the show must go on

In February 1991, I purchased Innuendo, the fourteenth studio album by Queen and the final effort to be released in lead singer Freddie Mercury's lifetime. As of right now, I have listened to the album in its entirety twice. The first time I listened to it was the day I brought it home from the store (probably a now out-of-business Tower Records). The second time was this past Tuesday, in my car on the way home from work.

I was an instant Queen fan from the moment I heard "Killer Queen" blaring from my radio one late October evening in 1974. Amid the breezy pop of Olivia Newton-John and the bass-heavy funk of Billy Preston, the sound that Queen produced in a precise three minutes was positively alien. I had never heard anything like Queen, and I needed to hear more. I bought Sheer Heart Attack, the full album on which "Killer Queen" appeared, as well as Queen's previous two releases, aptly named Queen and Queen II.

As far as teenage Josh Pincus was concerned, there was no better band than Queen. I saw them live several times, totally captivated by Freddie Mercury's charismatic stage presence. From the very beginning of each concert until the final note of the encore, Freddie held the audience in the palm of his hand. The band's recorded musical output continued to break rules, defy genres and offer new and innovating songs. 

Until it didn't.

In the 80s, my love for Queen sort of waned. My interest in other bands led me away from the teenage comfort Queen brought me. Bands like The Clash and Adam and The Ants brought an edgier grittier sound that Queen didn't attempt. In the middle 80s, the Queen sound became formulaic. They were putting out faux disco, faux punk and faux new wave. They were trend followers instead of trend setters. Even though I continued to buy Queen albums, I did so out of obligation rather than interest. I gave each new release the obligatory listen, then returned the disc to its jacket, never to grace my turntable again. Where I once knew the track listing of every single early Queen album, I couldn't even name a song on The Miracle or A Kind of Magic. A recent episode of the HBO Max sitcom Hacks opened with a Queen song called "Breakthru," which — I swear! — I had never heard before.

In February 1991, I bought Innuendo. I listened to it and, honestly, I hated it. Aside from the epic title track which kicked off the album, it sounded like an unfinished work-in-progress. Songs meandered and just never went anywhere. Their once-innovative songs now sounded forced and just all over the place. When the CD finished, I put it back into its protective case and returned it to the end of the "Q"s in the alphabetical arrangement on my music shelves. And there it stayed for 34 years.

Although he began exhibiting symptoms as early as 1982, Freddie Mercury was officially diagnosed with AIDS in 1987. Rumors about his health ran rampant in the press for years, with Freddie and his bandmates vehemently denying every one. Throughout 1989 and 1990, Queen recorded Innuendo, with a weakened and frail Freddie Mercury determined to finish the album. Bandmate and friend Brian May regularly expressed concern for Freddie, only to be brushed off. Freddie forced himself to hit unhittable notes and play complicated piano pieces. After Innuendo's release, Queen was honored with an award for Outstanding Contribution to British Music. The band attended the awards ceremony with a gaunt and pale Freddie Mercury in tow. It was his last public appearance. On November 22, 1991, via his manager, Freddie Mercury publicly confirmed his AIDS diagnosis. He passed away on November 24.

I don't know why, but just this week I pulled out my copy of Innuendo and loaded it into my phone to listen via Bluetooth on my commute home. The album seemed new to me, as none of the songs sounded the least bit familiar. But I listened. Freddie's voice sounded surprisingly strong, belying any hint of poor health. Some songs were intricately arranged. Others were playful and filled with snide humor. Most harkened back to the bombastic quality that made Queen Queen. It was like a trip in a time machine. 

And it was sad.

Innuendo seemed to play out as the coda of a career. It was Freddie Mercury's swan song and he was determined to go out like he came in — with a loud, obnoxious, sardonic bang. He knew his fate. He knew this was his final act. And the final result shows it.

I will probably never listen to Innuendo again. I don't see a reason to.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

the candyman can

This story previously appeared on my illustration blog.

For many years, I collected autographed photos of celebrities. “Celebrities,” I will admit, is a relative term and can only be defined as “someone who more people have heard of than have heard of me.” I obtained a good portion of my collection by attending local collector shows and conventions where promoters would gather together a sampling of celebrities from all levels of fame. I have met Oscar winners and I have met folks whose claim to fame was their appearance in a single —but iconic — film. (I’m looking at you, Danny Lloyd!) 

 

In early 2006, my son and I went to a horror movie convention in nearby Cherry Hill, New Jersey. We had been to this show several times over the years and I had met celebrities, engaged in lively conversation and purchased an autographed photo at the conclusion of our brief encounters. I don’t consider myself particularly “star struck.” My conversations with “celebrities” have purposely been about things other than the role for which they are best known. Over the years, I have spoken with Curtis Armstrong (of Revenge of the Nerds fame) about our shared admiration for singer-songwriter Harry Nilsson. I talked to the lovely Adrienne Barbeau about her long-running role in the touring company of the musical Pippin. I had a great conversation about California baseball with the late Jerry Maren, best known as the Lollipop Guild Munchkin who hands an oversized all-day sucker to Judy Garland in the classic The Wizard of Oz. 

This particular 2006 show was one of the first — if not the first — to feature actor Tony Todd and he appeared to be eager to meet his fans. Famous among horror movie aficionados as the malevolent “Daniel Robitaille,” the title antagonist in The Candyman series of films, Tony appeared in a number of non-horror productions before his first foray into the genre in the early 90s. Since then, he has been in and out of the horror realm, including stints on Law & Order, Murder She Wrote and multiple appearances in the Star Trek universe. Of course, horror films were Tony’s “bread and butter,” playing “The Candyman” in the original film, its two sequels and reprising the character in a 2021 reboot. He was also featured in the Final Destination film franchise, appearing in four of the six films as the mysterious “William Bludworth,” a funeral director with an intimate relationship with Death incarnate. But, Tony was a working actor and, not wishing to be pigeonholed, he took roles in the teen drama Riverdale and on the popular soap opera The Young and The Restless. He also lent his distinctively rich baritone to video games.

