silver threads and golden needles

It's coming up on a year since I left the vile, bubbling, hate-filled cesspool that Twitter has become. I was pretty active on Twitter for years, but after psycho melomaniac Elon Musk purchased the ubiquitous social media platform, things just took a nosedive. Twitter became rampant with heinous, venomous bullshit and I no longer wanted to be a part of it. Besides, I was already getting my fair share of bullshit on Facebook.

In July 2023, the folks who brought you Instagram and Facebook launched Threads, a near carbon copy of Twitter specifically created to unseat the mighty microblogging giant. In its first week, Threads signed on over 100 million — 100 million — new users. I was there at the beginning, watching the joy unfold, seeing familiar names greeting an abundance of potential followers with heartfelt greetings of "What's up Threads?" and "What's this all about?" By week number two, the excitement subsided and things evened out and I began to ignore Threads, focusing more on Instagram and Facebook, both of which I use daily. One morning, while posting on Instagram, I noticed that a "share to Threads" option had been added along with the similar Facebook option. This way, I post to Threads and Facebook without ever opening up the Threads app. Great! I was growing weary of Threads and the "Hey everybody" messaging that was prevalent over there.

There's a music guy in Toronto named Eric Alper. Not being Canadian, I was first made aware of Eric Alper on Twitter. Eric Alper's MO was to pose (mostly music-related) "conversation starters" and then not wait around for the conversation to start. He'd post things like: "What was the first concert you attended?" or "What was the first album you purchased with your own money?"  Soon, he was branching out beyond the music business. "Does mayonnaise belong on every type of sandwich?" or "Do you like summer or winter best?" Then, while the replies would pour in, Eric Alper would already be on to the next question, never checking back to review the answers from his faithful followers on the first question. He never commented or countered or even cared about how many followers were responding. I found this to be rude and frustrating and just adding to the overall attitude that was slowly turning me off from Twitter. Elon Musk was just the rancid icing on the stale cake.

Recently, I logged on to Threads — possibly out of boredom — to see how and if things had progressed. I found Threads to be chock full of Eric Alper wannabes. Threads was overrun with nonsensical questions and easily Google-able trivia. "Who's the most famous person you ever met?" and "What are the best vegetables to put in chicken soup?" and "Do you put on a sock and a sock and a shoe and a shoe or a sock and a shoe and a sock and a shoe?" and the often posed "Does pineapple belong on pizza?" Twenty or so minutes of scrolling will reveal dozens and dozens of these inane non-sequiturs, all posted with the intention of bringing the author untold internet fame and the proud title of "influencer." All of this prompted the inner Josh Pincus to unleash his redheaded ire. I decided to answer some of these questions in the most Josh Pincus way possible, keeping up my brand as the internet's most loveable smart-ass.

Someone asked: "What's one Mexican food that you will NOT eat?" I answered: "Chihuahua."

Someone asked: "What do you think of when you hear the word 'debunk?'" I answered: "De summer camp."

Someone asked:" Did you ever like something so much, you bought two of them?" I answered: "Yes. Shoes and gloves."

Feeling cocky, I mistakenly tread into an area of Threads occupied by a bunch of folks with absolutely no sense of humor — Beatles fans.

Someone posed the question: "Who is the best musical trio?" Among the responses of The Police and Rush and Cream, I replied "The Beatles." and I sat back and waited for someone to take the bait. Just a few minutes after my reply, a fellow named "Bakemaster420" with a profile picture that screamed "I am so stoned," corrected my answer in a very matter-of-fact manner. He said: "Trio," to which I quickly replied "I don't count Ringo," Understandably, not everyone is familiar with my long-standing "pseudo feud" with the Liverpudlian quartet's drummer. But, this, of course, was the response I wanted to complete the joke. I laughed to myself because I do this for my own amusement and I am, admittedly, my own best audience. A few hours later, "Mr 420" added: "Well, that's pretty fucking stupid." I laughed some more.

Not content with ruffling some feathers in the staid Beatles camp, I wended my way over to an even less humorless group of musical faithful — Bruce Springsteen fans. Springsteen fans — the current ones, anyway — are an odd bunch. Way back in high school, I numbered myself among the loyal legion of Asbury Park's guitar-slinging pride-and-joy. Over the years, however, my love for The Boss has waned and I find his current persona as the raspy-voiced elder statesman of Americana rock & roll to be grating, tedious and downright irritating. Unfortunately, you take your life in your hands if you mention this to a Springsteen fan. Most Springsteen fans are in my age group (late 50s to early 70s) and spend their surplus free time trying to convince the younger generation that not only is Bruce Springsteen the greatest singer-songwriter-performer of all time, but that any other music by any other artist (save for Springsteen-adjacent acts like Southside Johnny) aren't worth listening to and one should be ashamed and even berated for doing so. Knowing full well of the consequences ahead of me, I decided to — in  RFK Jr. terms — "poke the bear."

Someone innocently asked, with the hope of becoming an internet celebrity: "What celebrity did you used to be a fan of but aren't anymore - and why?" I answered: "Bruce Springsteen. I think it's pretty obvious." The bear had officially been poked and the angry retirees lifted themselves out of their golf carts to come to the rescue of their beloved New Jersey crooner (that isn't Frank Sinatra). The first salvo came from a guy that asked "It is? What are you referencing?" I replied with a link to a blog post I wrote in 2014 in which I first confessed my love of all things Bruce but went on to explain how my admiration dissipated as Bruce's music — in my opinion — became less heartfelt and more of an exercise in corporate branding. I thought I did a good job of explaining my disillusion. (To date, that post got 585 views. You can read it HERE, if you really want to.) Well, this particular Springsteen fan couldn't bear to have someone — especially snotty little Josh Pincus — not like Bruce Springsteen. So, he tried to convince me in the most eloquent way possible. He told me "Your writing is fucking atrocious." Several more of Bruce's disciples chimed in. They attacked my writing, my opinion and my musical tastes. I am fairly certain that if I gave undying praise to Springsteen, my writing would have been compared to Hemingway. But maybe that's just wishful thinking. Oh, and each angry response was punctuated by "Dude" either at the beginning or at the end of their statements/threats. I ignored all of the replies and just watched as the palpable frustration grew and grew until they all just gave up... or I just stopped reading them.

