this day in real life

happy holidays from JPiC

2011-12-17T17:46:00.001-08:00

CLICK HERE for a larger view.

- - - - -

My annual Christmas music compilation is available as a FREE DOWNLOAD for a limited time.
26 unusual songs and a custom full-color cover with track listings — all for you and for FREE!
Just CLICK HERE for “A Non-Traditional Christmas 2011.”
(You will be taken to a new window. Click the word "download" next to the title, not the big green "DOWNLOAD" button at the bottom of the page.)

Happy Holidays from your pal JPiC!
(Please contact me if you have trouble with the download.)

Road Blocks

2011-12-08T13:42:00.000-08:00

I decided to go back to school after being on hiatus for nine years. It is not easy; I had to give up a lot of things to pursue going back to school. Weekly I am faced with challenges, days I want to give up and just curl up in a ball and cry. For the most part I multitask crying and pushing through no matter how hard things are.

For the past month, I have been dealing with lower back pain. My muscles tighten up whenever I think too much; relaxing while facing challenges is my biggest challenge. This week the back pain intensified to the point that I could not move out of bed. I was in tears because I am so close to finishing this semester and I feel this stress issue is ruining my life.

I forced myself out of bed today even though I did not want to get out of bed. I have to go to a biology lab at 6PM tonight and it is required. I CANNOT MISS THIS CLASS. So I am pushing along and the whole time getting there I am crying because I am in physical pain and to top off the hell I have PMS.

Earlier this week I reopen a doodling blog. I skipped the day I was immobile and today I forced myself to doodle. I briefly felt good again and came to terms this is all a phase. It is only one more week of school before winter break. I can do this!

PS
Coffee relieves the back pain. Not the 400 mg of ibuprofen.

a lesson in selfishness

2011-09-01T18:10:00.000-07:00

My wife’s grandmother turned 101 this past July. When I met her nearly thirty years ago, she was a feisty, strong-willed woman who called things as she saw them and took no shit from anyone. She came from humble beginnings in Russia and lived an even more humble existence upon her arrival in the United States. She single-handedly raised two children – and by “single-handedly”, I mean that she got absolutely no help from her perpetually out-of-work husband. Eventually, her husband, through some shrewd maneuvering, became prosperous and his latent financial success allowed her to enjoy the life she always longed for and certainly deserved. She doted on and cared deeply for her children, their ensuing spouses and subsequent children. She hosted elaborate Sunday dinners and made sure everyone was abundantly satisfied. She was generous to a fault, but she also enjoyed frequent gambling excursions to “the casinas”— as she called them — to win more money with which to be charitable.

My wife’s grandmother always held a special place in her heart for her grandchildren and that place grew larger as offspring multiplied with progeny of their own. With the birth of my son twenty-four years ago, the family welcomed the first great-grandchild of the generation. I began referring to my wife’s grandmother as “GG”, short for “great grandmother”. She approvingly responded to the nickname.

GG lived on her own until well into her 90s. She currently resides in a gracious assisted-living facility. Although her memory is failing with each passing day, her spunky spirit still regularly surfaces. She was lively and animated at her 100^th birthday celebration last year, cracking wise in front of an audience of extended family and friends. More recently, she wandered into another resident’s room late one night and demanded that she “get the hell of my bed!” Lately, though, her pace has slowed, her recognition skills have diminished and her demeanor wavers between happy and terribly sad. After all, she is 101.

My wife’s cousin Cuz went to visit GG this past week, as she is his grandmother, too. He hadn’t seen her in a long while and arrived to find her in bed, quiet and melancholy. He brought her some ice cream — an all-time favorite — and it seemed to perk her up a bit, but GG was still despondent and detached. Cuz concluded his visit, kissed GG goodbye and went out to his car. On his way home to see his own family, he called his sister. Sis answered the phone in a harried manner, obviously preoccupied with plans and activities concerning her own two children. Cuz reported on GG’s status and suggested that Sis pay her a visit of her own. Sis hesitated, then said, “You mean now? Can’t it wait until Friday?”

Cuz was silent for a moment, and then answered, “I don’t know, Sis. I’m not a doctor.”

