big boss man

I officially entered the "working world" just after I graduated from art school in the spring of 1984. Yeah, I had jobs before that, but my actual "career," if you will, actually began with a series of freelance jobs in the summer of that year forebodingly immortalized by George Orwell. 

In early 1985, I was hired as the art director for a small, but popular, chain of ice cream stores in the Philadelphia area. My boss was a slick, slimy, fast-talking, deceitful, underhanded, arrogant piece of shit named Len. He was the first in a long line of asshole bosses that I would work under for the rest of my life. Len would ignore me most of the time, preferring to keep himself busy with a Pac-Man machine that was tucked into a corner of the employee breakroom. For a good portion of the work day, Len and his two puppet vice-presidents would hover in the soft, colorful glow of the video game — placing bets, cursing loudly and smoking cigarettes. The breakroom was just a few feet from my tiny workspace and I found it difficult to concentrate over their raucous behavior. Every so often, Len would barrel into my office, stinking of nicotine, and order me to bring everything I was working on down to his office at the other end of a long hallway. So, dutifully, I would carry an awkward armful of tracing paper and sketches and scribbled ad copy down to his office, where I would neatly arrange everything on a large wooden table opposite his huge desk. I would begin to point out and explain each ad concept or signage idea, gesturing to drawings I had made as a visual aid. After a few minutes, I would catch Len glancing around the room, looking everywhere but at me and my make-shift presentation. Then, he'd interrupt me and say, "I wish I had more time to teach you the marketing business." He'd follow that by feigning a headache and begin rubbing his eyes. "We'll have to continue this another time." he'd say, waving me off in the direction of the office door. I'd gather up all my stuff and leave. This little ritual would occur every few weeks. I worked for Len for a little over a year until I was let go.

As my career as a full-fledged graphic designer continued and evolved, my bosses grew increasingly difficult and infuriating. I had one that stood behind me and kicked my chair while I worked. At one job, while my immediate supervisor was wonderful, her boss was a terror. She would scream and stomp and demand... for no apparent reason, as the department ran smoothly and efficiently... except for her. At my next job, the owner of the company was a wealthy, out-of-touch guy who appeared gracious and charming, but was, in reality, a calculating, shifty, ruthless know-it-all who ran his business like a cheap conman. He lied to customers. He lied to suppliers. He lied to everyone. When he would review ad layouts I had done, he'd pick up a red pen to make corrections before he even glanced at the ad. Oh, there were going to be changes because he was the boss and that's what bosses do. They change things that don't need changing to constantly show they are in charge. I worked for him for a little under three years.

My next job was in the advertising department of a national retail company. This was a huge corporate setting, with multi-level management — a true example of the proverbial "corporate ladder." Weekly sales meetings were hours-long affairs with category managers duking it out with advertising executives, while the poor rank-and-file (me and my colleagues) scrambled to write down everything that transpired in order to produce an ad. When there wasn't a meeting, it appeared that the "higher-ups" in the advertising department had little to nothing to do. They would often be seen wandering aimlessly through the hallways of the company headquarters or sitting behind their massive desks staring off into space or sometimes even dozing. In the busy production department where I worked, we would often play a little game called "Walk Me Through Your Day," in which we would wonder what exactly these guys do with themselves all goddamn day. How would they keep busy and how could they justify their obviously large salaries? I didn't have a clue. One Advertising VP would often stumble into the production department and amiably attempt to "shoot the shit" with a roomful of frantic graphic artists on tight deadlines. We concluded that this guy was always high at work.

I worked in the marketing department at a law firm for nearly a dozen years. While I certainly had my share of day-to-day complaints, I genuinely liked that job. My boss was great... for a while. After a few years, her superior was replaced by a belligerent loudmouth man who made her workday a living hell. His noxious demeanor could be felt throughout the entire department and morale was at an all-time low. One day, he crossed the behavioral line with the wrong person and was escorted off the premises. His replacement was a shrewish hellion with a superiority complex who took an instant dislike to me. My boss, however, cozied herself up to the new marketing manager and the two of them were thick as thieves — turning herself against me in the process. In the meeting where I was let go, my boss — who at one time I considered to be my friend — sat silently as my work and my attitude were attacked and insulted.