Unfortunately, a lot of attendees at these horror conventions have a difficult time separating the actor from the character. Tony, an imposing figure at 6 feet 5 inches, stood behind a table laden with glossy photos chronicling his career. He had a wide and welcoming smile on his face. Just behind him, a young man (later identified as Tony’s son), disinterested in the surroundings, busied himself with a hand-held video game. My son and I joined the queue to meet Tony. We were just behind a fidgety young lady. A series of belts and straps and buckles secured her tight-fitting leather garb to her person. Her jet black hair was highlighted with blood-red streaks. When she turned her head slightly to survey the room, I saw that her face was covered in white pancake make-up, accented with coal-black eyeshadow and color-coordinated lipstick. Without passing judgement, she cut a pretty frightening vision — even for a horror convention.

The line moved forward as each fan finished their interaction with Tony. The young lady in front of us was next. She approached the table and produced a large book, soon revealed to be a photo album. She opened the book and loudly began to spew a soliloquy about “The Candyman” to Tony. She was animated and passionate in her delivery, pointing out gory still photos in her book as she explained — in detail — her tale of Tony’s movie character, as though “The Candyman” was a real entity and Tony was The Candyman. As she continued, the smile disappeared from Tony’s face, replaced by a pained grimace. A thin sweat broke out on Tony’s forehead and he dabbed his brow with a tissue. His eyes widened slightly, as he tried to make some sense out of this… this… woman and her apparent delusions. A few times, he quietly interjected, “Um, thank you. You know, I’m just an actor,” but she would hear nothing of it. She plowed right over his words with more specifics of her “Candyman” manifesto. Finally, she selected a photograph from Tony’s available offerings and requested an autograph. After a quick exchange of cash, she closed her book, bowed her head and slunk away.

My son and I were next and we approached Tony’s table. We both greeted him, but were interrupted. A visibly shaken Tony Todd raised the index finger on his massive right hand and said, “Hi guys. Can you give me just a minute?” We both said, “Sure!” as we motioned obligingly with our open hands. Tony stepped back. He grabbed a bottle of water and pressed its cooling surface against his forehead. He lowered himself into a folding chair, twisted off the cap off the water bottle and took a long and calming swallow. He hung his head for a minute or two. His son put down his game and slung a comforting arm around his father’s shoulders. Soon Tony returned to us, slightly refreshed but still exhibiting the lingering effects of his previous fan encounter. We insisted to him that he get his bearings and we would wait until he felt better. The smile returned to his face when he realized that we were not going to accost him like the girl in leather.

We made no comment about the young lady before us, but he did. He questioned, rhetorically, “What was that?” My son and I shrugged and laughed. Tony was now warm, personable and humble. He became talkative and we discussed his other, non-horror roles. He signed a photo from his appearance on an episode of Smallville for me. My son and I each shook his hand and he thanked us for coming and especially thanked us for our patience. He even posed for a photo with my son.

In subsequent years, Tony became a staple at horror conventions. He evidently became accustomed to his eclectic fan base and the possibility of facing an “intense” fan. Tony passed away in November 2024 at the age of 69. 

He was a nice guy.

Tony and my son, 2006

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

the times they are a-changing

Before I begin this story, there are a couple of terms that I reference. One is "rip rap." See that picture above? That's rip rap. According the Environmental Protection Agency and several commercial construction companies, rip rap is described as: "a range of rocky material placed along shorelines, bridge foundations, steep slopes, and other shoreline structures to protect from scour and erosion. Rocks used range from 4 inches to over 2 feet. The size of the rock needed on a project depends on the steepness of the slope and how fast water is moving." The other term is "heartless." Rip rap plays an integral part in this story. So does the term "heartless." But, I'm sure you already know what that means.

In 1837, prominent Philadelphia doctor John A. Elkinton made plans to build a rural-style cemetery on property that he owned — approximately 20 acres — at Broad and Berks Streets. He envisioned a bucolic space filled with winding paths, landscaped foliage and beautifully designed monuments to serve as a gathering place for families — as was the practice for cemeteries in the 19th century. This would be Philadelphia's second such style of cemetery after the celebrated Laurel Hill which occupies 74 acres along the Schuylkill River. After the Civil War, Dr. Elkinton contracted local artist John Sartain to design and supervise construction of a gothic gatehouse, as well as a 67-foot tall obelisk that would serve as a centerpiece of the cemetery. The base of the obelisk was adorned with two bronze plaques honoring George Washington and the Marquis de Lafayette and their achievements in the American Revolution. 

Patterned after France's Père Lachaise Cemetery, Monument Cemetery grew to be just what Dr. Elkinton had hoped for — a pastoral jewel in the thick of Philadelphia's bustling commerce. However, by 1929, Monument Cemetery was considered full. That is, it had run out of room to accept any more burials. When a cemetery can no longer accept burials, it no longer has a source of income. In the days before "perpetual care" was a "thing," loss of income was bad for cemeteries. The grounds became overgrown and unkempt. It slowly fell into a state of progressive disrepair. The once beloved rural gathering spot became a reviled blemish in the eyes of the surrounding neighborhood. It was a neighborhood that was now more interested in urban expansion and no longer felt the need for a glorified "park." The gatehouse was demolished to extend Berks Street. Temple University, founded just after the opening of Monument Cemetery, was slowly but surely growing, adding a medical and dental school as well as a school for teacher training and nursing.

