from his class. After high school, he married a woman in an attempt to make his father proud. A little over a year into his marriage, Harry's wife returned home unexpectedly early from a day of running errands. She discovered Harry in their bed with a man. Harry told me the feeling of "getting caught" after so many years of acting the way he was "supposed" to act was liberating. Harry and his wife divorced. Harry became estranged from his father (however, they reconciled just prior to his father's death). But, Harry was finally living the life he wanted to live. His life. His way. It's just sad that he was only able to enjoy that life for only a dozen or so years. That story should have been the inspirational lede to Harry's obit.

My interaction with the guys from Au Courant taught me a valuable lesson and it changed my outlook for the rest of my life. Sure, there are plenty of people that I dislike. I don't deny that and I don't think I will ever stop disliking someone. But, I have reasons for my animosity. It is based on things they have said and actions they have taken against me personally. I never, ever have contempt for someone for what they believe in or how they look or who they love (unless they love The Dave Matthews Band. I have no tolerance for that!).

I'm not gay. Nor am I black... or Asian.... or Muslim..... or tall.... or good at math.... or any number of other qualities that make me different from everyone else. So what? Is that a reason to dislike someone? No. No, it is not. That would be stupid.

Don't be stupid. Just be who you are. Let others be who they are.

Unless you're stupid.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

I buried paul

Thanksgiving at my house always included one timeless ritual. After my mom fussed over the turkey, we all took a seat around that long, utility table that was set up in the living room to accommodate the extra dinner guests. One by one, my mother would bring out each component of the meal — the fried onion-topped string bean casserole, the Mrs. Paul's frozen sweet potatoes piping hot from the oven, the big bowl of canned corn, the hot Pillsbury crescent rolls. My dad would rev up the electric carving knife and slice off thin, but crooked slices from the golden-brown turkey breast. The various serving plates would make their way around the table and each guest would load his or her placesetting with a generous portion of Thanksgiving fare. The meal would begin and, invariably, my dad would soon lift the dish containing a glistening cylinder of dark purple jellied cranberry sauce and, after cutting a chunky piece for himself, point the thing in my direction and, just like every year, say those same words to me: "Do you want cranberry sauce?"

Of course, I didn't. I never wanted cranberry sauce. Ever. I'm not quite sure what it was about the cranberry sauce that made it so unappealing. It could have been the fact that it maintained the shape of the can, even after the can had been discarded. It could have been the color — that dark reddish-purple that gave the side dish a somewhat visceral appearance... sort of like an internal organ. I can't vouch for the texture, though, because that stuff wasn't making it anywhere near my mouth. I would always answer my father's inquiry with: "Have you ever seen me eat cranberry sauce? This ain't gonna be the year I start." As the years went on, I believe my father got to the point where he knew I didn't want any cranberry sauce. He was just taunting me.

Look, I know I was a picky eater when I was a kid. But, I got to be more culinarily adventurous as I became an adult. My wife regularly remarks "Your mother would be proud of you." when I swallowed a forkful of string beans or popped a sushi roll into my mouth. Even the baked beans I avoided as a child have become a required accompaniment to hot dogs (well... the veggie hot dogs I now eat).

Last year's Thanksgiving dinner was the best one in recent memory. It was my son, my wife and me gathered around our beautifully-set dining room table. Just the three of us, something we never had the opportunity to experience in our many years as a family. It was lovely. Mrs. P forwent traditional turkey and made a Tofurky for her two vegetarians. She also made from-scratch cranberry sauce that looked more like this...

... than that slimy-looking stuff that slides out of a can. It looked delicious and it tasted delicious. (I was reminded of a favorite episode of All in the Family from 1975. The Bunkers are having Thanksgiving dinner at Mike and Gloria's house next door. Archie asks his daughter for cranberry sauce. Gloria proudly displaying a bowl filled with something that looks like the photo above, says, "Sure, Daddy. I made it myself." Archie frowns and says, "Don'cha have the real kind that slides out of a can?" Disappointed, Gloria exclaims, "Try it!" Archie, still eyeing the bowl with contempt, replies, "I'll have some later on my ice cream.")