So here I was, 56 years old and back on the streets, looking for work. I was getting too old for this. After six weeks of collecting unemployment, I got a job at a small company that printed take-out menus for restaurants across the country. After a lifetime of working under the watchful, sometimes unjustifiably suspicious, eye of a boss... I was now in my very first supervisory position. I was officially the "Design Coordinator" and my staff consisted of three graphics designers. One worked at a desk across the hall from me, where he sat in a darkened office and produced beautifully-designed menus. He had little to say and gave off a very menacing vibe. I would assign work to him and he would silently listen to my brief instruction — never questioning, never nodding. He'd take the paper work from my hand and it was just understood that I would get the first drafts of designs when he was damn good and ready. I never gave him a deadline for fear he would kill me if I did. The other two artists were in Ukraine. That's right. Ukraine. I never met nor saw either one. We corresponded via Skype and exchanged assignments by FTP file transfer. The process took a bit of getting used to, but it worked fine. It was understood that I was their boss.

I made the conscious decision to be a different kind of boss than those I had worked for in my past. I believe I truly was. I allowed my staff to create at their own pace. I offered no criticism unless it was asked for. I offered no assistance unless it was requested. I never ever asked "What are you working on?" or "When will this be finished?" I sometimes made a list of current projects in order of priority, but never did I make unreasonable demands. I figured that these people were adults and they were hired based on their ability. They knew their jobs and didn't need someone to constantly tell them what to do. They knew what to do. And I let them do it. 

To be honest, that company was barely keeping itself afloat. Every day I came into work, I thought would be the last day. After a year the company was purchased by a larger commercial printer and suddenly this shitty little job became a really good job. Until the new owners didn't see the monetary return on their investment they hoped for and I was let go.

In my current job, I'm back to being a staff artist. I am no longer in a supervisory position. That's just fine. I know what is expected of me. I do my work and no one leans over my shoulder. My immediate boss is my son's age.... and he's got his own work to do.

And I really don't think about who my horrible bosses are irritating today.

Well.... maybe I do a little.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

what's the use of anything

I was a terrible student. Yeah, I passed all of my classes from elementary school through high school, but only barely. My report cards mostly displayed "C's and the occasional "B." An "A" was a rarity for me, usually being awarded for art, a subject I would make my career, but teachers treated as "indoor recess." When someone (such as myself) showed a modicum of artistic ability, an otherwise indifferent teacher would mark an "A" because.... eh... what the heck. Maybe they'll be the next Picasso. (Spoiler alert: I was not.) So, aside from art classes, I was an average student. Not bad. Not something to brag about, but not bad. Just average. How I managed being "average" was actually an accomplishment. I hated homework and avoided it any chance I could. Sometimes I just wouldn't do it. My parents rarely questioned me regarding homework assignments. My father was more concerned about who ate the last Tastykake Chocolate Junior and my mom wanted to know who put the carton back in the refrigerator with an eyedropper's worth of milk left in it. Homework was not high on their "who did this" list. As far as my teachers went, I would either get a "zero" for that assignment (which I later discovered is bullshit) or I'd get a one-day extension. Sometimes, "one day" was all the motivation I needed and I'd knock something out and turn it in a day late.

In addition to general daily homework assignments, I loathed long-term assignments. These were known as "projects," and the expected result was some sort of poster or diorama or model. With those, because of the artistic aspect, I could get away with minimal information and heavy on the "pretty." But, if the project was something like a book report.... well, I was fucked. Book reports meant you had to read an actual book. Although things changed considerably as I got older, I hated reading when I was young. And reading a book?... for pleasure?.... yeeesh! But I did them. I read short books and copied lengthy passages from them as part of my book reports. The night before my book report was due, I'd panic and beg my mom to take me to Woolworths to get one of those clear report covers with the plastic spine that slid on to secure the pages inside. My reports were usually only three or four pages long (well, part of a fourth page, anyway). And I'd — more often than not — get a "C" on them. This went on all through elementary school. I can't remember a single one of the books I read.

 

After elementary school, there was a whole restructuring with our school district. My friends and I were assigned to seventh grade at J. Hampton Moore, a school well out of the cocoon we all lived in. Moore was far off from our little corner of Greater Northeast Philadelphia. Moore was in the same neighborhood as Roosevelt Mall, a place I only went with my mom on weekends. It was near Northeast High School, the crosstown rival of George Washington High, where my brother went. (Northeast wasn't really "crosstown," but to twelve year-old Josh, it may as well have been in another city.) Due to the restructuring, my friends and I were thrown together with other students from other elementary schools that were completely foreign to us. For six years, I was in classes with the same 30 to 35 kids. Suddenly, there were strangers among us.... and we were strangers to them.