Just after the end of World War II, Temple, a public university under the auspices of the state of Pennsylvania, was looking to establish itself as a commuter school. The addition of parking lots would figure prominently into that plan. A deal was made by Temple to purchase Monument Cemetery, its precious land being the perfect spot for a parking lot and proposed athletic fields. In 1954, Temple University purchased 11 1/2 acres of Monument Cemetery. The remaining land would be acquired by the School District of Philadelphia where it would become the future home of George Washington Carver Elementary School. As part of the agreement, Temple contacted 728 families of relatives interred at Monument Cemetery. Only 728 families could be identified and tracked down — 728 of the over 28,000 bodies buried there. Of the 728, only 300 families responded and those 300 had their relatives' remains and grave markers moved to new burial places, most going to Lakeview Cemetery in Rockledge, Pennsylvania, just outside the city limits in the Northern suburbs. The remaining bodies were moved to a mass grave at Lakeview.... allegedly. Over the years, records have been lost and it is unclear where exactly the mass grave is located. Residents recall watching excavation equipment dig up graves and earthly remains and dump them into the backs of trucks that would drive away... somewhere. The process of moving the bodies and graves took over four years. However, the headstones from Monument Cemetery would experience a different fate.

© pwbaker - flickr

The original headstones and grave markers — some engraved with ornate gothic designs and embellishments — were sold to a local construction company. In 1969, when construction began on the Betsy Ross Bridge, a steel truss bridge that spans the Delaware River between the Bridesburg section of Philadelphia and Pennsauken, New Jersey, the surplus grave markers from Monument Cemetery were strewn haphazardly along the muddy shoreline to serve as rip rap. Although its actual whereabouts have been lost in a clerical shuffle, it is believed that the 67-foot, Sartain-designed obelisk was crushed, its pieces mingled among the other rocks and stones on the banks of the Delaware. The grave stones, however, were not ground up. They were placed in their full, unbroken form on the shore. At low tide, many headstones — with etched names and dates fully legible — can still be seen poking out of the mud and rocks. Some are not the least bit buried.

In 2025, this scenario is perceived as "thoughtless," greedy," "arrogant," and "soulless" on the part of Temple University and the city of Philadelphia. But, in 1954, the neighborhood was only too happy to see the overgrown and abandoned Monument Cemetery cleaned up by the benevolent University in its quest to expand education. They didn't care how the space was "cleaned up" and they certainly didn't care about Monument Cemetery anymore.

Be careful how you judge. Hindsight is 20-20, but sometimes our hindsight could benefit from a stronger prescription.

The story of Monument Cemetery and its fate can be found in greater detail at Hidden City and The Cemetery Traveler.

www,joshpincusiscrying.com

when I go out with artists

When I graduated from high school in 1979, I didn't know what the heck I wanted to do with my life. I had been drawing since I was a little kid, but the thought of making it a career didn't sit right with me and it especially didn't sit right with my father. My father was a hard-working, company-loyal, old-school, narrow-minded, Nixon-loving, World War II veteran who woke up early every morning to go to a job that treated him like shit. But, in his generation, that was the way things were. As far as my father was concerned, being an "artist" was no way to make a living.

My mother, on the other hand, was much more supportive. A free-sprit for most of her single life, my mom encouraged my creativity and natural talent — possibly living vicariously through me, silently pining for the carefree days that were stifled when she married my father. My mom let me know that it was okay to take a year after high school to decide the course my career should take. College would always be there, so rushing into things was not necessary. I toyed with various options. I thought about enrolling in culinary school, but tossed that idea aside when I realized that my "cooking skills" were limited to preparing a bowl of cereal and heating up frozen pizza (the latter of which I didn't do very well). I wasn't a very good academic student. Math concepts eluded me. History bored and confused me. I thrived in art classes, despite some of the older art teachers that were burned out and appeared to be going through the motions. I was motivated by a young student teacher who introduced free-form assignments and offered a fresh perspective. But, I still couldn't imagine making "art" my career. So, at my mother's suggestion, I got a job as a cashier in a retail clothing store in hopes of climbing the proverbial "corporate ladder" and making the wide world of retail my chosen profession. Except, I fucking hated that job. It was enough to send me over the edge and enroll in art school. But not just any art school.

Once my decision to go to art school was made, I began to research and determine my options. Philadelphia boasted several well-respected art schools. Some under the auspices of larger universities. Others were stand alone private institutions. Almost all offered a Bachelor of Fine Arts degree after completing a four-year course of study. One four-year school, however, only awarded an Associates degree. This school required no academic subjects, only art classes. No academic classes? Hot damn! That was the school for me! 

I arranged for an interview at Hussian School of Art. I was asked to bring recent samples of my artwork and have transcripts from my high school sent over. No SAT scores were required and they had no interest in what kind of student I was. These were my kind of people! I went to the interview with my mom and I sat across a big desk from the president of the school as he personally reviewed and assessed my work. My portfolio consisted of mostly cartoony drawings along with a few paintings I had done as a high school senior. Mr. Dove, a soft-spoken man in a light suit and flowered tie, quietly examined my work. Finally, with just the tiniest hint of a smile, he told me I would be accepted to join the next class in September 1980. He also added that the school's curriculum would knock this "cartoony stuff" right out of my system. They would teach me to be a real artist. 