So, a few nights ago, Mrs. Pincus made vegetarian hot "turkey" sandwiches. I have fond memories of them from my youth. My mom would often make the real (re: meaty) thing for our family. My dad, a butcher by trade, would never stand for "pretend meat." But, Mrs. P,, while still a carnivore, will partake of "fake" stuff every once in a while. So, we each covered our plates with two pieces of bread and several slices each of LightLife® Smart Deli™ Veggie Turkey Slices. Mrs. P mixed up and heated a pot of Serv-a-Gravy®, the most meatless of gravies available. (It is, essentially, brown water. But, it is delicious brown water!) While, my wife was busy at the stove, I opened up the cabinet in our kitchen where we keep canned goods and perused the options. I found a can of creamed corn, usually reserved for Mrs. P's corn fritters. Hiding behind the corn, between a surplus can of cannellini beans left from the last time my wife made vegetarian chili and a stack of canned salmon, I found a can of Ocean Spray jellied cranberry sauce. I stared at the can for a few moments. Then, I extracted the can from its resting place. "How about we have some of this, too?," I said, waving the can over my shoulder in the direction of my wife standing by the stove. She turned to me and laughed. "Really?," she said, smiling, "Oh, your mother would be so proud of you."

I thought of all the things I have accomplished in my life. I'd like to think that eating cranberry sauce would not be lumped together in the "pride department" with graduating high school, getting married, buying a house and starting a family. But, you know... I'll take it.

And, guess what? That thick plug of jellied cranberry sauce was pretty darn good. I actually look forward to having more on Thanksgiving.

To make up for a lot of missed opportunities.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

(I realize that I wrote about cranberry sauce around this time last year. You can read it here. Although, the story above contains similar elements to the tale of a year ago, I did not consult my previous blog post before I wrote this one. I suppose cranberry sauce has just weighed heavily on me all these years.)

i've loved these days

My boss sent an email out to the entire department yesterday morning. She titled it "Josh Pincus is Dedicated" and it went like this:

He will probably be mortified, but I had to share that our very own Josh Pincus had perfect attendance once again this year. Here's to Josh for coming in every day, despite knowing what awaits him. 

Wow!, I thought, I'm either really dedicated or a glutton for punishment. Then, I thought back to the very beginning, to my first real job in the graphic design field. I worked in a small graphics studio not far from my house. I did what was called "paste-up." You old-timers know this process well. It involved X-Acto knives, T-squares and sticky, adhesive wax for the physical cutting and pasting of galley type. These tiny bits of paper were carefully affixed to stiff board for the purpose of making printing plates. If this evokes quaint visions of Johannes Gutenberg pulling a lever to tighten his auger-driven printing press, you're not far off. Compared to the computerized turn the printing industry has taken, the jobs I held a mere thirty years ago seem like something right out of The Flintstones.

My next jobs pretty much mimicked that first one. It wasn't until 1995 that I got my first job where I didn't keep a box of Band-Aids on my desk. It was here, at a national legal publisher, I began working exclusively on a computer and never looked back. After that, all subsequent employment required computer skills, on all of which I am, for the most part, self-taught.

But perfect attendance in the workplace is a pretty common thing for me. I have maintained that practice in every job I have ever had. Regular attendance is pretty important to me. I think it is pretty important to your employer, too,  and since he's the one signing your paycheck at the end of the week, abiding by his priorities goes without saying.

I have only missed here and there over the past thirty years, with the exception of scheduled vacation days and that time I served on a federal grand jury. In August 1987, I ran out of work one afternoon because my pregnant wife was having labor induced after missing her projected due date by nearly two weeks. More recently, I used all of four acquired "sick days," for a hospital stay when I was treated for a nasty bout of cellulitis, a bacterial infection that still makes me cringe when I think about it.  It was the first time I had been a hospital patient since 1966. Later the same year, I dealt with an excruciatingly painful kidney stone, but thanks to carefully-regulated doses of Percocet, I was often uncomfortable, but I still didn't miss a single day of work.

I didn't even miss a full day of work when my grandmother died. When encouraged by my boss (my boss at the time) to take a full day, I explained that the only reason I was going to the funeral was to make sure they put that evil witch into the ground where she belonged. I was happy to be back at my desk before lunchtime.

I don't know where the motivation came from. It's not like I didn't cut my fair share of classes in high school. It may have something to do with the amount of extra work that awaits me when I return from that rare work absence. So, after so many years and so many jobs, I was finally recognized and rewarded for something that just came as second nature to me.

Maybe I deserve a day off.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com