For the time being, I have decided to lay off mocking the musical opinions of the ultra-defensive, ultra-fragile "Classic Rock" devotees. I certainly wouldn't want to keep them from cashing their pension check or taking their afternoon nap. So, I'll stick to telling everyone that "Fiona" is my favorite kind of apple and that kitty litter doesn't belong on pizza.

But pineapple does.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

so long, farewell, auf wiedersehen, goodbye

In 2008, I was at a concert with my son. At the show's conclusion, the lights went on and the satisfied crowd began to make their way toward the exits. In the shuffle, I ran into my friend Kasten, a fellow artist, whom I had not seen in a while. We talked for a few minutes before Kasten asked me if I was on Twitter. Now, I am twenty years older than Kasten and the question sort of jarred me. Was "twitter" some sort of new illicit substance that "the kids" were experimenting with? I sheepishly replied that I didn't think I was "on Twitter." Kasten laughed and clarified her inquiry. She explained that Twitter was a new phone "app" that allowed for immediate, real-time communication and interaction between users and essentially every subscriber to the so-called "twitterverse." Intrigued, I investigated this "twitter" thing and soon I was hooked. And so began my love/hate relationship with Twitter.

Over the past fifteen years, I have had a ball on Twitter. It became another outlet for self-promotion of my artwork. I'd regularly post links to new illustrations, gaining new followers and connecting with some of my contemporaries. Through my love of all things Disney, I connected with a global faction of other Disney lovers, leading to discussions about recent theme park trips and related news and developments regarding the media giant. My interest in taphophilia — that's a fascination with cemeteries and death rituals to you and me — led me to yet another group of folks who share my vison of a perfect afternoon that includes traipsing through a graveyard.

I have even had my share of celebrity interactions, thanks to Twitter. Perhaps you remember my 2013 back-and-forth encounter with Arlene Van Dyke, the spouse of the renowned and beloved actor/dancer. I have even picked up a few celebrity followers throughout my tenure on Twitter, including singer-songwriter Paul Williams, sitcom actress Lydia Cornell and the one-and-only Heinz Doofenshmirtz, arch-villain of "Perry the Platypus" on the Disney cartoon Phineas and Ferb (one of my proudest Twitter moments). I still can't figure out why or how these celebrated public figures found me.

There have been down sides to Twitter. At one point, I got thrown into "Twitter Jail" for a period of 24 hours. I made a smart-ass comment on an out-of-town news feed that — in the most remote of interpretations — could have been construed as "threatening." I got into some fierce interactions with people who have been offended by my drawings, my opinions and my opinions of their opinions. All in all, Twitter was a hoot and I was there for all the "hootin'."

Recently, I have found myself leaning more towards Instagram and Facebook as my social media outlets of choice. These are more visual platforms and, as an artist, I'm more drawn towards visuals (Ha-ha! "Drawn!") Earlier this year, I began selling t-shirts through the TeePublic website and Instagram and Facebook are the logical choice for promoting my wares.

New owner of Twitter... er.... X

Suddenly, in a scene reminiscent of a comic book storyline, an evil, twisted genius set his sights on taking over the world — beginning with Twitter. Not content with being an elitist in the field of automobile manufacturing, this Lex Luthor wannabe was hellbent on purchasing Twitter. First, he balked. Then the deal collapsed. Then it was back on until the purchase finally went through. Immediately, he turned Twitter from the circus it was (from a Barnum & Bailey standpoint) into the real circus it was to become — as though it was one of those foreboding abandoned carnivals depicted on episodes of Scooby Doo.  Under the new ownership, Twitter was rampant with hate speech, homophobia, xenophobia, antisemitism — if there was a hate group anxious to spew an unfounded, vitriolic message, they were offered a welcome home and ready platform on Twitter.

Fuck this guy

Other changes were a-brewing at the new Twitter. First, there was the name change. The worldwide brand  was changed to the ominous "X." The globally recognized bluebird icon was replaced by the 24th letter of the alphabet. The word "tweet" - whose addition to the lexicon took it from the sound a bird makes to an entry on a renowned microblogging web presence - became meaningless upon the name-change. The new owner has proposed the elimination of the "blocking" feature, opening an individual's feed to anyone, including those with whom that individual may not desire an interaction. Then, he started reinstating formerly banned users... including a hate-spewing, malevolent, lying, disgraced, twice-impeached, four-time indicted former president who has been charged with 91 criminal counts.

This was the last straw. I was finished with Twitter... or X.... or whatever it was calling itself this week. 

I'm still on Instagram and Facebook. I'm even on Threads, Mark Zuckerberg's foray into the microblogging universe. Threads enjoyed a flurry of activity upon its launch. It looked as though it was a formable contender in toppling Twitter's.... I mean X's.... stronghold on social media. However, the popularity of Threads has seemed to have waned and I find it to be an afterthought when posting on social media. Oh yeah.... Threads. I interacted with Eve Plumb ("Jan" on The Brady Bunch) on Threads recently, so there's that.

Nevertheless, I'm done with Twitter.... or X. My 543 followers can find me elsewhere, if they are really interested. 

I'm talking to you, Doofenshmirtz.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

in the jailhouse now

Way back in 2008, I was at a concert at Philadelphia's grand old Trocadero, a beautiful former vaudeville theater that, over the years, served as a movie theater, strip club and concert venue. After the show, I ran into my friend Kasten, who I had not seen in a while. We started talking and she asked me if I was on Twitter. At first I thought it was some illicit drug with which I was unfamiliar. I answered, "I don't think so. What exactly is it?" She briefly explained the basic concept and encouraged me to join in. (Remember, this was twelve years ago. I was 47 years old and this "social media" thing was still kind of new to me.) So, I went home and signed up for Twitter. Kasten, my dear friend.... this is your doing!

By nature, I am a smart-ass. And my "smart-ass-ness" seems to find its way into all aspects of my life — my drawings, my writing, my conversation. Sometimes, I will admit, my being a smart-ass has gotten me into trouble. It appears that not everyone understands, identifies nor appreciates sarcasm. Of course, my sarcastic nature spilled over into my Twitter presence. Under the protective guise of "Josh Pincus," I got myself into heated exchanges with the likes of strangers, fans of my illustrations, co-workers, former co-workers, national companies, local religious fanatics, city transportation authorities and even Dick Van Dyke's wife. Sometimes, I just don't know when to shut up.