Riding that train

2011-05-31T08:50:00.000-07:00

The morning began like every morning begins. My alarm went off at six and I smacked the snooze button every ten minutes until I kicked myself out of bed at 6:30. I showered, brushed my teeth and checked the mirror to see if I could get away without shaving for one more day. I exited the bathroom and headed downstairs. I flicked on our Keurig coffee maker and while the water was heating up I ran down the basement steps to grab a matching pair of socks out of the dryer. Back in the kitchen, I watched as hot water purged through my selection of K-Cup and emptied its brewed contents into a waiting mug. After adding a splash of half-and-half and one packet of Sweet 'n Low, I carried my coffee and my socks back upstairs to watch the first half-hour of The Today Show while I got dressed. As the clock came up on 7:40 am, I snapped off the TV and grabbed my cellphone and canvas messenger bag. Mrs. Pincus was asleep, still snuggled under several blankets, when I kissed her and whispered "goodbye". I crossed the hall to say "goodbye" to my son, curled up under his own blankets. Although they each uttered a closed-mouthed "hum", they may or may not have heard my actual farewell — as is the case most mornings. I scrambled down the stairs, grabbed my denim jacket and pulled it on as I hurried out the door. I ambled to the train station at the end of my block, less than a minute walk from my front door. Most mornings, I see my friend Randi and we ride the train together to our destination, as we both work in the same office building in center city Philadelphia. This particular morning, Randi was not on the platform. Too bad for me.

At 7:50, the train stops at Elkins Park and I get on. It then proceeds on to its scheduled station stops at Melrose Park, Fern Rock, Temple University and Market East until it reaches my journey's end, Suburban Station. My entire morning commute covers five stations and lasts approximately twenty-five minutes. When I ride with Randi, we are engaged in conversation that lasts the whole trip, usually continuing until we reach the elevators in our building's lobby. Since Randi was obviously relying on another route to work this morning, I turned to my dog-eared copy of Carson McCullers' The Heart Is a Lonely Hunter to pass the time. I boarded the train, selected a seat at the rear of a relatively empty car, pulled the book from my bag and began to read. I had been struggling through Miss McCullers' Southern Gothic debut, that it now had taken on the characteristics of a high-school reading assignment rather than a source of enjoyment. The train came to a stop at Melrose Park and, unable to focus, I returned the book to my bag and closed my eyes for a quick nap. Too bad for me.

Suddenly, my eyes shot open. The train was in a tunnel and the car lights were flickering. I was groggy and disoriented. Through bleary and unadjusted eyes, I looked at my watch and I saw it was 8:10. However, since I was in a tunnel, I didn't know which 8:10 of the day it was. I couldn't remember how long I had been asleep. The train pulled into Market East, the first underground station on my regular morning journey. My foggy and sleep-addled mind surmised that I was actually on my way home and it was 8:10 in the evening. I convinced myself that I must have traveled all the way to the end of my homecoming train's line in Glenside — where no train staff had awakened me — and now I was on a return trip to center city. In a panic, I hopped off the train and frantically dialed my wife at home. As the phone rang, I was annoyed that she had not called, wondering why I had not arrived home at my usual 5:30. After four or five rings, my wife's hushed voice whispered "Hello" from my cellphone's speaker. I blurted out, "I'm okay! I'm on my way home. I must have fallen asleep on the train, came back from Glenside and now I'm at Market East. I'm getting on a train to Elkins Park and I'll be home soon." I rambled on so quickly, I didn't allow my bewildered wife to get an interrupting word in. I paused and followed my rant with, "I can't believe you didn't call me! Didn't you wonder where I was?"

She was silent, then she cleared her throat and said, "Well, I was asleep" and she trailed off.

"I'm three hours late coming home and you didn't think to call me?" I was starting to get angry. "Well, forget it! I'll be home soon."

"What are you talking about? Why are you coming home?" She sounded as confused as I felt.

"I'm coming home!", I said one last time and I pushed the "END" button on my phone as I approached the information desk at Market East to ask the time for the next train to Elkins Park.

My wife sat in our darkened bedroom and stared blankly at the phone. The first thought to cross he mind was "Well, a twenty-seven year marriage was a good run." Knowing full well that I had just left the house twenty minutes earlier, she began to cry, assuming I had had a stroke while riding the train.

I boarded the Elkins Park-bound train and called home again. I lowered my voice, so as not to attract the attention of my fellow passengers to my slightly embarrassing situation. Once again, I explained the "fell asleep on the train" scenario to my emotional wife. During my explanation, the train emerged from the tunnel — into the harsh sunlight of the morning. Suddenly, it hit me. I had been asleep for merely moments, on my way to work — not hours, on my way home. It also occurred to me that Mrs. Pincus must have thought I had a stroke. "Um, I'll call you right back." I said to her and ended the call. All that had just transpired became instantly clear to me. I looked at my watch again and up to the sky and concluded the correct time of day. I jumped off the train at Temple University and I waited for the next train to my proper terminus. And I called my wife. Again.

