god shuffled his feet

In my predominantly Jewish elementary school, classes were empty when Rosh Hashanah fell on a weekday. Every year, in the opening days of the new school year, the early momentum of lessons and activities would come to a grinding halt. The classrooms were populated by a few students — usually less than a dozen — as most were absent, allegedly observing the Jewish New Year. Some actually attended religious services. Most, like me, were just at home — watching game shows and cartoons and rejoicing in the fact that they were getting out of a day at school. 

My family did not belong to a synagogue. We were not what you would call "practicing" Jews. There was very little religion in my home. Sure, we had a box of matzo at Passover and I saw my mom eat gefilte fish every so often, but my dad worked on all Jewish holidays and we ate bacon with our eggs on Sunday mornings. I attended Rosh Hashanah services a couple of times with friends. I found them to be cold and unwelcoming, especially to those of us who did not speak Hebrew. So, in turn, I also found them tedious and boring. They were rambling, repetitive, hours-long affairs whose indeterminate message (if any) was lost on my wandering attention and faint beliefs.

When I met my wife, I was exposed to a whole new outlook on the stuffy world of Judaism. My wife and her family injected Judaism into nearly every aspect of their lives. Holiday meals were fun, warm family functions, rich with tradition and camaraderie. I dutifully requested days off from work to attend services with my wife and her family, marveling as my father-in-law chanted from the Torah before a joyous, packed and responsive congregation. This solemn feeling of honor continued when my son was born. Mrs Pincus and I proudly brought our boy to watch and participate in the continuation of a family tradition. And that tradition carried through with consistency in our home, with candle lighting every Friday evening and active celebrations in a calendar filled with Jewish holidays. Of course, every year, I would secure vacation days on my work schedule for observance of Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur.

As I grew older and my ever-present cynicism fermented, I began to analyze and reassess the whole "religion thing." I saw how religion was used by people as a threat, as a status and as a means of passing personal judgment. It became less and less about love and charity and worshiping a god of one's choice and more about one-upmanship and finger-pointing. I witnessed clergy treating their esteemed position as a "job," punching a virtual time clock like a worker in McDonald's, instead of one of an example-setting community leader. I came to see that religion was being used as a Teflon® shield to hide behind in the unjust, self-righteous violation of free speech and civil rights. In addition, people — plain, ordinary people — were twisting the doctrines of religion and taking it upon themselves to interpret the so-called "word of God" as justification for their own petty agendas. Suddenly, worship and respect for a higher being was no longer the main focus. Hell, it wasn't even in the top ten.

The once festive holiday dinners at my in-law's saw the guest list shrink and the geniality dwindle. Whether they chose to acknowledge it or not, the elaborate meal preparation took a toll on my in-law's advancing age. That, coupled with tense emotions, waning affection and personality clashes among family members made for less-than-enjoyable gatherings. Dinnertime discussions became heated and sometimes bitter, not at all reflective of an assembly for a happy occasion.

I stopped going to synagogue several years ago. I was appalled by recent disrespectful treatment of my father-in-law — a learned student of Jewish protocol — by the reigning, mortal "powers-that-be" that dictated the "clique-y" synagogue policy. My son, a product of 12 years of intense study at Jewish day school, had grown up and reassessed his life priorities — and religion was one of the first casualties. I had become disillusioned with the whole bastardized, contradictory mish-mash into which organized religion had evolved. Or maybe it was like that all along and I just opened my eyes to it.

This year, something strange happened. By "strange," I might actually mean "liberating." I discovered that I had used all of the vacation days allotted to me by my employer for this calendar year. I was unable to take off from work for Rosh Hashanah. So, I went to work. Guess what happened? I worked. And life went on. Same as the day before. As a matter of fact, exactly as it had the day before. The earth did not swallow me whole. I was not struck by a bolt of lightning thrown by a vengeful God from his lofty abode in the heavens. I just went to work. Elsewhere, some people went to services, where they stood with their prayer books opened to the wrong page, chanting the wrong tune to a passage written in a language they don't understand, all the while judging the woman in the fifth row for wearing a skirt and blouse that do not match. 

Happy New Year everybody. You'll probably still be writing "5775" on your checks for the next two months.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

gigolo aunt

Aunt Clara and JPiC at the Philadelphia Zoo, August 1964.

When I was little, my Aunt Clara was a fixture in my life. She was very, very close with my mother, who was her little sister. So, she was regularly at our house for dinner, for holidays and, sometimes, for no reason at all. She would often accompany my family on short trips to Atlantic City. She came to birthday parties. She went along with us on visits to the zoo. She was around so much that I would refer to her as my "second Mommy." And, since she had no children of her own —boy! — did she love and relish that.