Recently, I have discovered the vast time-suck that is Facebook. I realize I am very late to the party, but Facebook has offered a new outlet for me. It's kind of like an added benefit of starting a new job — your new co-workers have never heard your jokes. Well, since I joined Facebook, Twitter has kind of taken a back seat... even behind Instagram. Even with over 72 thousand tweets, I have seriously cut back on my daily Twitter use. I will still post links to my illustrations and my daily celebrity death anniversaries.  But,, that pretty much sums up my recent Twitter activity. Instagram, which is definitely a more visual platform, allows automatic linking to Twitter. So, I can post to Instagram and Twitter simultaneously, with a single click. I try to stay away from political content, so that has cut down considerably on my Twitter usage. Sure, I still tweet here and there, but  not nearly as much as I once did. 

Yesterday, however, I was one of those times I should have stayed away from political tweeting, but sometimes, a knee-jerk reaction gets the best of me. While scrolling through my Twitter feed, perusing the nearly 400 accounts that I follow, I stumbled upon a video clip from a West Coast news broadcast that had been retweeted by someone I follow. The clip was brief — under two minutes — but it infuriated me. A group of protesters had assembled in a small community in (I think) Oregon. They were screaming about their God-given and/or Constitutional rights to not wear face masks. Now, I don't want to get into the controversy surrounding the wearing of a mask in this cautious time of the COVID-19 pandemic. I am unwavering on my position, so don't try to convince me otherwise (just like I won't try to convince you). Here's my belief: I will wear a face mask when I leave my house (which, these days, isn't often). I think everyone should wear a face mask when they leave there homes and come in contact with other human beings. I believe if you don't wear a face mask you are a narrow-minded misanthropic science-denier who doesn't care about anyone but his or herself. That's my stance. Let's move on. The news clip featured groups of people shaking their fists and screaming about God or the government or the Constitution as though they were well-versed experts in theology, political science and Constitutional law. All while coaxing their small children to scream "We shouldn't be told to wear masks!" and "COVID is a hoax!" (A few of the children tripped over the word "hoax.") When the clip was over, I was prompted to respond. I know. I know. I shouldn't have, but I did. I already admitted in Paragraph Two that I don't know when to shut up. Jeez! Ten years of this stupid blog is evidence of that!

I typed a single sentence comprised of just five words. But they were five carefully chosen words. Chosen for impact and conciseness. I tweeted: "I hope they all die."

Evidently, you can't say stuff like that on Twitter. I soon found that out.

Within seconds — seconds! — I received this message from the guardian angels at Twitter Headquarters, sitting behind a bank of monitors and racks of servers in a seven-story blond brick building at 1355 Market Street, San Francisco, California and keeping you safe.

So, there I was. Caught. Singled-out. Punished. Restricted. In "Twitter jail" for 12 hours, as a first-offender. ("Hey... whaddaya in for?" "I wished some assholes would die." "Ha! Lightweight!") I wasn't upset. I really didn't even care. I had two other social media outlets with which to ply my Josh Pincus brand of opinionated mischief. The first thing I did was to post a screenshot of the Twitter message on Facebook. My friend Robbie — who has been banned from Twitter so many times he's lost count — called me a rookie. I wore that like a badge of honor.

So, no, I didn't sit for twelve hours and watch the clock tick down as I atoned for my transgressions. I went about my daily business — I watched TV. I drew some pictures. I posted to Facebook and Instagram. I actually forgot about Twitter. Until I remembered. And then little Josh Smartass reared his ugly red head. This found its way to my Facebook page in the form of another screenshot:

...along with this sentiment: "I have an hour and 25 minutes left on my sentence. Brace yourself, fuckers!" That is what we smart-asses call "poking the bear."

As my reprieve loomed closer, my wife and I watched that evening's DVRed episode of Jeopardy! and leisurely ate our dinner. Finally, the virtual warden rattled his virtual keys and unlocked my virtual cell (not that I had any plans for a poster of Rita Hayworth in my future). I was given the "all clear," but I still felt any tweets in my post-punishment era would be closely scrutinized by the good folks at Twitter.

No matter. According to the latest message, I was once again free to tweet to my hearts content. Y'know... within reason. Ahh... who am I kidding? I know what I'm capable of. Next time, it probably won't take twelve years.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

there ain't no grave can hold my body down

For many years now, I have been traipsing through cemeteries on a self-imposed scavenger hunt for graves of the famous, the not-so-famous and the nearly forgotten. On several occasions, I have dragged my family along, hoping they would share my interest in seeking out the final resting places of celebrities and those deemed "celebrities" by my own definition. More recently, I have found myself wandering alone among the headstones like a mouse hunting down the fermented dairy reward at the end of a laboratory maze.

Now, "grave hunting," as it is known among those within the hobby, is no easy task. It requires a lot of preparation including maps, route plotting, weather conditions, familiarizing yourself with landmarks. I have visited over two dozen cemeteries in various areas of the country, with different levels of success. In some of the largest cemeteries, I have come up empty-handed and just a bit frustrated. It has been my experience that most cemeteries are poorly marked and not accommodating for the living. But, armed with a map and a general knowledge of the headstone I am looking for, I have managed to find nearly all of the graves I have sought.

Except one.

I regularly scan findagrave.com, the indispensable resource for grave hunters worldwide. When planning a vacation, I always check to see if we will be within proximity of a cemetery where some famous folks are buried. In between trips to out-of-town graveyards, I check local cemeteries to see if there are any famous graves I can find without traveling too far. Curiously, I have only made return visits to two cemeteries - both within a few miles from my house in suburban Philadelphia. One is Ivy Hill Cemetery on Easton Road. The first time I was at Ivy Hill was in winter of 2011, just a few days after the funeral of boxing legend Joe Frazier. Ivy Hill is one of those unnavigable cemeteries and I had difficulty finding the former heavyweight champ's grave, as it was not yet marked by a permanent headstone. I revisited Ivy Hill a few weeks ago and happily encountered Smokin' Joe's beautiful black marble etched grave marker and I snapped a few pictures of the striking monument.

