is this the real life, is this just fantasy

My mom was a character.

She had a wicked — somewhat twisted — sense of humor. She loved a good, dirty joke. Actually, some of the best dirty jokes I know were told to me by my mom. She taught me curses in Yiddish. She listened to rock and roll, once beating me to Peaches Records to purchase a copy of Queen's 1978 album Jazz when it was released at midnight.

Growing up, my friends loved her. Not many of my friends knew my dad, but everyone knew my mom. She was the "cool" mom before there even was such a thing. When I attended elementary school, she made a few extra dollars driving kids to kindergarten, so she was always around and visible. At the end of the school year, she ran the face-painting booth at the school fair, plying her artistic abilities to the faces of many of my classmates. In later years, she regularly volunteered to drive my friends and me around to the movies, and eventually, concerts.

My mom didn't take too much too seriously. So, when she expressed an interest in the supernatural, everyone was a bit leery. She started hanging out with a group of ladies to discuss reincarnation and past lives. My father wanted no parts of this, so she would often go to these little, informal gatherings alone. Once in a while, though, I would accompany her. Seated around someone's living room, these women would pour themselves a glass of wine (except for my mom, who did not drink) and earnestly discuss the afterlife. One member of the group, an older lady who resembled actress Anne Bancroft in The Graduate, but not as attractive, told about a form of hypnosis called "regression." My mom leaned in closer as the woman elaborated on the process of inducing a subject into a deep, hypnotic sleep and jogging their subconscious memory with a series of suggestive inquiries to ultimately have them reveal and describe the details of a past life. My mom was a skeptic from waaaay back, which is why her interest in any of this was puzzling. But, my mom was pretty mischievous, so who knows what she had up her sleeve.

She ended up taking a course in hypnosis and had a framed certificate hanging on the wall in our den to prove it (as if that proved anything). Soon, she was hypnotizing willing friends and family members with the mumbo-jumbo words and incantations that she learned. At first, she read the steps and recitations straight from a paperback "textbook" she balanced on her knee. She strained to read the words, as the room was dimly-lit for purely atmospheric purposes. Maybe my mom's soothing voice offered relaxation to those needed relaxing and maybe relaxing led to a dreamlike state, but — dammit! — if she didn't get some pretty entertaining results from her little parlor trick. Several of my friends happily volunteered to be "regressed." At various times, one of my friends would stretch out on the sofa in our living room. My mom would pull up a chair next to the prone victim subject and recite her little spell. Much to the surprise and delight of the onlookers, my mom's suggestive hoodoo seemed to have worked. With some gentle coaxing from my mom, my friend would begin to spin some incredible tales of ancient Rome, ancient Egypt and even 17th century, witchcraft-threatened Salem, Massachusetts. Word of my performing mom spread throughout my high school. Soon, my mom had a regular gig with kids clamoring to find out who they were hundreds (or even thousands of years) ago.

Actually, it's Scrabble®

My mom was having a blast and she was ingratiating her standing as the "cool" mom. How ever she was able to get a bunch of teenagers to dream up whatever scenarios popped into their subconscious mind was a testament to her ability and the power of her suggestion. Did she really believe she was evoking actual "first hand" accounts of past lives? I doubt it. Was she getting a kick out of the whole thing? You bet! She even began supplementing her little dog-and-pony show with a foray into OUIJA® boards, creating a homemade version with letters from a Scrabble® set and an inverted wine glass. I'm pretty sure that was bullshit, too.

After a while, the novelty of regressions wore off and my mom went back to playing mah jongg. At least with that, she could hustle a few bucks from some old ladies.

Anything to keep it interesting. That was my mom.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

ghosts that haunt me

My in-laws had their annual "Open Sukkah" get-together and, as usual, my wife and I were going to a Phillies game. We've been season ticket holders since 1996 and, invariably, this yearly soirée celebrating the "Festival of Booths" falls on the final home game of the Phillies' season. Luckily (or unluckily, depending how you look at it), this year has been a washout for the recent World Series Champions., so Mrs. P and I were able to make an early exit from the anti-climatic drubbing our home team was receiving at the hands (and bats) of the New York Mets. Easily slipping out of the ballpark, we headed back to Elkins Park.