New school or not, the homework assignments were the same. And just like in elementary school, "projects" were looming over me as well. Oh, yeah! Seventh grade didn't forget about ":projects." If anything, book reports became more difficult, requiring more preparation and in-depth commentary. My seventh grade English teacher was a very cool guy named Mr. Butler. Mr. Butler resembled, and seemed to have patterned his wardrobe after, Clarence Williams III, the ultra-cool co-star of the syndicated cop show Mod Squad. The first half of seventh grade English involved plays and acting and other forms of creative expression. I wrote a couple of plays for my classmates to perform and I acted in a few as well. As a natural show-off, I was a total ham and I really enjoyed it. The second half of the semester was brutal. It became an actual English class, chockfull of sentence diagraming and vocabulary tests and.... you guessed it.... book reports. When the first book report was assigned, I asked Mr. Butler if we could speak privately.

Paul McCartney, three years after the split of the most popular and influential band in rock and roll history, had released a solo career-defining album at the end of 1973. Spending six weeks in post-civil war and cholera-infested Lagos, Nigeria, the former Beatle, his wife Linda and guitarist Denny Laine (late of the Moody Blues) recorded a number of tracks that would become Band on the Run. Despite shitty recording equipment, getting held up at knifepoint and two members of Paul's fledgling band Wings quitting, the threesome soldiered on. Paul handled the bulk of the instruments, tackling bass, drums and most of the lead guitar work. Linda added her best keyboards and Denny supplied rhythm guitar. Paul wrote songs of freedom and escaping, possibly as a dig at the trapped feeling he felt in the waning days of The Beatles. In the month and a half they spent in Lagos, Paul had a bag full of lyrics stolen from him. He butted heads with hotheaded Nigerian musician and activist Fela Kuti. Kuti accused Paul of exploitation and stealing African music. (Paul graciously shared his music with Kuti, showing that he was not appropriating native music.) At one point, Paul suffered from bronchial spasms that Linda thought was a heart attack. But, Band on the Run was released and it was a worldwide hit, selling millions and receiving critical acclaim.

I bought Band on the Run and I loved it. And that's what I wanted to talk to Mr. Butler about.

I approached Mr. Butler's desk, waiting for the last of my classmates to leave the room at the end of class. "What did you want to talk about?," he asked, his eyes inquisitive as they peered over the tops of his dark glasses. (Yes, he wore dark glasses in class. I told you he was cool)

"About the book report...." I trailed off, gathering my thoughts and my courage. "Can I do a book report on an album?"

Mr. Butler looked at me... expressionless. Then, in spite of those dark glasses obscuring my line of vison, I swore he rolled his eyes in exasperation. "Pincus!," he sighed, "An album? Like a record album?" He was thinking. "Uh... okay.," Mr. Butler conceded. Then he added: "But it had better be good."

"It will be! Thank you, Mr. Butler." I left the classroom with a smile.

When I got home, I listened to Paul McCartney's Band on the Run. Sure, I had done this nearly every day since I bought the album at Korvette's, but this time was different. This time, it was for school! I listened closely. I read the lyric sheet. I followed along with the lyrics as the songs played. I listened to side one. I listened to side two. I analyzed the songs in my head. I reread the lyrics. I tried to make some sense out of the often cryptic, often nonsensical lyrics. I wrote notes — actual notes — as though I was doing an assignment for real! Finally, I began writing my "book" report. I wrote an introduction paragraph. I broke my report into paragraphs discussing each song, its possible meaning and how it fit sequentially into the album as a whole. Each of the nine songs on the album warranted a paragraph or two. I finished with a summary of the entire album and my thoughts on my listening experience. I carefully wrote out my report. I slipped the pages into one of those clear report covers with the plastic spine that slid on. I put it carefully into my schoolbag.

The next day, I proudly handed it in to Mr. Butler, plopping it down on the pile of other clear plastic bound book reports authored by my classmates. I did it. I convinced a teacher to let me do a "book" report on an album and I handed it in. I was very, very proud of myself. Very proud, indeed.

I got a "C."