Northwood Cemetery, a mere mile-and-a-half from my house, has been my "white whale" for years. Relatively small and haphazardly arranged, Northwood boasts a few forgotten players from the early days of professional baseball, Eddie Griffin, the young NBA forward whose internal demons ended his life in a violent (and most likely deliberate) collision with a freight train and a Civil War Congressional Medal of Honor Recipient. It is also the eternal home of the inventor of rock and roll.

"What?" you're probably saying to yourself. "Wait just a second! Little Richard isn't dead!"  [This story was written prior to Little Richard's passing on May 9, 2020.] Or maybe you're saying "Elvis Presley is buried behind Graceland in Memphis!" Or perhaps you know that Chuck Berry is interred in a stately mausoleum in St. Louis, Missouri. (Maybe you're saying nothing and just wishing I would get on with this story already!) All of these responses are fine, but none of those performers invented rock and roll. I'm taking about Sister Rosetta Tharpe. She is the true creator of the musical genre that we now call "rock and roll." How come you've never heard of Sister Rosetta, as she was affectionately called? Well, because she was a woman, she was black and she was a lesbian — so, as expected, she was unfairly crushed by history and misinformation.

Sister Rosetta

Sister Rosetta began playing guitar as a child, accompanying her mother musically and vocally on the gospel tunes she learned in church. She began to experiment and started infusing Delta blues and New Orleans jazz into the traditional spirituals. She introduced a unique distorted sound on  her guitar,. Although a female guitarist was a rarity at the time, Rosetta was favorably received by audiences and began recording in 1938. 1938!!! Her first record, "Rock Me," was a sly reference to the term "rock & roll," which was a euphemism among the African-American community for sexual intercourse. She released three more "rock & roll" selections and joined up with the Cotton Club Revue, teaming with Duke Ellington, The Dixie Hummingbirds and, later, the all-white Jordannaires, presenting a mixed-race performance that was unheard of at the time. In her technique, you can hear the obvious influence from which both Jimi Hendrix and Prince drew. Rosetta remained popular for years until the fickle public (just as fickle as today's public) moved on to the next sound. But, Sister  Rosetta's spirit weaved its way through rock and roll right up to the present. She was acknowledged as a favorite singer of Johnny Cash and Aretha Franklin. The great Chuck Berry once confessed that his entire career was one long Sister Rosetta Tharpe impersonation.

I knew that Sister Rosetta was buried in Northwood Cemetery, after her untimely passing following a stroke on the eve of a recording session in Philadelphia in 1973. Her grave stood unmarked for decades until a fan-based fundraiser purchased and installed a headstone in 2008. 

A headstone that eluded me for over a year.

I drove through the narrow, winding paths at Northwood last March. I slowly passed the vast plots of graves, unrealistically expecting that elusive rose-colored granite marker to be enveloped in ethereal light, guiding me like the Star of Bethlehem. Of course, nothing close to that occurred. Instead, I circled that place a dozen times, reading the same names from the same path-side headstones on each subsequent lap. I finally gave up... only to return a few months later and re-enact the exact same procedure. I left that time feeling just as defeated. However, this week, while scrolling through Twitter, I came across a post — a retweet, if you will — from someone I do not follow. This person, @jeopardista, showed a picture of Sister Rosetta Tharpe's grave marker along with a sentiment from British singer-songwriter Frank Turner. The photo seemed to taunt me and I swear I heard it say "You can't find me!" in a high-pitched, sing-song voice. I immediately typed out a reply to @jeopardista, asking for some direction or at least an identifying landmark to help bring my quest for the grave of Sister Rosetta Tharpe to a successful close. My new Twitter acquaintance replied within a few minutes, directing me to the proper cemetery entrance, which way to turn and the approximate location of the rose-hued monument near the wrought-iron fence that skirts nearby 70th Avenue.

I hopped in my car and quickly drove over to Northwood. Following @jeopardista's instructions, I made the first left inside the 15th Street entrance. I traversed the rolling expanse of grassy areas until I spotted some familiar trees and then I saw the sign identifying 70th Avenue peeking though the posts of rust-speckled iron. I parked my car and walked with a determined gait towards the edge of the cemetery ground, the gleam of rose-colored granite just ahead. Excitedly, I approached the front of the headstone and, as I readied my cellphone's camera to capture photographic provenance, I read the sand-blasted inscription. It said something other than "Rosetta Tharpe." I frowned. I looked around. To my left. To my right. Behind me, two or three rows away, I noticed the back of another, similar-looking stone. I headed in that direction. This time, the block letters — Rosetta Atkins Tharpe Morrison — proclaimed this to be the correct grave. The end of my pursuit. My mission accomplished. I snapped four, almost identical photos, changing my angle ever-so slightly with each ensuing shot. But I did stand and look at the grave and marker for a good long time before heading back to my car.

I posted one of the photos to Instagram, along with a fairly lengthy explanation as to Sister Rosetta's significance. Over the course of the day, the photo attracted 29 "likes" including several members of the Philadelphia (and beyond) music community. That made me happy.

Plus, @jeopardista started following me.

(Here are some of my other cemetery adventures.)

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

papa don't preach

Papa Johns pizza sucks. The cloyingly-sweet sauce is awful and the crust tastes like the cardboard box it's delivered in. I love crappy, commercially-produced pizza from chain restaurants, but Papa John's is one step below that stuff they made on day-old hamburger buns that I bought in my elementary school's cafeteria. I tried Papa Johns pizza once. Years ago. And I never went back.

But, Papa Johns is big business, with over 4700 locations world wide and lucrative sponsorship associations with ESPN, the Olympics, The NFL and The Football League in the United Kingdom. Not bad for a company that was started in a converted closet in founder John Schnatter's father's Indiana tavern... and continues, to this day, to make shitty pizza.

Mr Schnatter, who has become the "face" and commercial spokesperson for Papa Johns, (à la Dave Thomas of Wendy's fame), has also become a bit outspoken. He broke the cardinal rule of business by publicly weighing in on the controversial "kneeling during the National Anthem" debate that heated up the NFL and recent headlines. No matter how he feels about the topic, it is in his best interest to keep his mouth shut, or he runs the risk of alienating potential customers who may not share his views. Alienating customers equals poor business relationships and poor business relationships lead to no business relationships.