Hussian was a very small school. Very small. It was housed on three floors of an office building in center city Philadelphia. They only accepted 80 freshman per year and, as I came to see, almost half would drop out before reaching their senior year. It was a tough school with some difficult assignments and teachers who demanded perfection. Their critiques were often brutal, sometimes sending some of the more sensitive students running from a classroom in tears. I, myself, experienced a smattering of anti-Semitism — some of it from teachers. But everything was done to prepare budding artists for the real world. In my early 20s, I didn't fully understand what exactly we were being warned about. At 62, and after 40 years in this God-forsaken business, I understand. Boy, do I understand!

My class at Hussian boasted a lot of talented artists. There were a wide variety of styles and ideas, mixed with a wider variety of personalities and temperaments. There was a lot of camaraderie and there was a lot of rivalry, bordering on animosity. By the end of four years, my class of 80 was whittled down to 43 — just as predicted. We graduated at an intimate luncheon in May 1984 that my father did not attend. At the conclusion of the ceremony, I was a professional artist. 

I have worked consistently in the general art field for my entire adult life. I've had many jobs and worked for more than my fair share of assholes. Hussian prepared me well. Sure, I have expressed frustration over the unqualified opinions of talentless superiors who couldn't identify a serif with a gun to their head. But, I have also learned that, contrary to my father's beliefs, I could make a living as an artist.

I was surprised to learn how many of my classmates form Hussian chose not to pursue a career in the field of art. Some have successfully gone into such diverse alternative lines of work as home construction, nursing, corporate administration and even music. A handful have followed their chosen course of study and even ended up teaching others. Admittedly, I use very little of what I learned at Hussian in my everyday work, but there is no denying the positive foundation they forged at the very beginning.

from the Hussian website.

Just this week, a surprise announcement broke in the local press. The University of the Arts, a beloved amalgam of creative intuitions dating back to the 19th century, will abruptly close its doors forever in the wake of losing its accreditation. UArts is the second art school to announce a closing in Philadelphia this year (the other, The Pennsylvania Academy of Fine Arts will close at the end of the 2024-25 academic year). Over the past few years, The Art Institute of Philadelphia closed, The Delaware College of Art & Design closed and the suburban campus of the Tyler School of Art closed, although the program still exists on the main campus of Temple University. I was also made aware of the quiet closing of Hussian School of Art in August 2023. With no fanfare, no media coverage and no announcement to alumni, Hussian's board of trustees determined that they were unable to continue, based on the current financial outlook and declining enrollment.

I maintain that working commercial artists are one of the most misunderstood and disrespected groups. If you are not an actual working artists, you can never fully understand that it is indeed a job. It's a job just like a mail carrier or a waiter or a bus driver or even a doctor. It's not just a "fun extension of a hobby." It is work. It takes concentration and effort and energy just like your job. Artists don't want to be presented with a "fun project." If it's done for commercial purposes, it is work. Do accountants think it's a "fun project" keeping financial records for a candy store? Gee! That sounds like a "fun project, Mr. Accountant! On a daily basis, I deal with two inexperienced young ladies — fresh out of marketing classes at the University of Whatever — in the corporate office of a small chain of supermarkets. In designing their weekly advertisements, I am relentlessly instructed to move a photo of a pile of pork chops to the left a little more..... a little more.... a little more.... a little more. Never mind. Delete it.

It is sad that a city the size of Philadelphia cannot support art education. Art is everywhere. Everywhere. And artists are responsible for that art. Mechanics of art can be taught, but an "artist's touch" cannot. 

You'll be sorry. You'll see. 

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

king of all the world

There are a few places I have been to that immediately conjure a specific — and similar —- mental image. One of those places is Fremont Street in Las Vegas, Nevada. I remember the first time I visited Las Vegas. It was in 2003. I recall pulling up to our hotel at the foot of the notorious Las Vegas Strip and being mesmerized by the millions and millions of illuminated buildings and marquees that lined the sidewalks for as far as the eye could see. Later in the week, my family and I ventured up to Fremont Street, just outside the glitz and reverie of the storied "Strip." Fremont Street was the original "Las Vegas Strip" back in the heyday of the Rat Pack and all those shots of Vegas that I saw on 60s TV shows. But since the attention has been shifted to bigger and better places like The Bellagio with its magically majestic choreographed fountains and New York New York with its uncanny approximation of "The Big Apple" compressed into a city block, Fremont Street has had to do what was necessary to attract visitors and, more specifically, their money. Something called "The Fremont Street Experience" was constructed in the early 90s. A barrel-domed canopy that stretches four blocks above the street was deemed to be the perfect solution to Fremont Street's waning tourist trade. A dazzling eight-minute animated light and music show was presented on the underside of the canopy, much to the delight of tourists below. When the show concludes and the regular street lights come up, the seediness of Fremont Street is once again revealed in all its faded glory. (Note: I have not been to Las Vegas in over a decade, so this observation is based on my experience and not on any subsequent improvements that I may not be aware of.) The hotels and casinos on Fremont Street are small, compact and look as though their finest hour has long since past. I remember strolling up and down Fremont Street and likening the scene to an old prostitute — once alluring and desirable, but now faded and worn out after years and years of.... well..... you know.