Mrs. Pincus answered on the first ring. She hit me with a battery of inquiry. "Are you okay? Where are you? Did you have a stroke?" I assured her I was now fully aware of the situation and I was now headed in the right direction and I did not have a stroke. It took several repeat affirmations but I finally convinced her that I was, indeed, fine.

At last, I reached Suburban Station, ten minutes later than usual arrival. I walked my usual route to my office and as I snapped my office light on, two of my co-workers noted, "You're later than usual."

Too bad for me.

Today in the Forest...

2011-04-12T16:54:00.000-07:00

People think I am always talking shit when I tell stories about my forest.
I stop caring to prove them wrong. What is the point?
I got free beer and I don't want to share it with any of those people.

police on my back

2011-03-21T19:44:00.000-07:00

In 2004, after many visits to Walt Disney World in Florida, my family and I headed west to Walt's original theme park — Disneyland.

In the late afternoon, we found ourselves on Harbor Boulevard in Anaheim via Las Vegas after a four-hour drive through the Mojave Desert. Our hotel, a Holiday Inn on Harbor at the corner of Ball Road, overlooked the back of It's a Small World. Peeking out from just beyond the tops of some shielding trees was the ominous white spire of Space Mountain.

Since it was so late in the day, we decided to experience Disneyland beginning bright and early the next morning. We set out to briefly explore the neighborhood and to look for a store to purchase some snacks and drinks to sneak into the park the next day. We climbed into our rental car and drove north on Harbor Boulevard toward a huge knot of strip malls, open-air shopping centers and fast-food restaurants.

A huge red and white Target sign beckoned to us like a familiar friend. We knew Target and we love Target. They're sure to have everything we needed. My wife navigated the car through the crowded parking lot towards the entrance which faced away from the busy street. We scouted the area for an open parking space when we spotted a rather large section noticeably absent of cars. As we drew closer, we saw seven or eight Anaheim police vehicles parked in a semi-circle in the open area. We pulled around the last cruiser and were greeted by the sight of a dozen or so uniformed officers, some with their guns drawn. Sitting on the ground, cross-legged, was a young man. His arms were up and bent at the elbows. His hands were resting on the crown of his head, the fingers laced. He looked up at the policemen, some of whom had a revolver pointed at him. He looked worried.

We quickly found a parking space at the other end of the lot. As we entered the store, my son noted that just a few blocks from the dire scene playing out before our eyes was The Happiest Place on Earth. We laughed. I'm sure that young man did not.

you ain't nothing but a hound dog

2011-03-21T13:26:00.000-07:00

What is it with you dog owners? I understand that you love your dog. You feed it and walk it and play with it and allow it to live in your house. That does not mean that everyone loves your dog. Believe it or not, there are some people in this world that do not like dogs, not just your dog, but all dogs. Not everyone wants those big paws all over them. Not everyone enjoys a huge, slobbery canine tongue all over their face. Not everyone wants a wet-nosed snout burrowing into their crotch when they come for a visit. Why do dog owners get so offended if you do not express the same enthusiastic love for their dog that they do? Why must everyone love their dog?

Yesterday afternoon, my wife and I were headed out. We exited our front door and walked out on the porch. On the sidewalk, a woman in sunglasses and spandex was walking her giant, salivating pooch. As my wife approached her car in the driveway, I stood motionless and waited patiently until the woman and the mutt were a safe distance from my property. When the human/animal pair were directly in front of my house, the dog stopped and looked right at me. I was a good ten feet away — at the other end of the cement walkway that connects my porch to the public sidewalk — and that dog fixed his eyes dead on me. I stood still. I could have stood there all day. The woman gave a few gentle tugs on the animal's leash but it did no good. She looked up and saw me not moving.

"He's friendly.", she offered. I really didn't care to be friends with her dog nor was I interested in what sort of a friend her dog could be. Then, she asked, "Don't you like dogs?" as though it was the most nonsensical question anyone could ever ask.

I answered, "No." plainly, unwavering and with no inflection whatsoever.