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

call me, call me any anytime

I hate talking on the phone. Hate it! That's why Caller ID is one of the greatest advancements in telephone technology since Alexander Graham Bell told Watson to "Come here! I need you!" Aside from my wife, my son and occasionally, my brother, I will rarely answer my cellphone. I especially will not answer when a strange number pops up on the screen. I will happily and defiantly "reject" that call and possibly be amused if the caller has left me a voicemail. This just happened a few days ago while I was at work. My phone rang. I didn't recognize the number, so I sent to call straight to voice mail. When I listened later, I heard what appeared to be a "live" voice (as opposed to an overly-rehearsed computer-synthesized voice) telling me that I still had options to pay and possibly reduce my student loan. Let me tell you.... I am 61 years old. I made my final student loan payment almost 30 years ago. When I was making student loan payments, my monthly payment was a few cents under 81 dollars. (My entire tuition for four years of art school was around 76 hundred dollars. Yep. That's all.) Believe me, when the first few payments came due, I struggled. I diligently looked for a job in my field while I worked in my father-in-law's hardware store and took freelance design jobs here and there. I finally landed my first real "art" job in 1985 and I just added another 81 bucks to my monthly financial obligations. Needless to say, I haven't written a check to the student loan payment center since the Clinton administration. Hell, my son's student loan payback period has already passed! So where do these people get their information? As scammers, they are doing a pretty lousy job. But, luckily, Caller ID saved me from listening to a bogus pitch from some dude posing as a financial expert.

When I got home from work, my house phone rang. Yeah, we still have a landline. It works in conjunction with our home security system. I rarely, if ever, answer our landline phone. The Caller ID appears on our television screen, as a perk from the good folks at Comcast, from whom we get our phone service. This time, the name "DYNA... something" showed up and, obviously not being in my right mind, I answered it. It was a pleasant-voiced woman assuring me that she would not be trying to sell me anything. Instead, she — on behalf of her employer — was gathering information regarding the upcoming elections in Philadelphia. I interrupted her as she was about to continue on with her next scripted statement. 

"We are not in Philadelphia.," I said

"Oh," she replied, sounding disappointed. "Is anyone there registered to vote in Philadelphia?" she continued with more of a hopeful tone in her voice.

"This house is not in Philadelphia." I said sternly.

"Oh," she lamented. "I will make a note of it. Thank you for your time."

Later the same evening, the words "DYNA... something" appeared on our TV screen during our regular viewing of Jeopardy! Thinking it was the same person calling me back after just a few hours, I foolishly answered the phone. It was a different person from the same organization. This time, they asked to speak to a female in the house who was registered to vote. At this point, I could hear Mrs. Pincus in the next room talking to someone on her cellphone.

"She is not available." I informed this new inquisitor.

"Oh," she replied, "Is there a better time to reach the female registered voter in your home?"

I sighed. Obviously, she was persistent and ending this was not going to be easy. "Tomorrow, I guess."

"What time tomorrow would be best?" She was not letting up.

I gave her the vaguest "I don't know" and she just said she'd make a note and try again tomorrow.

I swear... I am never answering the phone again. I don't even know why I started.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

love for sale

I suppose today's post on It's Been a Slice is the equivalent to an infomercial. For however long this blog has been raging on (it's been thirteen years, but who's counting?), I have referenced Mrs. Pincus's eBay store and the many places that have been my employer. Today, however, I offer a blatant plug for a little side hustle I got going. Perhaps you have seen it on Instagram or Twitter or Facebook if you are one of the tens of people who follow me and my internet antics. For those of you in the dark but still reading this far, I'll fill you in.

My first sale!
(No longer available.)

For the past few months, I have been selling t-shirts on a great website called TeePublic. I have been sitting at home, watching TV of contributing to my blogs (yes, that's plural. I have two) and wondering how I can make a few extra dollars from my silly little drawings and my slightly off-kilter sense of humor. I began to explore some options and decided that TeePublic's set-up made the most sense for me. One Sunday afternoon right around Thanksgiving, I created a few designs and selected a few drawings from my illustration blog (see? I do have another blog!) and uploaded them to my newly created storefront on the TeePublic website. Because I have a background in advertising and marketing, I also created a few graphics to promote my new business venture on several social media outlets. Almost immediately, I made a sale... giving me a false sense of security. It turns out, my first sale was to someone I knew. Nevertheless, a sale is a sale! I thanked her for her purchase and sat back, waiting for more sales to roll in.

They didn't.

However, I did get an email from TeePublic, that one of my designs was taken down for copyright infringement. A day later, I received a similar email and another one of my designs was removed. TeePublic is rampant with non-licensed designs of copywritten properties, yet I got busted right out of the gate. Still determined, I added a few more designs to my storefront. I chose designs of recognizable images and characters, trying my best to be discreet.

A few days after my first sale, I made two in one day. I began to think this little endeavor was gonna be great! Both, I found out later, were to someone else I knew personally.

Then, my entire store was pulled by TeePublic. Just four days after I "opened for business," I received this sad little email that began...

This is to notify you that, as a result of a violation of our terms and conditions, we have removed or disabled access to the material that appeared at www.teepublic.com/user/Josh Pincus and have deleted your account.