Similarly, I feel the same way about Atlantic City. A little closer to home, I grew up going to Atlantic City every summer. Boasting the moniker "The World's Playground," Atlantic City was once a destination for families, as well as "singles who were ready to mingle." My parents both frequented Atlantic City in their pre-married days, visiting nightclubs and enjoying the entertainment of "big draw" names like Frank, Dean and Sammy. As a family, the Pincuses loved to cavort on the beach, thrill to the rides on Million Dollar Pier, enjoy sumptuous meals in a grand hotel dining room or just gobble down a hot dog from one of the many stands on the famous Boardwalk. When casino gambling was approved for the seaside resort, visions of an East Coast Vegas were presented to the folks in Philadelphia, South Jersey and surrounding locales. However, that never truly came to be. Instead, Atlantic City took a slow decline. The glitzy casinos were not enough to conceal the boarded-up houses and bankrupt business that dotted the landscape in-between. The casinos grew and their profits increased. The help that they promised the community never materialized. I remember a comedian observing that he had never seen more broken glass than in Atlantic City. When casino gambling began to pop up in areas just outside of Atlantic City, the seashore mecca no longer had a firm grasp on the local casino business. Several once-mighty casinos shut down and Atlantic City was now showing the sad, but familiar signs of an old prostitute — her sequined skirt torn and tarnished, her once-striking looks now unconvincingly disguised by hurriedly applied make-up.

I grew up in Northeast Philadelphia. It was a place where working class families from poorer sections of the city would aspire to live once they came into better employment and an increase in income. My parents moved into a new development in Northeast Philadelphia in late 1957 and soon little Josh came along to join my mom, my dad and brother Max. As a child and pre-teen, I experienced my fair share of bullying and anti-Semitism from my predominately gentile neighbors. Kids my own age — some I considered my "friends" — would turn on me without provocation, spewing vicious epithets that they — no doubt — picked up from their parents. I moved out of my parents house — and that neighborhood — when I got married. When my parents died and I sold their house, I dropped the keys in the palm of a realtor's hand and exited Northeast Philadelphia with plans to never ever ever return. I kept that promise as best I could, crossing the boundaries of Northeast Philadelphia from my suburban home only when absolutely necessary, like when I was on my way to somewhere else. On those rare occasions, I took note of how sad the "Great Northeast" looked. Houses showed peeling and faded paint. Streets were littered with rusty shells of partly-dismantled automobiles. Empty bottles and broken glass littered empty lots, front lawns and street gutters. Businesses were abandoned, their cracked asphalt parking lots breached by wildly overgrown vegetation. It was just.... sad. Once again, my mind evoked visons of an old prostitute, worn down by a hard life. Neglected, struggling and unwanted.

The commute to my current job takes me through Northeast Philadelphia on a daily basis. Each morning, I pass near-empty shopping centers, boarded up homes and pot-hole riddled streets. There are garbage-filled empty lots and cars unlawfully parked on sidewalks. However, this past Friday morning, as I turned the corner from Levick Street onto Castor Avenue, I saw something. Something unusual. Something out of place. Something.... sweet. Sweet enough to warm my cold heart.

There was a woman in loud pajama pants and dirty fuzzy slippers. She was standing on the sidewalk with a small boy about seven or eight years old. The woman was primping and adjusting the boy's attire as though she was a personal valet. And the boy....? The boy was dressed like a king. That's right. A king — right out of a fairy tale. I only caught a glimpse as I turned the corner and maneuvered my car toward the light at Devereaux Street, but I saw that he wore a gold bejeweled crown on his head and a long red robe with a fur collar that was appointed with small black dots. The woman leaned over and smoothed the robe as the boy stood still — his head cocked at a slight upturn, his chin pointing regally, his crown gleaming the early morning sun.

He was The King. He was The King of Northeast Philadelphia and beyond. He was The King of everything the light touched. He was The King of the provincial castles and thatched-roof cottages of his kingdom. He was oblivious of the disdainful judgement I had passed on my former surroundings, conclusions drawn from decades of experiences and observations. This morning, he was The King. 

And that was the only thing that mattered.

www.joshpincusiscryiing.com

ghost town

I was perusing my favorite website — findagrave.com — and I stumbled across something unusual... and a little upsetting. Actually, a lot upsetting.

The place I discovered — a small cemetery —  is just a few blocks from where I work. It sits just off of bustling Route 130, between a nondescript apartment building and a laundromat. Well, it's not actually a cemetery any more. It's a park. But technically, it's still a cemetery.

Jacob Johnson founded this small cemetery in East Camden, New Jersey in 1854. It was specifically and exclusively created for interments of middle-class African-Americans who were turned away for burials at other, larger cemeteries (re: whites only cemeteries). It is the final resting place for an estimated 300 remains, including over 100 who served in United States Colored Troops (USCT) regimens during the Civil War. Most of these soldiers joined the Union's efforts at Pennsylvania's Camp William Penn, established for African-Americans who wished to serve their country. New Jersey did not offer such a service, so those wanting to join the military had to cross the Delaware River. Under the leadership of all white officers, the troops from Camp William Penn were given mostly menial labor assignments — cooks, drivers and similar — rather than infantry. Those African-Americans from the Camden area who were killed in the war were interred at Johnson Cemetery. Along with Civil War veterans, Johnson Cemetery is the last reward for William Butts, Camden's first African-American police officer, as well as Peter Postel, the city's first African-American firefighter. It is also where convicted murderer Nicolas Lambert is buried. He was hanged for the 1893 murder of William Kairer, a Camden baker.

Over the years, Johnson Cemetery became neglected. The trees and grass were overgrown. Grave markers were damaged by either weather or acts of vandalism. It became a "needle park," the site of drug deals. Trash began mounting on and around graves. Between 1975 and 1980, under the administration of Mayor Angelo Errichetti (later convicted in the notorious ABSCAM bribery case), the city of Camden decided to convert Johnson Cemetery into a municipal park. Workers began to remove and relocate headstones. The stones were laid flat and embedded in the ground in a semi-circular pattern along the rear of the park. Headstones that were not part of the pattern were discarded, some used as breakwater along the Camden side of the Delaware River. The graves themselves were left undisturbed. The remains were not moved. So, while the headstones create a pleasing pattern, they no longer mark any graves. Benches were installed around a cement "welcome" area and a large sign was placed curbside on Federal Street, facing the laundromat. Eventually, the abandoned cemetery became an abandoned city park.