She replied, "That's a shame." Then added, "For you." It was as if I just told her I did not like America, freedom, The Constitution, motherhood, Jesus, The Fourth of July and human rights and topped it off by giving her "the finger". She stormed off, obviously insulted.

I thought about following her to see where she lived. Then, parading past her house later with a Nazi and questioning her likes and dislikes.

Dog owners. Jeez.

(This is another take on a previous post. - JPiC)

yay new banner!

2011-03-11T13:09:00.000-08:00

since nothing of note has happened to me lately, you might have noticed that i havent posted.

i doubt that any of you would enjoy reading about me sleeping a lot or cutting my nails, or... well im sure you dont want to read about that.

anyway i thought that a new banner might... eh, whatever.

sorry, im just depressed.

Vegetarian

2011-03-01T19:10:00.001-08:00

not really one for adding text to a blog, but enjoy the comic

had to make due with a worn out rock 'n' roll scene

2011-02-20T18:02:00.000-08:00

(Am I the only one still contributing to this blog? — JPiC)

Last weekend, Mrs. Pincus and I took a three-hour drive to Gaithersburg, Maryland, a sleepy burg situated about 50 miles southwest of Baltimore. Our destination was an antique show being held in one of the buildings at the Montgomery County Fairgrounds, a facility which, in warmer months, plays host to livestock and farming expositions. We had been to previous shows at this venue in years past, but with the increased popularity of eBay and other online outlets for purchasing collectibles, the recent incarnations have shrunk in size considerably. What was once a sprawling cornucopia of varied objects and curios has been reduced to a smattering of dealers sadly displaying their wares to their equally computer-challenged prospective buyers.

My wife and I started out at 8 AM on Sunday morning and mingled with the few cars that comprised the traffic on southbound I-95. It was early, so we talked to keep my wife from falling asleep at the wheel. Our car was filled with the sounds of WXPN and its regular Sunday morning eclectic mix of quiet songs to ease its listeners into a lazy day of relaxation. This was hardly the soundtrack my wife needed to accompany her navigation through the increasing number of cars that now joined us on the highway. As we left the Philadelphia area and the broadcast realm of its radio stations, we began to scan the dial for the regional offerings of Delaware and Maryland's sonic transmissions. Although our twenty-seven year marriage has sustained on a host of common interests, Mrs. Pincus and I usually divide when it comes to musical preference. For the most part, my tastes run from 30's era swing to current alternative bands and everything in between. With very few exceptions, my wife dislikes any band that isn't The Grateful Dead. I will listen to pretty much anything. My wife is a little more particular. So, settling on a radio station we both can agree upon can be a tall order. As on most lengthy car trips, my wife drove with one hand on the steering wheel while the other hand danced around the radio dial as though the preset buttons were on fire.

As we crossed the Millard E. Tydings Memorial Bridge and my wife negotiated the potentially dangerous crosswinds, her fingers tuned in a local Classic Rock station playing the opening bars of Queen's 1975 stalwart "Bohemian Rhapsody". My wife simultaneously shot me a sidelong glance and a bemused smile. With her affinity for the meandering psychedelic blues-rock of Jerry Garcia and company, Mrs. Pincus is decidedly not a Queen fan. I, however, was an ardent fan of Freddie Mercury and his cohorts in my youth... and Mrs. Pincus knew this all too well. (That story is related HERE on the josh pincus is crying blog.)

With the four-octave range of Mr. Mercury's vocals wailing from the speakers, Mrs. Pincus asked, "When a song like this comes on the radio, is it like an old friend has returned and taken you back to a simpler time — a time of youth and innocence and no responsibility?" She explained that's how she feels when she hears certain songs. I thought for a bit about her question before answering. Finally, I replied, "Not this song. Other Queen songs, sure, but not this one." When the first section of the song ended, Mrs. Pincus hurriedly changed the station before the "dreadful operatic part" (as she put it) began.