I stewed for a little bit, but I was determined. I rethought my approach and, with a different email address and a slightly altered name, I boldly relaunched my business as "JPiC Designs" on TeePublic. I scoured my website for drawings that I had done that were not overtly recognizable or could be altered so movies and names or references if they too drew much attention to a particular celebrity, movie or the like. I also began a series of illustrated song lyrics. Sure, that sounds like trouble in the making, but I was careful to select lyrics that did not mention a song's title. I figured these would appeal to true fans of a particular band. I also mixed in some famous movie quotes, again, careful not to use the actual title of the movie, but slyly employing recognizable typefaces and using images that could be.... well.... anything.... nudge, nudge.

I launched my TeePublic store 2.0 a week or so before Christmas. I made my first sale in the early weeks of the new year. I started the reboot with about two dozen designs and slowly added more each week. I have not bee sticking to any particular theme or style. I try to create what I think will sell, not necessarily what I like... but what the people will like. You know... give the people what they want! If you visit my storefront, you'll find movie quotes, song lyrics, goofs on famous works of art, silly drawings featuring both Jesus and Satan and a lot of designs depicting food.... because everybody like food. There are even a few designs aimed to please my fellow Philadelphians. Besides t-shirts, TeePublic offers a wide variety of other products, including hoodies stickers, buttons and mugs. Everything can be emblazoned with your favorite Josh Pincus created design.

So, there you have it. A word from our sponsor. Go take a look at what I have for sale. At last count, there are 240 different designs available. Some are drawings you may have seen on my illustration blog. Others are unique to TeePublic. I add new designs fairly regularly. Maybe there's something to fill that hole in your life you didn't know needed filling.

Or something like that.

CLICK HERE  >>>> JPiC DESIGNS TEEPUBLIC STOREFRONT

 

We now return you to your regularly scheduled blog post.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

 

I'll still sing you love songs

When I was eighteen, the legal drinking age in New Jersey was eighteen. Yeah, I lived in Pennsylvania, but the Garden State was just a short drive over a 10￠ toll bridge and I was rolling in cheap beer and dive bars... legally. And South Jersey was filled with dive bars, most of which offered moderate entertainment at no additional charge. The entertainment to which I am referring was cover bands. Cover bands were an interesting entity. They were comprised of wanna-be "rock stars" who figured the only way to get their "big break" was to play exact, note-for-note recreations of the top hits of the day, along with a generous portion of classic, timeless tunes from the annals of (what is now known as) "classic rock." On any given weekend evening one of a dozen different area "cover bands" could be seen and heard at such alcohol-soaked venues as Dr. Jekyll's, Cherries or the ever-popular Penalty Box, a huge establishment with a dozen bars, all serviced by guys in referee's uniforms. Today, they would be mistaken for employees of Foot Locker, but in the late 70s, in Pennsauken, New Jersey, those jerseys meant someone was headed your way with a big, frothy pitcher of Rolling Rock. All of these places featured a rotating bill of the area's most beloved cover bands, each playing the same popular and familiar songs and some even specializing in the songs of one particular band. Witness did a full set of the music of Jethro Tull. Wintergreen did a set of The Beatles. Crystal Ship, as mentioned sarcastically in the Dead Milkmen's epic "Bitchin Camaro," presented their take on songs by The Doors. There was even an all-female band  — Rapture — that offered the best of Blondie. Of course, no group of cover bands would be complete without one who performed songs by The Grateful Dead. As a matter of fact, there were a couple in the greater Philadelphia area. There was Mr. Charlie and a few others — all trying their darndest to sound like Jerry Garcia and his tie-dyed pals. And for the price of a couple of beers, it was a pretty good few hours of entertainment until the real Grateful Dead made it to town. But everyone knew that these bands were just a bunch of guys playing songs by bands they liked for the enjoyment of drunk folks who also liked those songs.

But something happened.

Somewhere between 1977 and now, "cover bands" became "tribute bands" and the rules changed. These bands now play legitimate venues — the same stages that host actual, original bands. There's The Musical Box, a Canadian ensemble that recreates the heyday of Genesis. They have been together, touring internationally, for over thirty years. There is the unimaginatively named Australian Pink Floyd that offer a sonic and sensory experience surrounding the music of  — you guessed it! — Pink Floyd. In the Philadelphia area (and I assume other comparable-sized cities) several venues regularly present tributes to U2, Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers, Queen, ABBA and, of course, tribute staples like Neil Diamond and Elvis.

