vote for me and I'll set you free

Please forgive the rambling nature of this post. I mean more rambling than usual. I wrote this mostly for my own relief, as a carthasis after what I can only describe as a harrowing night. — JPiC

I voted in ten presidential elections and only picked the winner twice. But, honestly, a change in president has only affected my life — my personal life — once. Sure, there have been taxes and inflation, but those things would have occurred no matter who became president. You see, in 1981 under the Carter administration, I was enrolled in a four-year art school on a full, government grant for my first year. Therefore, in the first election in which I was eligible to vote, I cast my ballot for Mr. Carter for purely selfish reasons. He got trounced by Ronald Reagan, who proceeded to take the funds set aside for my art career and use them to purchase a bomb to blow up the Commie that was hiding under America's bed. With no support or encouragement from my parents, at 20 years old, I wandered into a bank and arranged for a student loan to cover my tuition for the next school year. I repeated the procedure a few more times until I graduated. I incurred a debt that I paid off, in monthly installments, over the course of ten years. So, aside from writing a check every month for $81.00, someone new in The White House really hasn't caused any upheaval in my life.

I admit I was a bit wary when Bill Clinton was elected president in 1992. After all, he was a young, cool guy who wore Blues Brothers shades and played the saxophone on late-night television. He was undeniably different from the forty-one stuffy men that preceded him. Those guys — the Reagans and the Nixons and the Eisenhowers — were my Dad's candidates. They were stiff, rehearsed, humorless guys whose dour visages would look right at home in the center of a piece of currency. But, Bill Clinton had a mischievous smile and a ton of charisma. He was both relaxed and commanding and, with a booming economy, he made the country feel comfortable. However, it was after Clinton's second-term win — when he defeated Bob Dole — that, I believe, things started to go to shit. Bob Dole was the ultimate sore loser. It was uncomfortable to watch Dole's "He's not my president!" behavior. But, again, it really didn't affect my day-to-day life. I still went to work. I was more concerned with the well-being of my family and, as always, just figured politics and the country would take care of itself... as selfish as that may seem.

I watched eight years of a George W. Bush presidency that evoked the good ol' backward-thinking Republican ways of my narrow-minded father and my narrower-minded grandmother. I saw the beginnings of a military conflict that was right out of the pages of George Orwell's 1984 — a battle against an unclear adversary that still rages on to this day. But, again, since a military draft had not been reinstated (besides, there was a huge amount of young men anxious to serve) and, since I was too old and my son was too young for military service, this, too, did not really affect my life on a personal level.

When Barack Obama became president, I truly believed that we had finally broken though and shaken off the clutches of the "old guard." By "old guard," of course I mean the government run by my father's old-white-guy Republican party. I figured that since, finally!, the President of the United States was a guy my own age (President Obama is exactly one week, to the day, older than I am), I was now part of the majority in the country and the president, as it had always been, was a reflection of the majority.

On Tuesday night — Election Night — I watched, in disbelief, as the progressive, visionary America that I saw blossom over the past eight years crumbled under a venomous blanket of hate, bigotry, xenophobia and unfounded fear. There was regular evidence that racism and hatred was alive and well in our country, but I was shocked that it has been allowed to be brought to the forefront by a bullying, prejudiced, uninformed, misogynist con artist. Like the Piper Piper of Hamelin, he played the right notes and stirred up the vermin that was hidden under the rocks and in the dirt. They followed his lead and they heard what they wanted to hear, ignoring the parts they didn't understand or didn't want to examine more closely. Say what you will about Mr. Trump, but the guy knows marketing. He successfully peddled his brand — a smoke-and-mirrors brand of gold-covered shit — and the right people bought it and happily ate it up.

And now the piper will be the next president, undoing everything that was accomplished over the past decade. I am thoroughly disappointed in my country.

Once again, the outcome of a presidential election may not affect me personally, but it will affect a great many people in this country — people of color, Latinos, Muslims, members of the LGBTQ community, women, immigrants, the disabled. Over the past eight years, I have met and become close to people that fall into those categories and it makes me sad for them. So, I take it back. This presidential election has affected me. In my effort to become less selfish, the results of this election makes me feel sorrow, anguish and fear on behalf of some people that I love.

Plus, it makes me embarrassed in front of the rest of the world.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

teach your children well

I haven't voted in an election since the first time Barack Obama ran for president. The first time, back in 2008. I skipped every election after that, including state elections and local ones. I stopped voting for a few reasons. First and foremost, I was chosen to serve on a Federal Grand Jury for two grueling years, thanks to the pool of candidates culled from registered voters in the eight-county, Eastern District of Pennsylvania. That experience was one that I wouldn't wish on my worst enemy, although I would heartily wish on my sister-in-law.