Several days later, I found myself placing Queen's 1973 debut album into my CD player and cranking the volume to a window-rattling level. Despite having not listened to these songs for nearly thirty years, I knew the guitar riffs, the drum beats and the words to every tune — and I sang those words out strong and loud (much to the chagrin of my son, the only other person at home at the time). My wife was right. Old songs can be like old friends. And it's the good ones — the ones you miss the most — that bring you the most comfort.

pardon me boy

2011-02-01T19:52:00.000-08:00

Taking the train to work for nearly four years has been a wonderful experience for someone like me. By that, I mean someone who continually marvels at the inherent stupidity of humans. I am astonished by the utter lack of intelligence displayed by people and my daily commute on the train offers me an insightful glimpse at a cross-section of society where stupidity plays a major role. From businessmen with briefcases to students with book bags to women with environmentally-friendly, reusable shopping bags they overpaid for at pretentious Trader Joe's, stupidity is rampant. The world has evolved into a bunch of self-centered, oblivious, inconsiderate sacks of blood, bones, organs and nerves — but sadly — no brains. They come fully equipped with a cellphone and an iPod and a Sudoku book and a Kindle and a Starbucks Venti (and now Trenta, for those morons who wish to feel more superior in their feeble grasp of bastardized corporate Italian) and any other trendy doo-dad that some marketing focus group told them they needed. When the train pulls into the station, the doltish masses shuffle in front of one another, vying to be the first one aboard. Grown men step unchivalrously ahead of women. (I grew up in the heyday of the Women's Lib movement, but for Christ's sake, this is a matter of courtesy!) Once on the train, the idiotic cretins territorialize more than their share of seat allotment and become visibly irritated when asked to relinquish space to accommodate another paying passenger. Then, for the duration of their journey, they stare in wonder at their electronic device du jour and mentally play out the workday ahead — a day that will no doubt be filled with banging into office walls and bumping mindlessly into co-workers until five o'clock, because these imbeciles are not capable of accomplishing anything more.

The train that I take every morning makes four stops before arriving at my destination in downtown Philadelphia. The third stop is Temple University. Founded 127 years ago, Temple is the 26th largest university in the United States. It is a respected institute of higher learning, shaping the minds of future leaders and boasting a vast array of distinguished alumni* including former Philadelphia mayor John Street, award winning screenwriter Richard Brooks, comedians Bill Cosby and Bob Saget and political activist Noam Chomsky. This morning, I saw one of the future shining stars on my train. He was scrunched in a corner seat which he shared with a woman struggling over a Seek and Find puzzle book. His eyes were heavy-lidded, but he was not asleep. He was more in a state of bewilderment, as though he had just magically materialized on the train. His lower jaw was at a loose hang and his tongue lolled just inside his mouth.

This morning's train was unusually crowded and the main aisle was lined with unhappy standing passengers. The public address speakers crackled with static as a disembodied voice announced Temple University as the next stop. The sleepy young man slowly attempted to stand, but was weighed down by his huge backpack, apparently stuffed with enough provisions for a two week visit to the campus. He strained to maintain balance, but his academic baggage pulled him awkwardly backwards. He swiped at and finally grabbed the overhead luggage rack and steadied himself. His female seatmate had already stood and cleared a path to the aisle for the young man. The train stopped, the doors opened and several young men and women sporting Temple IDs on Temple-emblazoned lanyards exited the train. Through the dirty windows, I could see them make their way across the platform to the stairs. The backpack boy remained motionless behind a standing woman reading a newspaper in the aisle. She looked at him and asked, "Are you getting out here at Temple?"

"Me?", he asked back.

"Yes, you.", she answered, her voice getting more agitated, "Is Temple your stop?"

"Uh-huh", he replied, still making no advancement in the direction of the exit door.

"Then you should probably get off the train now.", the woman prompted, tipping her head and motioning with her hands toward the door.

Without another word, the dazed young man shambled down the aisle with no sense of urgency whatsoever. He barely made it to the station platform before the doors shut. As the train pulled away, I watched as he aimlessly dawdled about and a frightening thought about the bleakness of the future crossed my mind.

* and my son.

I don't know how to title this

2011-01-22T22:48:00.000-08:00

I want to write here, but I am a little lost of what to express and most of the time I just don’t want to draw anything. It is a phase, but I take a lot of pictures.

In a five month span I took two thousand pictures of forest. I am sure to most that would seem strange and excessive. But I enjoy where I live and feel the need to document it.

I started this project over a guy. I wanted to share a piece of something that was very special to me with him. We are not on speaking terms, but I know he watches me (a lot like God). It really is awful when you want to know someone and they don’t want to have anything to do with you.

The upside to this sad story is that a few of my prints have been selected to be sold at a local shop. I am profiting from something that was only meant to be an expression. Sort of cool, I guess. But I will always know that these were shot and are still taken in thought of sharing with him.

my baby loves the western movies

2011-01-09T08:07:00.000-08:00

I get my hair cut at local location of the Ulta beauty supply chain, so needless to say, being male, I am among the minority in their customer base. The young lady who cuts my hair also cuts my wife's and my son's hair (though not at the same time), so we are on the "family plan". Kind of like Blue Cross.