I know I am in the overwhelming minority, but tribute bands make me very uncomfortable. More specifically, the people who go to see tribute bands make me uncomfortable. In past years, Mrs. Pincus and I were given free tickets to see a Neil Diamond tribute show. I emphasize "FREE TICKETS" because there is no way I would ever, ever pay for tickets to a tribute show. The show was fine. The guy had a good voice and did a pretty good Neil Diamond impression... but the audience! Oh, sweet Caroline! It was embarrassing. These folks thought they were at a Neil Diamond concert. Afterwards, they were clamoring to pose for photos with the singer, who, up close, didn't really look like Neil Diamond. But the audience members — in their sparkly shirts — all acted as though he was the real thing.

I was a very avid and devoted Queen fan when I was in high school. While I still appreciate their musical catalog, my tastes have waned since the passing of charismatic lead singer Freddie Mercury and the subsequent cringe-worthy statements from the previously-silent Brian May. Again, my wife and I were given FREE TICKETS to a Queen tribute show. My wife, a non-Queen fan, was non-plussed about attending and I, a one-time Queen fan, felt the same. The majority of the audience (mostly around my age) felt otherwise. As the lights dimmed and one guy screamed "FREDDIE'S IN THE HOUSE!," I knew I was not going to enjoy this. Queen has a large musical catalog and a plethora of popular songs from which a "tribute band" can choose. Why they selected a version of "Ave Maria" as the centerpiece of the their show still has me scratching my head. But, once again, the audience ate this up.

A few weeks ago, Mrs. P and I went to a Flyers game on the occasion of "Grateful Dead Night." This was the Philadelphia hockey team's attempt at filling their venue in the midst of a dreadful season. The event, however, was postponed, due to an Eagles game at the stadium right next door. Because of the inconvenience, we were given tickets to the rescheduled game later in the year, featuring a pre-game performance by local Grateful Dead tribute band Splintered Sunlight. Last Sunday we arrived on the new date, three hours before puck, drop to see Splintered Sunlight, along with a large group of over-sixty, tie-dye clad "hippies" who were sure — nay, positive! — they were going to see the actual Grateful Dead.

Splintered Sunlight have gained a decent fanbase in the Philadelphia area and have a standing monthly gig at a local venue. Bottom line... they play Dead songs. And Deadheads like to hear Dead songs. I am not a Deadhead. I don't mind hearing Dead songs, but I like to hear other songs too. I am married to a Deadhead. She likes to hear Dead songs. A lot. All the time. She likes to hear other songs, but not as much as she likes to hear Dead songs.

Jerry Garcia, the venerable leader of the Grateful Dead, died in 1995. I don't believe that news has reached a lot of Deadheads. When they hear Grateful Dead songs, some of them think the spirit of Jerry is still strong and is being channeled through the members of Grateful Dead tribute bands... or at least that's how it appears to me. This crowd — in the seating area of a multipurpose arena in South Philadelphia, three hours before a hockey game — believed instead that they were actually among the swaying bodies at San Francisco's Fillmore circa 1968. Some of them, I believe, have not bathed since then.

For two hours, these faithful, if delusional, fans swirled and swayed and twirled to the mid-tempo beats of... oh, I don't know.... all the songs sounded the same to me. They were having a good old time, singing along and pantomiming the lyrics. I was having a time. I could hear clips of conversation around me, referencing "Jerry this" and "Bob that" as though those two were actually on the stage. (They were not.) There was hugging and dancing and, at one point, a balloon bounced its way across the tops of patron's heads, just like at a real Dead show, maaaaaaan! It was a sight.

Honestly, I don't mean to be mean. I'm joking. I really am. It was an interesting experience... that I would not care to experience again. And it was a far cry from the dive bars of South Jersey. Well, maybe not that far a cry,

I still don't like "tribute bands," but I got a blog post out of the experience.

This guy had a good time, though, and that's what's important.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

i started a joke

I think I'm a pretty funny guy. It doesn't matter if you don't think I'm funny... as long as I think I'm funny, because my humor is purely for my own amusement. If you happen to think the things I say are funny, well, that's just a happy by-product of me amusing myself. As a matter of fact, when someone doesn't "get" my humor, that makes it all the more funny. And if they get angry at the "playing dumb" sarcasm, which is the tone of a lot of my humor, well.... it just gets funnier. For me, anyway... and that's what's most important.