In 2015, volunteers from a nearby charter school took it upon themselves to clean up the park. Local filmmaker Kevin Walker produced a documentary entitled The Lonely Bones that traces the history and eventual fate of Johnson Cemetery. There was a rededication ceremony on Memorial Day 2015 with city officials turning out for a photo opportunity along with a good amount of pomp and circumstance. Local news reported on the rededication. But soon, the park reverted to a home for the homeless and a place to dump trash.

I visited Johnson Cemetery Memorial Park earlier this week, stopping by on my way to work. Neighborhood folks on their way to work passed Johnson Cemetery Memorial Park without a glance. In the dim light of the coming sunrise, I could make out the buried headstones poking through a few bare patches in the grass. While I didn't see any trash, I really didn't see much of anything. Granted, it was early in the morning. But, the place looked as though I was the first visitor in quite some time. As I strolled slowly across the grass, I took pictures and read the names on some of the headstones — Charles H. Brown, who died in July 1891; John W. Hamilton, whose headstone sports a carved anchor, died in 1854; Samuel Hankins, whose date of death has been wiped away by time and weather; Private Edward Custis, who served with K Company of the 2nd Regimen of the USCT. Edward died in March 1882. Some stones (or parts of stones) were so worn that just a few letters and numbers were visible.

I have always considered my little hobby of visiting cemeteries as a living (so to speak) history lesson. Johnson Cemetery is a forgotten chapter of that history.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

see ya later, alligator

Jerry Blavat passed away this week at the age of 82. Outside of the Delaware Valley, the name is meaningless. Although he appeared in a couple of movies and a memorable episode of The Monkees, Jerry Blavat's fame, appeal and rabid fan base extended only as far south as the Jersey Shore and north to a couple of places in the Poconos. But, between those narrow boundaries, Jerry was beloved. Very beloved. His popularity spanned generations. From his humble beginnings as a teen dancer on the original pre-Dick Clark American Bandstand to his regular summertime gig every weekend at his New Jersey nightclub "Memories in Margate," Jerry's original fans introduced the charismatic disc jockey and his unique on-air antics to their children and grandchildren. Those subsequent generations embraced Jerry. And Jerry embraced them right back.

The man known as "The Geator with the Heater" was a fixture on Philadelphia radio across seven decades. He loved the music of his youth and he kept those doo-wop ditties and sentimental ballads alive in weekly broadcasts and live dance parties. He was a man of the people and a proud proponent of all things Philadelphia. He loved to meet his fans and entertain them with stories of his show biz connections. As chronicled in his 2011 autobiography, Jerry hobnobbed with the likes of Quincy Jones, The Four Seasons and The Isley Brothers. He served as Don Rickles' personal valet and was tour manager for Danny and the Juniors. He even stood as Best Man for Sammy Davis Jr. at his wedding. For goodness sake, Jerry's mom would make a traditional Italian dinner for Frank Sinatra when Ol' Blue Eyes was in town. 

Ask anyone in Philadelphia for a "Jerry Blavat" story and they will most likely have one. And ol' Josh Pincus is no exception. In the days that followed Jerry Blavat's death, anecdotes about the disc jockey came flooding across news outlets and social media. I will share mine...

One night, I was driving my son from my house in the northern Philadelphia suburbs to his house in South Philadelphia. It's about a forty minute trip, no matter which of several available routes are taken. On this particular night, I decided to drive straight down Broad Street rather than venture into always-iffy traffic on the notorious Schuylkill Expressway. As we approached the intersection of Broad and Vine Streets, a small car pulled up next to us, sporting a large embossed plastic sign on the driver's door. The sign read "Geator Gold Radio" and the station channel number in big block letters, along with a little caricature of Jerry Blavat. I said to my son, "I wonder who could possibly be driving that car with that sign?" The windows of the car were tinted, concealing the driver's identity. We chuckled and continued the conversation we were having. The car next to us kept the same driving pace and we ended up stopping at every traffic light at the same time. As we got to the circle around City Hall, the car edged towards the curb that flanks the fancy Ritz Carlton hotel. The door opened and  I slowed down to see who the driver was. And, sure enough, it was Jerry Blavat himself. I pulled up alongside Jerry's car and my son lowered his window and called out "Hey Geator!" Jerry, all smiles with his trademark Kangol hat perched backwards on his short, now-gray locks, approached my car. His hands were raised and he was making "finger guns" in our direction.

"My main man!," Jerry cheered. He reached out and patted my son's shoulder. He continued his rapid-fire greeting. "Look at you two! Like Heckle and Jekyll! Yes sir! Like Heckle and Jekyll!" He winked and thanked us for stopping, explaining he had to run off to a gig at the Ritz. He waved as he disappeared inside a side entrance. We sat for a minute and laughed. Then I pulled back into traffic to drive Jekyll home. Or maybe he's Heckle and I'm Jekyll. I don't know. Jerry didn't make that clear.

For ten years, Jerry Blavat has had a radio show on Saturday evenings on WXPN, the very same radio station that employs my son. Jerry stood within "shoulder-patting" distance of my son and did not recognize him as a co-worker, despite having crossed paths on many occasions. But, it didn't matter. When you were in the presence of Jerry Blavat, he was your pal... whether he knew you or not. He had pals all over the Delaware Valley and — as far as he was concerned — he knew every one of them.