Yesterday, I went for my regularly scheduled haircutting appointment. I remained relatively motionless as my ...stylist? ...barber? ...haircutting girl? was putting the finishing touches on the few wispy strands on the top of my head — now drenched in bright orange dye and clinging to dear life. I listened to this riveting conversation just a few stations over from where I sat:

Other Haircutting Girl: "Y'know what movie I just saw?"
Average Customer: "What movie?"
OHG: "Well it was a scary move. It shoulda come out at Halloween. It was scary. I think it just came out, but it coulda come out a few weeks ago."
AC: "On Blu-Ray?"
OHG: "No, at the movies. It was called Season of the Witch and it had Nicolas Cage in it. It was really good and it was scary."
AC: "I didn't see it."
OHG: "We also saw that other movie... um... True... um...True Grit, I think it was called."
AC: "Is that the cowboy-ish one?"
OHG: "Yeah. I wanted to see it 'cause it was directed by the same guy that directed No Country for Old Men. Did you see that? It was good. I loved that movie."
AC: "I didn't get that movie. I didn't get it at all."
OHG: "Well, I really liked it."
AC: "I wanna see that movie The Rite with Anthony Hopkins. I saw a commercial for it and it looks like The Exorcist or something. I don't know if it's out or when it comes out."
OHG: "I'll wait for it to come out on DVD."
AC: "Do you have Blu-Ray? We have a Blu-Ray player and it's hooked up to the Internet and we watch movies on Blu-Ray. We just get them from Amazon dot com and watch them on Blu-Ray."
OHG: " Do you get to keep them?"
AC: "I guess you could, but we just rent them for a few days for, like, five bucks. We don't go to the movies anymore because when a movie comes out in the movies it comes out to Blu-Ray in, like, three weeks. Then, we just watch it on Blu-Ray."
OHG: "Oh."

Society is in big trouble. Natural selection doesn't work anymore.

will the circle be unbroken

2011-01-06T18:35:00.000-08:00

2010 came to a close last week, but it began almost 35 years ago, when I was in high school. After getting tossed out of the majority of my academic classes, I gravitated towards the art department. There, among those paint-splattered desks and rolls of brown kraft paper, I felt comfortable and had as much a sense of purpose as a 16 year-old could. It was in one of those art classrooms I met Eric Dorfman. My relationship with Eric could best be described as a cordial, but distrustful, rivalry. We weren’t so much friends as we “got along”— always aware of the underlying atmosphere of competition between us. Eric was a grade behind me, but freshmen through seniors were lumped together in art classes to make up for the lack of full enrollment. Of course, the first thing anyone noticed about Eric Dorfman was his huge shocking red “Jew-fro”. He was short of stature with broad shoulders and a perpetual look of “don’t fuck with me” on his freckled face. He had a fast and determined gait and maneuvered through the hallways with his head down, like a bull on a mission. We passionately discussed movies and music with teenage fervor, sometimes even sharing a few favorites, but more often we disagreed. We did, however, have a similar drawing style, although I remember his being more advanced and refined and not nearly as crude and sketchy as mine. (I like to think I got better.)

Eric and I were also rivals for Lisa Holtsberg. I dated a lot of girls in high school and, although she was sweet and I liked her, my main reason for dating Lisa was that Eric Dorfman pursued her, too. Over an undetermined period of time (read: I can’t remember), Lisa seemed attracted to each of us equally, unless she was just secretly enjoying being a witness to our animosity and the battle for her affection. Soon, I graduated from high school and I moved on, leaving Eric and Lisa (and many others) behind. Or so I thought.

While attending art school, I met the future Mrs. Pincus. When I first met her, as I related in a story told elsewhere on this blog, Mrs. P. was accompanied by her friend Ricci (pronounced “Ricky”, not like actress Christina’s last name). I became friends with Ricci and she would often be invited (or just join in) when Mrs. P. and I went out… and, honestly, I had no problem with that. I soon found out that Ricci had a long time, on-again off-again, somewhat tumultuous, relationship with none other than Eric Dorfman. Ricci talked about Eric constantly, although they seldom went out on dates. She hung out at his place a lot and she went out with us a lot, but rarely would those two activities merge. (In the nearly thirty years I have known my wife, I believe I saw Eric show his face in public with Ricci twice.) When Mrs. P. and I married, Ricci was Maid of Honor. When our son was born, we named Ricci his godmother. Eric eventually married someone who was not Ricci. Despite that, there remained a constant, though illicit, connection between the two of them.