In July 2018, it was revealed that Schnatter used a racial slur during a business conference. On the same day, Schnatter admitted to using the word and immediately resigned from the Board of Directors of Papa Johns. Two days later, the company removed Schnatter's image from all Papa Johns marketing material. Steve Ritchie, the newly installed CEO, issued a memo stating "racism has no place at Papa Johns."  However, a week or so later, Schnatter filed a lawsuit against Papa John's Pizza to give him access to the company's books and records after they fired him. He described the company's procedures as an “unexplained and heavy-handed way” to cut ties between him and the company that he founded. The company countered by implementing precautions that would prevent Schnatter from buying back a majority stake of Papa Johns stock.

As expected, Papa Johns business suffered. Sales were down across the board as they struggled to introduce a "Schnatter-less" marketing strategy. To date, eleven Major League baseball teams have dumped Papa Johns as a sponsor, as well as the NBA's Utah Jazz and the NFL's Atlanta Falcons. The University of Louisville took Papa Johns name off of their football stadium. See how opening up your big, racist mouth is bad for business?

It seems that the company is taking this very, very seriously. Just this morning I was watching television before I left for work. We all know my love for old TV shows, so I was tuned to Antenna TV, one of several networks whose programming consists of vintage sitcoms going back to The Burns and Allen Show — which I happened to be watching as I enjoyed a cup of coffee. When the show paused for a "word from the sponsor," my 43" flat screen surprisingly lit up with the smiling visage of John Schnatter in his trademark red apron, running his knuckles through a big glob of pizza dough. He was surrounded by a group of smiling Papa Johns employees, all touting the ingredients of the pizza and delivering the company's tagline in unison: "Better Ingredients. Better Pizza. Papa Johns." Then the screen faded to black, quickly switching to an older man singing the praises of his new streamlined catheter. I immediately grabbed my phone and took to Twitter. I punched out a typical "Josh Pincus" assessment of what I just saw...

Pretty witty for twenty minutes after six in the morning. It appeared that I was not the only one awake and scanning Twitter. The folks at Papa Johns Support (@AskPapaJohns) saw my tweet and responded. Without a joke and without the slightest bit of levity. Their tweet was all business and  polite customer relations.

Wow. Papa Johns wants details and wants them now. I happily obliged.

Papa Johns was gracious.

Papa Johns is determined to get John Schnatter out of their lives for good. Apparently, there really is no place for racism at Papa Johns. 

I know from personal experience that "once a racist, always a racist." Even when an apology is offered, racists never change the way they truly feel.

Papa Johns' pizza still sucks, but at least their heart is in the right place.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

let me tell you 'bout a place I know

I work hard, so when I take a vacation, I want to go to a place that I know I will have a good time. I, admittedly, have a different idea of "relaxation" than a lot of people I know. I don't care to spend a long time laying on a beach, doing nothing. I'm not particularly fond of beaches anyway, but if my wife, who enjoys laying out at a beach, wishes to include that as an "activity" during our vacation, I will certainly oblige... for as long as I can. Oftentimes, I'm only good for fifteen minutes before I get "antsy" and have to go for a walk or find something to actually "do."

Vacations for my family have mostly involved travelling to a place we've never been before — then going there for several consecutive years until we chose another place we've never been and then repeat the procedure. We went to Walt Disney World for our honeymoon in 1984, then returned for two consecutive years. We took a break when my son was born, but once we decided he was old enough to appreciate the Florida theme park, we went — and went and went.

We visited Niagara Falls when our son was little and, again, returned each summer for several years in a row. We have repeated this pattern with Las Vegas, Hershey Park, Disneyland and, of course, based on its proximity to our home, Atlantic City and nearby Jersey Shore destinations. When our son got older and our vacations were reduced to my wife and me, we latched on to taking cruises. Honestly, I balked and actually shunned cruising for a long time. My wife had brought up the notion several times over the years, but finally, I conceded and — I will now admit — I love it. We just returned from our sixth cruise in five years. See? We even made cruising fit into our vacation formula.

So, if you've been paying attention, you will notice a subtle (or not so subtle) similarity among all of our vacation destinations. The overlying theme is "kitsch." That's right! We like to go to places that are entertaining. Hokey, tourist-y places with bright lights and loud music and gaudy colors. We like to see stuff that we can't see at home. And if there's a cemetery nearby, that's a bonus.... at least for me. Got it?

Earlier this week, singer/songwriter Wesley Stace (who used to perform under the name John Wesley Harding) tweeted this statement that smacked of "I've had enough already!" sentiment:

When I read it, I immediately felt Mr. Stace's pain. Despite the fact that I do not know specifically what his tweet was addressing, I certainly understand the frustration that it expresses. You see, over the years, everyone — and I mean fucking everyone! — has told me where I should go on vacation. Not suggested. Not mentioned. Told. Insisted. Nearly demanded. And by some of the recommendations, you would think these people — friends, family, co-workers — had never met me. These folks know what I like, know my interests, my quirky sense of humor, my love of pop culture and all things "corny." Yet, the vacation scenarios that have been presented to me are downright mind-boggling, For instance, years ago, I was planning one of the many trip I took with my family to Walt Disney World. After I secured my vacation time from work, a co-worker (Actually, he was my boss. A tall, fidgety guy who stayed at the office daily for as long as he possibly could, giving me the impression that he was "in charge" at work, but not "in charge" at home) made a vacation suggestion to me in a manner in which I have come to loathe.

"You know where you should go on vacation?," he began. I hate this preface. I have been on the receiving end of this introduction many, many times. I brace myself, because what follows is a proposal that I would never in a zillion years enjoy. And, sure enough, this one was no different. "Yellowstone National Park!," he revealed his "perfect vacation spot" for the Pincus family. I stared at him blankly, waiting for that smug grin to fade from his face. I thought for a minute before I offered my reasons for why Yellowstone National Park, while a fine destination, is not a place that would fit in to the Pincus's vacation criteria. Except, I wasn't so diplomatic.