Since I hopped on to Facebook, I have had a great time amusing myself by posting silly pictures with sillier captions or leaving slyly sarcastic comments on other people's legitimately earnest posts. I just sit back and marvel at how many people don't get that I am joking. I laugh at how many people will "mansplain" a topic of which I am clearly making light. Well, clearly to me, anyway, and, as we have already established, that is the goal. The people who have known me personally (IRL, as it were) usually know when I am joking... which is always. The folks who only know me through an internet connection should figure things out within a few posts. C'mon, did I really think that Dennis the Menace found Mr. Wilson dead on the sofa... no matter what the screenshot of my television depicts? Do I need someone to explain that George Reeves was not wearing his Superman suit under his Civil War-era garb in his brief appearance in Gone with the Wind? It's a joke! I'm joking! They're all jokes!

A few days ago, MeTV, the retro television network I spend an inordinate amount of time watching, posted a little quiz about the final episode of M*A*S*H in which the character of "Radar O'Reilly" appears. A brief intro was followed by a series of multiple choice questions aimed to test readers memories about details of the show. I discovered the post through a Facebook link under the headline: "How well do you remember the ''Good-bye Radar'' episode of M*A*S*H?" It was accompanied by a photo of actor Gary Burghoff in character as the naïve company clerk with suspect extrasensory powers. At this point, there were just a few comments from readers, mostly affirming their sentimentality towards the series and that  episode in particular. This was the perfect — perfect! — scenario for a little of that patented Josh Pincus "smart-ass" humor that I've come to know and love (I cannot speak for you.) 

I have been a fan of M*A*S*H for years. I watched it in first-run and have watched reruns dozens — possibly hundreds — of times over the past forty years. (That's right, M*A*S*H had its final original episode broadcast forty years ago.) I like some episodes, I dislike some episodes. I like some characters. I dislike some characters. Overall, It's a show I will watch and one with which I am very familiar. Heck, my favorite all-time television episode is a 1974 episode of M*A*S*H called "Adam's Ribs." (I even wrote about it HERE.) Eventhough I like M*A*S*H, I will gladly make fun of it, because I make fun of everything... because everything is funny. So, injecting a little bit of sarcasm in the otherwise staid comment section was something that was custom-made for ol' JP. Here is my comment:

Of course M*A*S*H fans will recognize this as a deliberate misquote from the poignant 1975 episode "Abyssinia, Henry," that marked McLean Stevenson's swan song as the befuddled commanding officer "Lt. Col. Henry Blake." The line was delivered by Gary Burghoff to an unsuspecting cast and the tearful reactions in the episode's final scene were real. But, the internet is a relentless, humorless place, fraught with serious people who feel it is their self-appointed duty to keep the internet honest. Instead of putting their focus on inconceivable concepts like a child sex-trafficking ring operated by a former US senator under the cover of a Washington DC pizza parlor or the gubernatorial appointment of a religious zealot to a municipal board of directors, after he claimed that the public water system is responsible for turning men gay, they choose to put their time and energy into setting me straight on my confusion over a four-decade old sitcom. This is the battle they choose to fight. This is the hill they choose to die upon. The responses to my comment came in thick and fast.

CLICK HERE TO ENLARGE

It was hysterical! Do these people really think I was being serious? Let's analyze this for a second... First of all, if I can post a comment on Facebook, then I have access to the internet. If I have access to the internet, don't they realize that I can look this quote up in a matter of seconds? And, if they are such experts and bound to uphold the good and decent legacy of M*A*S*H, don't they see that the quote is spot-on accurate, except for the substitution of Radar's real name for that of Henry Blake's? And, most of all, don't they realize that this line was delivered by RADAR HIMSELF?!?! The whole thing is stupid, obviously comical and far from serious. 

At last count, ten people had made some attempt at correcting me, either with a brief "No" or "Wrong" to some actually taking the time to explain why I am wrong. These, of course, are the same people who enjoyed seeing the added request of "show your work" at the bottom of a lengthy word problem in seventh-grade math class.

A few responses were phrased as though I had just revealed an extramarital affair at a memorial service for Grandpa. How dare you! How dare you sully the legacy of the greatest achievement in the history of broadcast television! M*A*S*H stands for all that is good and decent in this world and making a factually incorrect statement about any aspect of the series is akin to blasphemy... even worse. A couple were written as though M*A*S*H was a documentary, Radar was real person and I flunked the final exam. The more self-righteous responses to my stupid joke were posted, the funnier it got.