Second, I vividly remember the fiasco that was the 2000 Presidential election. The majority of the voting public in this country seem to get a little fuzzy on the details of that election and, thus, continue to vote, thinking their vote actually means something. In the past-midnight hours of tallying the returns, I distinctly remember Dan Rather proclaiming that Al Gore had won the crucial state of Florida. Suddenly, within seconds, an off-screen voice yelled something incoherent, the vote-counting map put Florida back to a neutral color and Mr. Rather tripped over his words as he backpedaled on his statement. Soon, the country was plunged into a recount hell that kept us on edge while votes were re-tallied and chads were examined and results were debated. In the end, George W. Bush became the 43rd President of the United States despite Al Gore winning the popular vote. I decided that I had participated in enough of these pointless exercises. I honestly believed my vote did not matter. Actually, I believed that nobody's vote mattered. Disgusted, I gave it one more shot for Obama and then I swore never to set foot in a voting booth again.

Once again, the country finds itself in a heated frenzy over the upcoming presidential election. From a large contingency of hopefuls, the Republican party had whittled itself down to just a few potential candidates, including blustery narcissist Donald Trump. Trump is a guy that I never liked. I always thought he was a pompous loud-mouth who marketed himself to the lower echelon with the promise of "you can be just like me." He's a slimy bullshitter who talks a big game, but whose actual accomplishments show his true colors. He is fraught with failures, bankruptcy, lawsuits, divorce, infidelity and lies. With campaign tactics he learned from his time spent with professional wrestling, he has convinced a staggering majority that he has what it takes to run the country.

Second best.

My wife has become worried that Mr. Trump may become president. She asked if I would consider voting this year. Just prior to the Pennsylvania primary election, she explained that if Donald Trump wins by one vote, it would be my fault because I didn't vote. Well, even though Trump is a Republican and I am a registered Democrat and one cannot vote outside your registered party in a primary, I conceded and agreed to vote. A few days before the primary, our son came over. He told us that he had proudly made a contribution to the Bernie Sanders campaign. I told him that his mom convinced me to vote this year. He asked who I would vote for. I shrugged and said, "Hillary Clinton, I guess."

He frowned. "Would you consider voting for Bernie Sanders?"

"Sure.," I said, "As long as my vote doesn't make a difference, I don't give a shit who I vote for. Bernie it is!"

So, when Primary Election Day rolled around, I pressed the little button next to Bernie Sanders' name and exited the voting booth. I didn't look at nor vote for any other office. That night, Hillary Clinton won Pennsylvania. Oh well.

Second best.

This past Sunday, my son visited for Mother's Day. As evening approached, I offered to drive him to his South Philadelphia home. He asked if we could stop at our local Target so he could pick us a few cartons of La Croix sparkling water. According to my son, La Croix is the elixir of life — calorie-free, Aspartame-free and unusually refreshing and delicious. It's waaaay better than that 68¢-a-bottle swill that I buy from Walmart... or so I was told.

I pulled into Target's parking lot and we headed into the store. My boy made a beeline to the soft-drink department where — tadaaa! — there was a special sale on La Croix beverages, My son grabbed three colorful eight-packs of La Croix.

"You should try this.," he said, tucking the pack of coconut-flavored water under his arm. I looked at the shelf display, considered the many flavors and I buckled. I selected three eight-packs of La Croix. So far, I've had three cans of La Croix apple-cranberry. It's okay.

I love my son. I wonder what he'll talk me into next.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

good morning, worm your honor

Last week, while all of you patriots were performing your civic duty, I was watching a 55 year-old rerun of Make Room for Daddy, a show I don't particularly like. But, given the choice, I was glad to have endured a half hour of the insufferable Danny Thomas – hamming it up and mugging for the camera – than to flick a little lever in a voting booth and pretend that my vote makes a difference.

I have not voted since Barack Obama became president the first time. Actually, after the embarrassing debacle that was the 2000 presidential election, with its lengthy recounts, ballot tampering and infamous "hanging chads," I swore I would never vote again. But, I gave in to some heart-stirring "Land of the Free and Home of the Brave" sentiment and voted in several more elections over the next eight years. 

Until that one day.