"Why on earth would I want to go to Yellowstone?," I answered, "I can see trees on my way to work! I can't see singing pirates on my way to work!" I continued before he could open his mouth. "I don't camp. The thought of camping repulses me. That's why I bought a house, so I wouldn't have to sleep in the dirt."

Another time, while we were making plans for a summertime vacation, my ex-sister-in-law, who had just returned from a week at a beachfront time-share in Hilton Head Island, South Carolina, began singing the praises of that locale. "Oh, you should go to Hilton Head! You will love it!," she gushed.

"What is there to do in Hilton Head?," I deadpanned, not responding well to someone telling me what I should do.

"There's golfing and bike riding and there's the beach.," she continued as though she was reading straight from a brochure from the Hilton Head Tourist Bureau.

"Have  you ever seen me golf? Or ride a bike? And how many times have you seen me happily on a beach?," I countered. She seemed to have forgotten that not everyone enjoys the same things. While suggestions are perfectly fine, her command of "you should go here" caused me to become irritated.

It's funny how many people who know me, really know nothing about me. I like plastic-y places. Surreal, goofy places. I like factory tours (I've seen how Tupperware is made and how rum is distilled.) and silly, tourist-y places. I like cemeteries, but only to see the graves of famous people. I don't like white-water rafting or tennis or sleeping under the stars. And no matter how much you suggest, or in some cases, insist, I'm never gonna like those things.

I'm very sure of where I should go on vacation. Have a good time on yours.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

glad all over

While watching a DVRed episode of Jeopardy! a few evenings ago, my wife pointed out an ad for Glad® trash bags as I fast-forwarded through the commercial breaks. I stopped and backed the programming up to the beginning of the commercial to watch.

A man is sitting alongside a trash can in, what appears to be, his house. He explains to the viewing audience, in a very serious tone, that his wife has convinced him to become a devout vegetarian. Then a sly smile spreads across his lips and he arches one eyebrow. "Except on Ladies' Night.," he adds. He is then shown dumping the remains of a barbecue dinner into a Glad® "ForceFlex trash bag. There are dozens of long rib bones — browned, cleaned of meat and glistening with bits of red barbecue sauce, followed by several paper plates — greasy and stained with the same sauce. Finally, the last items into the bag are scads of crumpled paper napkins, all smeared with more sauce. It is implied that when this man's wife goes out with her friends on "Ladies' Night," he sneaks in a large mess o' ribs, disposing of the evidence in an opaque trash bag before she discovers his charade. She believes he is maintaining his aforementioned "vegetarian status," and, thanks to the good folks at Glad®, she's none the wiser. The commercial ends with the man dropping the tied-up bag into the outside trash receptacle as his wife pulls up in the car, the headlights illuminating the bag, but the incriminating contents remaining hidden.

While I certainly understand the gist of this ad, I didn't like its "humorous" approach at the expense of faithful husbands and vegetarians everywhere. So, I did what every outraged consumer does in this era of technology, convenience and laziness. I took to Twitter. I whipped out my phone, opened up the Twitter app and punched this message to the Glad® company:

I was careful to note that I was offended by the ad apparently condoning deceptive behavior and lying to one's spouse, as well as the not-so-subtle dig at vegetarians. All that and the fact that Glad® was offering its product as an accessory to the "crime." Of course, my "anger" was exaggerated, but, still, I wanted Glad® to know how misguided I felt their message was.

The next morning, I got this reply from the Glad® Twitter account:

Really? They needed me to send them a link to their own commercial?  I suppose the Twitter account at Glad® is manned by some college intern following detailed instruction in standard, generic customer service procedure. A quick search of YouTube resulted in a truncated version of the thirty second TV spot, but the sentiment was the same. I replied:

Soon, I received this reply to my reply:

What? That's how you handle a customer who has been offended by your company's advertising message? It wasn't over, as far as I was concerned. I shot back with this:

I received no further response from Glad®. I'm still waiting.

I don't really buy Glad® trash bags anyway. I'm just a troublemaker.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

i love the dead

With so much going on in the world — so many important topics up for discussion and debate — I thought I'd focus on a subject that holds the utmost importance to me.

Me.

Specifically, my wonderful and turbulent relationship with the internet. Over a decade ago, I entered the world of the World Wide Web when I published the first entry* on joshpincusiscrying.com, my illustration blog. My blog consisted mostly of entries for the weekly challenge posted on Illustration Friday, a sort-of community of artists from all over the world. Illustration Friday offers a single word of inspiration and allows artists a week to interpret that word until the next Friday brings a new word. I have actively participated in this process for eleven-plus years, never missing a single week (even when Illustration Friday missed a few themselves). I began small, hesitant to post anything controversial, fearful of editorializing, expressing my opinions or — gulp! — causing a stir. In between my weekly drawings, I began to create drawings of my own inspiration, under the category title "from my sketchbook."  But, over time, I began to inject some of my unorthodox sense of humor that has become the unofficial Josh Pincus trademark. 

In 2008, I posted this drawing of aspiring actress Peg Entwistle, who met an untimely demise in 1932. A distraught Peg, weary of the cruel treatment she received from film executives who crushed her glittery dreams of stardom, flung herself from the top of the massive "H" in the famed "Hollywood" sign that loomed over Tinsel Town. My illustration pissed a reader off so much that he contacted me with a series of threatening emails. I was so pleased that someone took that much time and effort with something that I created, I couldn't have been more flattered. As an artist, as far as I'm concerned, there is no such thing as bad publicity. I would rather have my art evoke anger than joy. Anger is a much stronger and more passionate emotion. 

But it didn't end there. I was reprimanded by the admin of another illustration website. I received more threatening emails regarding a drawing I did of session drummer/convicted murderer Jim Gordon. I pissed off a fellow artist who accused me of being a bully. The list goes on and it's all documented under the "About" tab on my blog's homepage.

In 2008, I joined Twitter, which — depending how you look at it — was the best or worst thing I could have ever done. Twitter became the ideal place for Josh Pincus to flourish. It became an outlet for  my jokes, commentary, sarcasm and stream-of-consciousness thought. To date, I have logged over 55,000 tweets. It's a wonder I ever get any work done. Soon, I began to promote my drawings on Twitter. I gained more followers and widened my audience, although, I maintain, that I draw primarily for my own amusement.