My wife pulled her car to the top of her parents' driveway. We could see a few people in the side yard milling around the gaily decorated, slightly tilted, wooden structure. Inside the house, more guests were gathered in several rooms, with the largest crowd gathered by the food-laden table in the dining room. My in-laws' friends, relatives and assorted acquaintances like seeing the sukkah, but — boy! — do they love free food.

As I prepared a plate with mini stuffed peppers and assorted vegetarian hors d'oeuvres (duly marked by my mother-in-law with little homemade flags proclaiming them to be "veggie", making them look like they had been discovered and annexed by a Lilliputian tribe of vegans), I saw my wife talking to Linda, one of those women that you only see at these sorts of functions. I was shoving a spinach-filled flaky pastry thing into my mouth when Linda turned to me and said, "What's with Josh Pincus?" I cocked my head to one side, and chuckled as I began to tell the tale:

Josh Pincus is a pseudonym. It is the name under which I post illustrations. It is an alter-ego; a sarcastic, opinionated, little smart-ass in the guise of my five-year-old, redheaded stepchild self. Josh Pincus actually grew out of a dinner conversation at a Mexican restaurant. After spending the day with my then two-year-old niece, my wife and I took her out to dinner before taking her home. During the meal, she yammered on about the mysterious Josh Pincus, explaining that he was sad and he was crying, until she attempted to cheer him with an encouraging "Don't cry, Josh Pincus." Later, when we arrived at her house, my wife questioned her sister-in-law about Josh Pincus — was he a neighbor? a friend? a boy from day care? Sis-in-law was baffled, having never heard the name before. It was laughed off and promptly forgotten. A week or so later at a family dinner at my in-laws' house, I was seated at the kitchen table talking on my cellphone. My niece toddled past and asked, "Are you talking to Josh Pincus?" Then, she giggled and left the room. It was weird. 

When I decided to plunge into the daunting world of blogging, I adopted the name "Josh Pincus" and ran with it. Nearly eight years later, a Google search of Josh Pincus will deliver me in eight of the first ten results.(The other two are guys really named "Josh Pincus." That's right, I come up before they do.) It's all part of my ongoing campaign to take over the internet.

Linda listened attentively. I've told this story many times (although this is the first time I've made "The Big Reveal" to an internet audience). She finally gathered her thoughts and asked me, "Did you search any obituaries for 'Josh Pincus'?" She was being sincere. I felt an involuntary smile spread across my lips.

"No," I replied, "I wasn't really that interested."

With a solemn tone in her voice, she looked at me over her glasses and said, "Maybe Josh Pincus is a ghost."

I held back a burst of laughter.

She told me a story of when her daughter was a little girl. On a visit to Linda's sister's house, Linda was asked if her daughter had an imaginary friend. It seems that she was playing in the attic and talked about two other children — Richard and Julia. On the way home, Linda asked her daughter about her curious playmates and would they like to come to their house to play.

Daughter replied, "Oh, no. Richard and Julia live at Aunt Patty's. They can't come to our house. They can't leave Aunt Patty's attic."

On a subsequent trip to Aunt Patty's, an elderly neighbor asked if Linda and her daughter were new to the block. "No," Linda answered, "we're here to see my sister. She lives there." Linda raised her hand and pointed.

The old neighbor grimaced. "Oh,", she said, "the house where those two poor children died."

I listened to her otherworldly account and, as diplomatically as possible, I called "bullshit." I told her that we obviously do not share the same beliefs about the so-called "spirit world." I firmly stated that everything — and I mean everything — has a logical, sensible, rational explanation. I may not have that explanation, but one does indeed exist. Linda did not seem offended, but she was also sticking by her story.

I maintain my misgivings for ghosts and the supernatural. I do, however, wholeheartedly believe in Josh Pincus.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com