And now, all his pals miss him.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

nobody does it better

See that thing? I don't know what they call those things where you come from, but here in Philadelphia, we call 'em "hoagies." Growing up in Philadelphia, I ate a lot of hoagies. A lot of hoagies. From a lot of different places. Some were good. Some were not so good. The good places received multiple return visits from the Pincus family. But for some reason, despite being satisfied by the offerings of a particular hoagie place,  we often sought other places to fulfill our hoagie hunger.

Like most big cities of comparable size, Philadelphia boasted a namesake publication that came out on a monthly basis. Philadelphia Magazine was established in the very early part of the twentieth century, but its heyday was - arguably - the 1970s. During the middle part of the "Me Decade," Philadelphia Magazine presented itself as a scrappy, snot-nosed, street-wise voice of the city. They published hard-hitting, investigative pieces, exposing corruption in city government, criticizing policies and mocking the stately "old regime" of the city. I remember they ran an extremely unflattering piece about a prominent suburban Philadelphia doctor who was accused of over-prescribing dangerous diet pills. (My mom was the recipient of a couple of those prescriptions.) Philadelphia Magazine's acerbic editorial staff were regular critics of overbearing police chief-cum-notorious mayor Frank Rizzo. He didn't like to be criticized, leading the magazine to "poke the bear" even more. Philadelphia Magazine also took pride in its annual "Best & Worst of Philly" issue that hit newsstands every spring. In this double-sized issue, they would print their smug opinions on dozens and dozens of categories from restaurants and services to local newscasters and athletes.... and they'd pull no punches. If a butcher shop or dry cleaner was worthy, the staff of Philadelphia Magazine would lovingly sing their praises. However, they would just as readily disparage an establishment that provided a less than stellar product or below average service. Philadelphia Magazine had the power to make or break a business or to turn an entire city against a particular local public figure. My parents, like most middle-class residents of the City of Brotherly Love, hung onto every printed word in Philadelphia Magazine like it was the Gospel.

During one of my years in high school, Philadelphia Magazine deemed Greenman's Deli as offering the "Best Hoagie" in the city. This caused something of a mild outrage, what with ethnically-uniform South Philadelphia literally teeming with Mom and Pop hoagie shops. You can't swing an aged stick of sopressata without hitting one. How could some corner delicatessen in — gulp! — Northeast Philadelphia compete with any number of authentic Italian sandwich-makers within spitting distance of Passyunk Avenue? But Philadelphia Magazine defiantly stood by its decision, describing the cold-cut and veggie-stuffed sandwiches being akin to ambrosia on an oil-soaked long roll. As a long-time supporter of the underdog, my father loved reading this. Too timid to do it himself, my dad relished hearing about some high and mighty big shot getting put in their place. After finishing the lengthy article about what was good and what was bad in our hometown, my dad made a plan to partake of Greenman's Deli's hoagies as soon as possible.

When the weekend rolled around, I went with my father to Greenman's Deli. Sitting in the passenger's seat of his Dodge Dart, I gazed out the window at the unfamiliar surroundings. I couldn't remember ever being in this neighborhood before. My father rarely — rarely — drove out of his cocoon-like comfort zone, never venturing beyond the invisible confining barrier that was Cottman Avenue (a ten-minute drive from our house  no exaggeration). At the corner of Brous and Levick Streets was the very unspectacular Greenman's Deli. An illuminated sign reading "Greenman's Deli" below the familiar Pepsi logo proclaimed its territory. Its two windows were topped with removable letter signs. The letters were arranged into the identifying statement: "THIS IS GREENMAN'S." These signs, in direct contrast to the one over the door, featured the equally familiar Coca Cola logo. My father's grin widened as he parallel-parked his car just a few feet from their entrance. Inside the cramped store, we maneuvered down the small, narrow aisles filled with staple groceries towards the deli counter that spanned the rear. After scanning the large menu board, my dad told his selections to an older man in a white apron who scribbled notes on a folded brown paper bag with a thick grease pencil. Then, he set to work building... constructing.... erecting a series of enormous hoagies that would be the Pincus family dinner that evening. He stuffed impossible amounts of sliced deli meat and cheese between two golden-brown surfboards that, upon closer inspection, turned out to be hoagie rolls. The gigantic heaps of processed proteins were supplemented by piles of shredded lettuce, peppers, onions and tomatoes, along with generous sprinklings of spices and glistening splashes of oil. When completed, the man wrapped each hoagie in a length of butcher paper with the deftness of a Cuban cigar roller. My dad paid and we headed home with our bounty. That night, the Pincus family feasted like cold cut kings. I think it took me several sittings to finish my hoagie. And I remember it being really, really good. We returned to Greenman's only a few more times after that initial trip... because after a while, the senior Pincus fell back into his old "limited traveling" habits and we found ourselves getting hoagies from someplace closer. Some place not as good.

Last year, I started a new job that takes me to Pennsauken, New Jersey. Every morning, I drive from my suburban home, on a route that snakes through Northeast Philadelphia, and right past Greenman's Deli. Before I began to take this daily commute, I hadn't seen Greenman's Deli in over forty years... maybe even longer. But now, I see it every morning.

And it's sad.

I pass Greenman's at approximately the same time every morning, give or take a few minutes. Sometimes it is open for business. Sometimes the protective security gate is down and locked tight in front of the entrance door.