Troublemaker

Last year, while looking to amp up my illustration output from what had dwindled to just one per week, I began a new series on my illustration blog. I kicked off 2016 by posting the first drawing in my series I decided to call "Dead Celebrity Spotlight." As I stated in the premiere entry, this would marry two of my prime interests: drawing and celebrities who had passed on. The "drawing" part was obvious. I have been drawing since I was a child. The "dead celebrity" part stems from my love of old Hollywood, chock full of obscure tales of fleeting fame and spectacular deaths and my affinity for visiting cemeteries (yeah, I do that). So, after drawing and writing about a different dead celebrity (some that you recognize, some that you hardly even heard of) every week for an entire year, I continued the series into the current year, adding some special "mid-week" entries as the news of the passing of a beloved and renowned public figure broke. There are (as of right now) one hundred and twelve drawings and stories in the Dead Celebrity Spotlight series. I plan to keep posting new ones every Friday. I hope they garner the reaction that my most recent post achieved.

Early Friday morning, I woke up at 5:45 and, after showering and brushing my teeth and warming up the Keurig, I lumbered up to the third floor of my house to post the daily celebrity death anniversaries on the Josh Pincus Facebook fan page. Then, before heading back downstairs for a cup of coffee, a bowl of Raisin Bran and a couple of episodes of The Andy Griffith Show prior to catching my morning train, I selected a draft from the backlog library of "Dead Celebrity Spotlight" section of my blog to publish. This day, I chose a personal observation of teen idol David Cassidy, whose death just last week at a youthful 67 shocked and saddened a generation of fans who grew up watching and loving him on The Partridge Family. My drawing and commentary went live at 6:19 AM and, little did I know, all hell was about to break loose. My tweet, which is set up to automatically generate from Facebook, got some "likes," some "retweets," and some "replies" — one of which was quite displeased by my sentiment.

A Twitter user named Mar offered this reply:

In typical Josh Pincus fashion, I responded:

I thought this was funny enough to post as a screenshot on my Facebook page as well.

Later, another angered Twitter user, suspiciously calling herself  "Laurie," perhaps as an homage to Susan Dey, David Cassidy's TV sister on the 70s sitcom, expressed her displeasure at the choice of terms I used as the title of my illustration series (on my blog).

This one was puzzling. Was she offended? Really? It's not like I said "Croaked Celebrities," or "Celebrities Now Residing in Box City," or "Lifestyles of the Rotting and Famous," or any number of other derogatory euphemisms for "The Great Beyond." "Dead" is a perfectly good, non-offensive word. Funeral directors, doctors, newscasters, even your mother ("Oh dear, I just heard from Fannie that Milton is dead.") use it all the time. 

So, not being one to drop things until they are thoroughly beaten into submission, I questioned:

Laurie replied:

But the criteria for inclusion in this series is the celebrity has to be dead. Not for any particular length of time, just dead. I have done drawings of celebrities within minutes of the announcement of their death (former Phillies pitcher Roy Halladay comes to mind). I tried to stress this in 140 characters or less, but my confusion hindered my ability to be as articulate as I would have liked. Instead, I returned this:

Her brief retort popped up almost immediately, followed by what is commonly known as  a "kiss-off:"

And, just like that, she was gone. Her portion of the debate ended. Her final summation delivered. As Archie Bunker often proclaimed: "Case closed!"

When I was compiling screenshots to compose this entry on It's Been a Slice, I was met by this message when I visited "Laurie's" Twitter account page:

Now we're talking. Or... maybe we're not.

I said it before, and I'll say it again: Oh, do I love the internet!

* Ironically, that initial entry, in March 2007, featured an illustration of Bill Cosby, whose shattered career has been chronicled in recent headlines. How prophetic of me. I think.

***** ***** ***** ***** *****

My annual Christmas music compilation is available as a 
FREE DOWNLOAD 
at ge.tt for a limited time.

This year, it’s a whopping 81 minutes worth of pure Christmas cacophony that’s sure to ruin your holiday celebration within seconds. Need to clear your house of unwanted guest who have overstayed their holiday welcome? Download this compilation, crank it up and watch those ungrateful freeloaders head for the door. (You may even follow them.)
 You get twenty-seven eclectic Christmas selections that run the gamut from weird to really weird plus a custom full-color cover with track listings – all for you and all for FREE! (That’s right! FREE!)

(Please contact me if you have trouble with the download.)

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

break on through to the other side

When I created the "Josh Pincus is Crying" character over a decade ago, I did my very best to maintain the illusion of the outspoken, opinionated, little red-headed stepchild that lives inside of all of us. I decided that rascally persona would remain online and online only, presenting my twisted illustrations, my somewhat dark sense of humor and my cranky demeanor as a goofy magnified version of the real me. I was able to keep the online "Josh" separate from the real-life "Josh" for quite some time.

Between Twitter and Instagram and, more recently, Facebook, I gained followers from all across the country and even across the world. Soon, I started to let small bits of my real life trickle into the online version of me, I infrequently posted photos of myself (previously a big no-no), although I tried to obscure my face, only allowing my "trademark" red hair to identify me. Sure, there are plenty of people who knew me in my pre-Josh Pincus days, but the more personal information I let slip out on my blogs (the one you're reading and my illustration blog), the more my two lives were brought together, making me more recognizable to those who only know me as that red-haired smart-ass who complains about everything and draws dead people.

April

Still only a handful of people who know the online Josh have met the real Josh. The first was voice actress April Winchell. Among her many talents, April briefly ran a website called Regretsy.com (now defunct), a hilarious dig at the artsy etsy.com. April relentlessly scanned the numerous entries on etsy.com, seeking out (and making fun of) the cream of the crap. I was a frequent commentor on Regretsy.com, regularly acknowledged by Miss Winchell. One year into the website's run, April published a book based on the Regretsy site, presenting the "best of the worst" that etsy.com had to offer. She went on a limited book tour that brought the transplanted Californian back to her native New York. My family and I attended the book-signing event and when I approached the table to get my book inscribed, I sheepishly (well, actually boisterously) revealed myself as "Josh Pincus." April lit up and afforded me a warm hug. We have remained in touch, albeit infrequently.