It was early in 2008. I came home from work, slung my jacket on the back of a living room chair (much to the on-going dismay of Mrs. Pincus) and began to leisurely rifle through a stack of the day's mail. Among the catalogs and utility bills, was an ominous yet important-looking envelope. It was addressed to me and featured a governmental return address in the top left-hand corner. I frowned. I slipped my index finger under the sealed flap, carefully sliding it along and tearing a neat opening along the fold. I removed the machine-folded single sheet of paper and began to read. I scanned the first few sentences following the cold salutation. When I hit the fearful gist of the communique, I involuntarily reacted.

"Dammit!," I uttered aloud, "Jury duty!"

But this was no ordinary jury duty. No sir. This was not of the "One Day. One Trial" variety. This was a call from the federal government. I was to report as part of a pool of prospects for service on a Federal Grand Jury.

On my designated day, I assembled, along with 74 others selected from the registered voters representing seven counties in the Eastern District of Pennsylvania. A low murmur filled the cavernous marshaling room of the federal courthouse, as numbers were called and the potential jurors were chosen. A grand jury is comprised of 22 jurors and two alternates. The alternates do not have to report for jury duty until one of the actual jurors is excused for valid reason. As the selections were made and my chances of being chosen slimmed, several of those already picked conferred with a court officer. Obviously they pleaded a convincing case of family hardship and were instantly excused. Replacement alternates had to be chosen. My number was the last one called. In the immortal words of Maxwell Smart: "Missed it by that much."

I was told by an official that, as an alternate, it was very unlikely that I would ever have to report. 

Six weeks later, another ominous-looking envelope was delivered to my house. When I read the contents, I, once again, involuntarily reacted. Only this time, I yelled instead of uttered.

"FUCK!," I screamed with enough vocal power to rattle some dishes in the kitchen.

A Federal Grand Jury convenes once a week to hear testimony (or parts of on-going testimony) from witnesses questioned by a federal district attorney. There are no attorneys and no judge. There is a District Attorney, the members of the jury and a court reporter. After enough evidence is presented to satisfy the D.A., the jury discusses and rehashes until a decision to indict (or not to indict) is reached. Sure it sounds interesting, like something right out of Perry Mason or Law & Order, but, believe me, it isn't. It's boring. Witnesses are boring. Testimony is tedious. People are inarticulate and downright stupid. Some District Attorneys think they are auditioning for a role in Inherit the Wind. But mostly, it's monotonous. And I sat through that bullshit for the initial term of eighteen months — plus a six-month extension — for a grand fucking total of two fucking years. Every Thursday, I was excused from work to sit in a federal courthouse and listen to a parade of morons get schooled in the ways of the law. And that applied to both sides of the witness box.

Some of my jury mates had never been to the "big city" of Philadelphia in their lives and were bewildered by buildings taller than three stories and the fact that people wore shoes all the time. One guy sat in the first row of seats and read the newspaper during testimony. One guy rattled and crinkled a cellophane bag of candy as witnesses spoke. Another guy slammed his head against a rear wall as he dozed off to sleep. These are the people who are deciding your fate, Mr. Criminal, so you best keep to the straight and narrow. 

The jury on which I served heard predominately cases of fraud (identity theft, credit card scams, bad counterfeiting), although, due to overflow and crowding, we sometimes heard cases of another nature. One of those non-fraud cases involved an online child-pornography distribution ring. During some of the most disgusting, stomach-churning testimony, the DA asked if we would like to see examples of images that were seized. The jury collectively cringed. One guy — the bag rattler, as a matter of fact — cleared his throat and suggested that we should view the photos to help us decide on an indictment. The assistant foreperson  — an outspoken young lady — shot up out of her seat and pointed an accusing finger at her fellow juror.

"We don't need to see any of that!," she spit, "I don't need to see every bad check that was passed in a fraud case!"

I did, however, learn a few valuable lessons from serving on a Grand Jury:

1. Never ever ever ever buy a used car. There is an excellent chance that the odometer was turned back. More than excellent.
2. Don't trust anyone who works in a bank. For the price of a few bouquets of flowers and a dinner or two, tellers are giving out your bank account information like it's Halloween candy.
3. Criminals get caught because they are greedy. If everyone who ever perpetrated a crime would have quit after one time, satisfied with whatever they got, they would have gotten away with it. It's when they want more and want it faster  — that's when they get caught.

And the most important lesson I learned? If you don't want to be subjected to the insipid task of jury duty (federal or otherwise), keep your name off of the voter list from which potential jurors are culled. And how does one stay off of voter lists? By not voting, of course.

Believe me, this nifty little certificate ain't worth it. Neither is voting.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com