The windows are dirty. A Dumpster overflowing with trash and flattened cardboard boxes sits just outside the door, next to an ancient ice machine whose painted graphics have faded and peeled over the years. When the security gate is up, the great neon-rimmed clock above the door displays the incorrect time. Sure, it's early in the day, but I have rarely witnessed a customer going in or coming out of Greenman's when sitting and waiting for the traffic light to change. 

I did a little online investigating of Greenman's. I found a bunch of reviews declaring new owners. Most went on to condemn the new management, some sadly and unnecessarily resorting to  a barrage of racist comments. Most also lamented over the steady and noticeable decline in the quality of their signature hoagies. Some cited stale bread, dry corned beef and a lack of vegetables. Others reminisced about the once-great product provided by the long-time, long-missed previous owners. A few reviewers touched on rude treatment from the current owners and staff. While there were some positive sentiment, the overall consensus was that the glory days of Greenman's Deli are gone and will, most likely, never return.

Luckily, there are still plenty of places to get a good hoagie.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

break of dawn: reprise

Two years ago, I posted a story about my friend Dawn, a girl I knew in my youth. Dawn and I were very close friends, but we drifted apart and eventually lost touch with each other around 1979. I encourage you to read that story (HERE'S the link) before continuing with this one. It'll only take a few minutes and it will give this story better understanding. Go ahead. I'll wait....

Wow. That was quick. Are you sure you read it? 'Cause you'll appreciate this post more if you did.

Well, the story of Dawn garnered 48 comments — from people I don't know — when I reposted it on a private Facebook group concerned with growing up in Northeast Philadelphia. I received many comments from people who had a similar experience and lost touch with a close friend — or, in some cases, a first love. Several folks asked for a follow-up report, in case I chose to further continue my on-again-off-again pursuit for Dawn. Interestingly, mixed in with the comments were a few leads on how I could track Dawn down after all these years. People my age on Facebook certainly have presented themselves as "yentas."  

Well, seeing as I had a lot of time on my hands — what with zero employment prospects and a worldwide pandemic. I decided to conduct a little bit more of my investigation. A couple of Google searches led me to LinkedIn, the business networking website. I had been semi-active on LinkedIn for years and I, very quickly, was able to locate Dawn under her married name. I sent a request to "Join Her Network" and sat back to wait. Actually, I had forgotten all about it, despite a few persistent members of the Facebook group contacting me to see if I heard anything.

Nearly a month after I sent my request, I got a LinkedIn notification of acceptance from a name that I didn't recognize. I jogged my memory and realized it was Dawn. I sent a simple reply through LinkedIn's messaging service, not too pushy and not overanxious. I merely said "Hi Dawn! How have you been?" Almost 15 minutes later, Dawn replied. Look... I understand that few people spend as much time online as I do, but I thought that 15 minutes was a lengthy period to get a response from someone I hadn't seen in 40 years. Especially someone with whom I was so close. I don't want to read anything into this... so I won't. Dawn said: "Hi Josh! Doing good... can't complain... how's about u?" 

You didn't think I'd really
post her photo, did you?

I thought this was sort of odd. I didn't detect a shred of excitement. It was as though we converse regularly and had been doing so for years. (Damn! There I go again! Looking for some hidden meaning.) We messaged for a bit - our respective replies at intervals of 30 to 40 minutes apart. I sent her the link to the story I wrote about her and our relationship. After a time where, I assume, she read the story, she made a comparison to a show she watches on Netflix. I dispensed with chit-chat and fired the first salvo. I asked if she was married and if she had children. She told me that she has been married for 22 years with no children. Now, we were getting somewhere! Without waiting to be asked, I told her that Mrs. Pincus and I just celebrated 36 years of marriage and our son just turned 33. Dawn's reaction was: "Holy cow!! That is awesome Josh! Wow...." I thought that was sweet and very reminiscent of the Dawn I remembered. I sent her a link to my illustration blog with a bit of background explanation. I didn't hear a reply until the next morning. That reply was simply: "Pretty cool." In a subsequent message, I explained to Dawn that I had some pressing personal matters that I had to address, but I want to catch up. I was so happy that we re-connected and I want to hear about what she's been doing and where her life has led her. 

Her reply was one I never expected. 

She said: "As you know each marriage has its own intricacies and complexities that perhaps outsiders wouldn't understand. While it would be fun to chat and catch up on the last 40 yrs, my husband and I have a marriage that neither one of us really has separate friends of the opposite sex. I just wouldn't feel comfortable catching up.. our marriage is based on respect and I wouldn't do what I wouldn't want done to me. It is nothing at all against you.. as I said, these 22 yrs are working well for each of us and I wouldn't do anything to jeopardize it. And again, it's nothing at all against you Josh. You are a good person and I have nothing but fond memories of our friendship." I read and reread this several times, just to make sure I understood it. And I understood it alright. I thought back and it hit me that maybe this was the reason that none of my friends went on a second date with Dawn. 

I shared my correspondence with Dawn with my wife every step of the way. That's because my wife and I have a marriage that is actually based on mutual respect and trust. What Dawn describes sounded like something very different from the definition of "trust" that is familiar to me. When I read the final sentiment from Dawn, the always reliable, always sharp Mrs. P smiled and said "Bye, Felicia!" 

I have a friend who is a singer-songwriter. He wrote a song called "The Notion." The song is about how the idea of someone is sometimes better that the actual someone. It's a pretty astute observation. I think my memories — as fond as they are — of Dawn have been skewed and clouded by time. Perhaps I wasn't really aware of the real reason we parted ways so many years ago. So, this tale has come to an ending, just maybe not the ending you expected. 

Well.... that makes two of us.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com