I recently began selling t-shirts on the website TeePublic. A recent addition was this one, prompted by my regular response to those who don't "get" me. Perhaps you'd like one too. They can be very helpful... and they come in a wide variety of sizes and colors.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

my city was gone

I believe that the greatest invention in the past ten or so years is the GPS. Sure, GPS technology has been around for a lot longer than ten years, but recently I have become aware of just how helpful and indispensable it really is. Years ago, a trip to AAA was the necessary first step in planning a family vacation to some distant destination. I would order a "Triptik" from the auto club well in advance of our departure date. My wife, who loves to drive, would sit behind the wheel of our packed car and I would man the passenger's seat — or in this case the navigator's seat — as I announced upcoming exits, turns and rest stops as highlighted on our custom, multipage roadmap, as prepared by the good folks at Triple A. The GPS has eliminated this service. It has also eliminated stopping a stranger on the street to ask (or clarify) directions. The ungodly procedure of asking a gas station attendant in an unfamiliar locale for directions has also been eliminated. (Actually, are there even gas station attendants to ask?) Yes sir! with the GPS that is available on nearly every cellphone or downloadable app, directions to anywhere are as easy as plugging in an address. Using your phone's location, directions are calculated in seconds and a nice lady with a pleasant (if sometimes insistent) voice will guide you to your destination. I have even used my GPS to locate a particular gravesite on my various cemetery adventures.

I was born and raised in Philadelphia and I have lived no where else. (Technically, I live in the Philadelphia suburbs, but that's splitting hairs.) I am a Philadelphian and I identify as such. Every morning, for the past two years, I take the same route to work, I drive a short distance through the suburbs to the Philadelphia city limit, crossing into the "Great Northeast" where I navigate my car towards the Tacony-Palmyra Bridge and cross into New Jersey (which is also, technically, a suburb of Philadelphia). It is approximately a forty minute drive that I have compartmentalized in my mind, taking note of where I am on my route, so I know if I am making good time and estimating my arrival time at work. Depending on the traffic, I will sometimes adjust my route — a block here and a block there — to avoid jams, construction, school crossings and other inconveniences that might hinder my commute. Every so often, I turn to my trusty GPS if I find myself on an unfamiliar street, just to get myself resituated.

One day last week, there was an awful lot of construction on a major thruway right at the beginning of my drive. I could see cars slowing down and up ahead, I could make out flashing lights and large, stationary construction vehicles. I quickly turned into the smaller streets of the adjacent neighborhood, hoping to take a parallel street and find my way back to my regular route. Apparently, every street in this neighborhood was blocked with maintenance vehicles from the Philadelphia Water Company. The further I drove, the further I got from the idea of backtracking to my regular route. When I finally came out to a street I recognized, there was a large fenced-in government building smack-dab in the middle of the neighborhood grid. Unhappily, I headed further and further south. I would have to forgo the Tacony-Palmyra Bridge and take the less-traveled Betsy Ross Bridge instead. The Betsy Ross Bridge was constructed between 1969 and 1974, though it did not open to traffic until 1976, due to protests from the neighborhood regarding proposed access routes. It was a beautiful bridge with no way to get on it. The Betsy Ross Bridge — almost fifty years later — is still surrounded by temporary roadways and changing access ramps. I don't take the Betsy Ross Bridge too often (if I can help it), so I needed a little help from my ol' GPS to get me to it. I typed in the name of my place of employment and the GPS sprung to life, instructing me to make various lefts and rights onto streets that, despite being born in this city and living here for 60 years, I was unfamiliar. I was even more unfamiliar with the neighborhood. It was a run-down, obviously working-class area with plenty of boarded-up businesses and grungy-looking auto repair places every five or so feet. I drove fairly slowly as I took my car over heavily potholed streets and past a number of abandoned vehicles. At one point, the GPS voice directed me to "turn left" down a narrow street lined with garages. A woman in her twenties was staggering across the street, reeling like a boxer trying to avoid getting socked in the head. She was unsteady on her feet, but had an enormous grin on her face. She also paid no attention to my car or the fact that it was moving towards her. I touched my brake pedal and waited for her to make it to the crumbling sidewalk, after which I left her in my rearview mirror. My next turn brought me to a large intersection where the street became six lanes. Huge shopping complexes filled with national brand stores rose up on all four corners... just a few feet from an area that looked like a battlefield. Just ahead, I was told to make another left. I did and I followed the street a short way to a giant municipal sign pointing to the entrance to the Betsy Ross Bridge — an entrance I had never seen before. As a matter of fact, I hadn't seen any of these surroundings before. I was a little embarrassed that, as a proud Philadelphian, there I was... driving around whole sections of my fair city that were as foreign to me as if they were in another country.

The next day, things were back to normal. Construction had ended and I was, once again, crossing the good old Tacony-Palmyra Bridge

If this happens again, luckily, I have my GPS to guide me... like an electronic Jiminy Cricket.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com