She did some strange, inexplicable and surprising things, too. One year, at Halloween, when I was too old to go trick-or-treating, I decided to don a costume and scary make-up to frighten to kids who came to our door. Aunt Clara was staying at our house that night. When I spotted a group of costumed kids approaching our front door, I'd hit the lights, cue the eerie music and open the door, letting them behold my horrible visage. Aunt Clara popped in and asked the kids, "Are you scared?" — totally breaking the illusion and ruining the moment. A few years later, at a party for me in lieu of a formal Bar Mitzvah, Aunt Clara made off with a copy of Stevie Wonder's Fulfillingness' First Finale that was supposed to be a contest prize for one of my guests. I'm still not sure how she managed to sneak around a bunch of thirteen-year-olds and cop that album.

As I got older, I started to see things in my Aunt Clara that, perhaps, were always apparent, but I may have been too young to understand. For one thing, she treated my father like shit. Sure, my dad had his share of faults, but Aunt Clara took a "disgruntled mother" role towards her sister's husband. She criticized and belittled my father, perhaps in misplaced retaliation for her own failed marriage. After Aunt Clara divorced my Uncle Sal, she was romantically linked to a mystery man, referred to only as "Dee." For twenty-plus years, no one ever met him, although Aunt Clara talked about him often.

I believe that Aunt Clara had a difficult time accepting the fact that I grew up. She continued to treat and talk to me like I was a child well into my high school and early adult years. When I got married, I began to see behavior from Aunt Clara that I'm sure existed previously, but I guess I just ignored. She was invited, as a part of my family, to my new in-laws' house for dinner. My mother-in-law was serving buffet-style and Aunt Clara pulled a chair right up to the buffet table, tucked a napkin in her blouse and began eating. It was embarrassing, to say the least.

When my mother died, Aunt Clara gave an Oscar-worthy performance as the grief-stricken mourner. She dramatically sobbed and wept at the funeral, loudly proclaiming, "I'm all alone! My sister is gone!" This, in front of my father, my brother and me and after she had been living in Florida and not seeing her beloved sister for several years. When my father died, two years later, she asked my brother, via a late-night phone call, "Should I come up to Philadelphia for the funeral?" I stood next to my brother, as he answered that the decision was totally hers, that she should do what she felt was right for her. The next day, she called to tell me that she would not be coming in for my dad's funeral, explaining, "I wanted to come, but your brother insisted that I shouldn't make the trip." As she lied to me, I felt betrayed. I wondered what else in my life she had lied to me about.

I did, however, invite Aunt Clara to my son's Bar Mitzvah because (as I was told by my wife) it was the right thing to do. Although Aunt Clara did not attend, she once again surprised us by sending a gift.

Over the years, my brother remained in touch with Aunt Clara. I, however, did not. He and his family made annual visits to her retirement complex in Florida. I did not. Upon his return, my brother would give me a brief rundown of the trip and Aunt Clara's current status and day-to-day activities. I feigned interest.

At the end of December 2014, my brother returned from his most recent journey to Florida. It was to be his final one. Aunt Clara had passed away after months of declining health. My brother filled me in on details and I politely listened. Then, he told me the two of us were named as beneficiaries of an insurance policy Aunt Clara had purchased from her employer decades earlier. I was shocked that my name had not been purposely stricken from every piece of Aunt Clara's inheritance. After providing specific information and a month or so of processing, I received a check for a thousand bucks.

I have to hand it to Aunt Clara. She was full of surprises right to the end.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

I wanna go to cool places with you

We ran into my wife’s cousin, Diahann, and her husband, Heath, again. We seem to run into them frequently. And it always seems to be at a supermarket.

Last year, we bumped into Diahann and Heath at our local Acme Market. (Acme, a supermarket with its roots in Philadelphia, is a now a wholly-owned subsidiary of the mighty Albertson’s, the second largest supermarket chain in North America.) Mrs. P and I were guiding our cart through the produce section, when my spouse spotted Diahann. We all chatted briefly — I remember pointing out the misleading signs that were placed by the sweet potatoes — and then we parted ways. 

A week or so ago, Mrs. P and I had just finished a quick run through the aisles of a Giant supermarket*. While I scanned our purchases at the self-checkout, my wife picked out Diahann and Heath strolling past the deli counter.