Indigene

Surviving my first real-life "Josh Pincus" encounter, I dove headfirst into my second one. Through my long-time association with Illustration Friday, an online weekly artistic challenge, I have interacted with fellow artists around the globe. One of those artists — Indigene — I discovered, lives near me in the Philadelphia suburbs. Indigene is a real artist (not like me and my silly little drawings), using all sorts of media to create unique pieces of striking beauty. I saw that she was participating in a small showing at a house/gallery not far from me, so I decided to surprise her. After a morning traipsing through a couple of cemeteries, I arrived at the location of Indigene's art exhibit. I entered the house. Towards the back of the cramped basement, I spotted Indigene's work displayed along a long wall. I surmised that the woman alongside the pieces was Indigene. She was speaking with some prospective buyers, so I waited patiently. When she turned her attention to me, I smiled and introduced myself, first by real name, then as Josh Pincus. She shrieked and threw her arms around me. I suppose this is the reaction I should have expected. From her perspective, it was like meeting an imaginary being — finding out they are, in fact, real. Suddenly, I'm like Santa Claus. Maybe a little closer to Freddy Krueger.

Amy

One evening at the end of last year, my son and I went to see local (but soon to bust out worldwide) rock and rollers Low Cut Connie at a hometown show at the grand old Trocadero, a one-time vaudeville theater - turned strip club - turned concert venue. Before the show began, my boy and I were standing in our usual "down in front of the stage" position chatting, when we were approached by a woman. She hesitantly spoke to me, asking the single syllable, "Josh?" I had never seen her before and, at first, I found it a little unnerving. My son E., a DJ on a Philadelphia radio station and a self-proclaimed "minor local celebrity," is used to getting recognized. But, me...? I'm just a regular guy... with bright red hair. She introduced herself as "Amy" and confessed to being a Twitter follower and a big fan of Josh Pincus. In the darkened lights of the venue, it must have been difficult to see that I was blushing. It was equally as difficult to see that E. was rolling his eyes. Amy jabbed her husband in the ribs and pointed in my direction. "This is Josh Pincus!," she excitedly explained. He appeared as disinterested as everyone else in the room. "Who's Josh Pincus?," he obligingly asked. "You know," she said sternly, "the artist from the internet!" He obviously didn't know, nor did he care. But, it was still pretty cool — and a little embarrassing — to get recognized. I have seen Amy at other concerts, as well as on Twitter. She says she proudly wears her official "Josh Pincus" buttons, but "proudly" is a relative word.

Mrs. Pincus and I just returned from our sixth cruise. That's right — sixth! I realize that I have become the person that I made fun of on our first cruise. We had a great time, but, to tell you the truth, all cruises are the same. Our experience has been nearly identical on each sailing. Sure, the faces change and the entertainment may be slightly different, but the overall experience is the same. That's not a bad thing. It's enjoyable, fun and relaxing, it's just the "cruise experience."

A few weeks prior to our departure date, Mrs. Pincus joined a Facebook group specifically for our cruise. She began interacting with various members of the group and soon, she was referring to "Marilyn this" and "Richard that" and "George said this." "Who are these people?," I asked. She explained that I would meet them all on our upcoming cruise. After a week or so, I felt like I was going on this cruise with my wife and a bunch of her friends. One evening, my wife was telling me about a member of the Facebook group who blogs about cruises and mentioned that she has a child with severe food allergies. I paused and, out of nowhere, I asked, "Does she live in Toronto?" Mrs. P shot me a look of confusion. "I don't know. I'll check.," she replied. A quick scan of Facebook yielded an affirmative answer. This woman did indeed reside in Toronto. It turns out that we have been following each other on Twitter for years! I write regularly about my past adventures in Disney theme parks. She contributes to a blog that asked to use one of my illustrations. Since our initial connection, I have been sending her links to my Disney-centric blog posts. Over the years, we discovered that, among other things, our children both saw their first baseball games at Toronto's SkyDome (now the Rogers Centre). And, of course, I have made playful fun of Canada at her expense... but I make fun of everything. I shot her a quick private Twitter message to let her know that — ta daa! — we would be on the same cruise. 

Hiromi

A meet and greet gathering was scheduled for the Facebook group for the first full day at sea. On that morning, Mrs. P and I headed to the ship's buffet, what would be the first of many, many visits during our week at sea. We called for an elevator and when the doors opened, there was already a passenger inside. The woman looked at Mrs. Pincus and exclaimed, "You're Susan!" By strange chance, it was Hiromi, my Twitter pal. We all laughed and embraced. An hour or so later, we formally met at the meet and greet, along with many other members of the Facebook group. I had to explain to Hiromi that "Josh Pincus" is a pseudonym, but she took to calling me by my real name almost instantly. Later in the week, we had a lovely dinner with her, her husband and son. (Hiromi has a teenage daughter that we met for a fleeting moment, as she spent the week off doing "teenager-y" things, sans parents.) Mrs. Pincus, the nicest person in the world, prepared little gift bags for Hiromi's children. We were sailing over Hallowe'en and she didn't want them to miss out.

On the evening of the day Mrs. P and I arrived home, I went to a concert with my son, my brother and a few friends. Before the show, I was telling my brother about the Twitter-Hiromi-Cruise internet triangle, and how my "online" life was slowly crossing paths with my "real" life. Our conversation was interrupted by a young woman who walked past me and cheerfully said, "Hi, Mr. Pincus!" I cocked my head and tried to place her. She said she follows me on Twitter and we had met earlier in the year at an outdoor music festival. My brother, surprisingly impressed, shook his head and laughed. "Boy," he observed, "you are quite the celebrity." 

After the show, singer Nicole Atkins was busily attending to her merchandise. Nicole, a stellar performer with a magnificent voice, is friends with my son. My pal Steve approached her merch table to purchase an album and he asked me if Nicole knew me. I said, while we have met, it was some time ago. I would probably have to explain who I am. As we drew nearer to the table, Nicole looked up, gave a little wave and, with a smile, said, "Hi, E.'s dad."

Okay, now, it's getting weird.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com