“Is this the only place you ever go?,” I asked, with an obvious sarcastic tone in my voice. We all laughed.

Just yesterday, as we entered the Acme market, we were met by the now-familiar sight of Diahann and Heath. They had just paid and were leaving the store. Again, we laughed at the absurdity of these on-going encounters. That is, until they mentioned that their next stop was another supermarket within five miles from where we stood. The conversation turned into a store-by-store comparison of nearly every supermarket the four of us had visited within the last several years. We highlighted prices, selection and even cleanliness. We were reminiscing like a bunch of teenagers before a concert trying to outdo each other's experiences.

Then, Diahann and Heath realized that they should be on their way. Instigator that I am, I refused to let them go without bringing everyone's attention to the unusual circumstances of our last few meetings. I offered with a smile, “Y’know, going to the movies is pretty good entertainment, too.” Heath told me they just signed up for a Netflix account.

I'm fairly certain that they rent movies at the supermarket.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

*no, not a giant supermarket, as in enormous. It’s the name of a conglomerate owned by Dutch retailer Ahold, based on the East coast.

just like that soul singer in the session band

After toiling for years in school and working with dedication in unpaid internships, my son E. landed his dream job. He is an on-air host and producer at a local Philadelphia radio station. And he has become something of a "minor local celebrity" (his words, not mine). Accompanying him to a concert has become an experience that is much different from the shows we attended together when he was in high school. We can't take three steps inside any local concert venue without someone saying "Hello" to him or offering a friendly back-slap and a smile. He knows the band members, the technical crew, the club owners, PR guys, even the people selling T-shirts. It's ridiculous. And it's very cool.

Recently, my immediate family went to a gathering at my in-laws' house. Invited guests included a mixture of friends, family, friends of family and a few stray acquaintances. After filling a plate from the buffet table, my son and I found a quiet area of the living room to talk. My wife (who was mingling among the other guests, something I choose not to do) and I had picked up my son en route between an afternoon Phillies game and her parents' house. My son and I were discussing the sorry state of the 2013 Phillies when a couple we did not know approached us. They stood side-by-side and smiled, obviously waiting for one of us to pause long enough so they could interrupt our conversation. My son glanced in their direction.

The woman began. "Are you E.?"

E.: "Yes."

Woman: "I'm Abby. I'm a friend of your aunt's*. You work at W*** (the local radio station, which, in order to protect my son's privacy, shall remain nameless), right?"

E.: "I do."

Woman: "We're big fans and we listen to you a lot."

E.: "Thanks." He smiled.

And then — claws out and fangs bared — she dove in for the kill.

Woman (turning slightly and gesturing to the gray-haired man to her left): "My husband is a singer-songwriter and he was wondering......"

SCREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEECH!!!!

My son didn't know where to hide. He hears this introduction often. So often, in fact, that he could have said it himself, word for word. "Blah blah blah - singer - blah blah blah - I have a CD - blah blah blah - play my songs on the radio." As this guy took a close seat and elaborated on his own musical talents and songwriting prowess, I silently watched my son's eyelids lower and all expression disappear from his face. He innocently came to his grandparents' house to say "Hello" and maybe have a snack. He didn't come to be pitched to.

I will say that my boy handled the situation like a seasoned professional. He politely, but firmly, explained that radio is a structured medium and that programming is a complicated, multi-level process. He cheerfully offered suggestions for performing and making a name in the local music scene. The man insisted that my son take his CD, a copy of which he conveniently brought with him, and give it a listen. Reluctantly, my son took it, chuckled, and told him he would. Then, he informed the man that he gets hundreds of unsolicited CDs each week. He said he'd do his best to give it a listen, but added the caveat: "Please be patient." The man and woman thanked him and, with their mission accomplished, left.

My son was furious.

The next day — the very next goddamn day — the guy emailed E. and asked if he listened to the CD.

My son was furious. Again.

I can tell all of you aspiring musicians, singers and songwriters: This is not the way to go about furthering your career. I can't say for sure, but this guy probably ruined his chances of my son (or anyone else at the station) ever hearing a single note of any of his songs. Initially, my son was very diplomatic as he faced a very uncomfortable situation. But even diplomacy has its limits.

* * * UPDATE * * *

The guy sent a text message to my son this afternoon. Guess whose CD will never get listened to now?

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

*An interesting aspect to this story (that makes the situation even more infuriating) is E.'s aunt, to whom Abby refers, is not a fan of E.'s radio station and her husband has made many a disparaging (read: insulting) remark about the station, as well.