During one of the “off-again” phases of the Ricci-Eric relationship, Ricci developed an unrequited crush on a local radio personality named Mark the Shark. Mark was the amiable half of the wacky 80s era Morning Zoo franchise in Philadelphia. The celebrated show was hosted by perennial pompous asshole John DeBella, a man whose talent and popularity I have yet to understand. In addition to the hourly news updates, the soft-spoken, easy-going Mark the Shark provided a modicum of civility in contrast to DeBella’s annoying antics and forced laughter. Ricci was enamored with Mark. During a live broadcast of the Zoo before an audience of which we were a part, Ricci gazed longingly at Mark for a marathon four hours. Ultimately, John DeBella was humiliated on the air by rival Howard Stern in his early days of syndication and the Morning Zoo fell out of fashion. Mark the Shark, now using his real name Mark Drucker, quietly became the unassuming entertainment reporter for an all-news radio station in Philadelphia. He also married Lisa Holtsberg.

One morning in 1997 at the ungodly hour of 3 AM, a ring from my bedside telephone shattered an otherwise deep sleep. A phone call at 3 AM is rarely a good thing and this one was no different. It was Ricci and she was hysterically crying. Through shrieking and gasps for breath, I was able to decipher her words — Eric Dorfman had committed suicide. He had been depressed over his separation from his wife and young daughter. His excessive self-medication was no longer effective and he shot himself. My wife and I were shocked. Ricci was devastated. A funeral followed shortly. I believe this marked the beginning of the end of my wife’s friendship with Ricci. As I had witnessed and correctly predicted, my wife’s lengthy and strong friendship with Ricci came to a bitter end. Ricci had evolved into a different person — a person far removed from the fun-loving, spontaneous and occasionally happy Ricci we once knew. All in all, Ricci and Mrs. Pincus just grew apart and into different lives.

Early last year, my friend Sam passed away. I encountered several friends from my life a thousand years ago at his memorial service. Now older and somewhat wiser, we seemed to approach each other with warm familiarity and, under the circumstances, sad sentimentality. The cross conversations were peppered with promises of get-togethers and lunch dates and the obligatory exchange of email addresses and cell phone numbers. And as long as the cell phones were out, the display of digitally-captured photographs of absent children soon followed.

Over the course of the next several months, I had rekindled paused friendships from my younger days, culminating in an informal gathering at my friend (and Florida traveling companion) Alan’s home. On that July evening, we were joined by Scott Sadel (now an anesthesiologist) and Jon Wassermann (now a very huggy chiropractor) and our wives for a session of reminiscing among old friends and introduction, as our wives had not previously met. As the sky outside grew darker and several pizzas were reduced to gnawed crusts, the conversation bounced from recounting embarrassing episodes of youth to commiserating about our current employment to updates on our children and extended families. Of course, the inevitable round of “Jewish Geography” reared its yenta head and soon previously unknown connections through summer camp and Jewish youth groups were revealed. Alan even broke out his slide projector for a pale and scratchy trip down Memory Lane. During the “who have you seen/who have you talked to” portion of the night, various forgotten names were bandied about — names that had not crossed our collective minds in decades. We briefly discussed the untimely 2005 death of Mark Drucker when Lisa Holtsberg’s name surfaced, and just as quickly moved on to the next old girlfriend or English teacher.

When autumn rolled around, a varied group of guests gathered at my house for a pre-Thanksgiving soiree. My new old friends Scott and Alan were unavailable to attend, but Jon and his missus excitedly joined us. With a houseful of people from various categories of my acquaintance, extended conversations are difficult. My wife is much more adept at mingling and spending time with all her guests, no matter how brief. I pick who I want to talk to and I pick who I want to avoid. While Jon was simultaneously devouring a cookie and admiring the unusual décor in our dining room, he offhandedly mentioned that Lisa Holtsberg had passed away in September. My eyes widened and I cocked my head in disbelief as I asked Jon to repeat what he just said, in case an errant chocolate chip had ricocheted off a vocal cord and impacted his words. Jon’s wife Marjie confirmed that I had not heard wrong. Mrs. Pincus was carrying a stack of paper plates laden with crumbs and I grabbed her arm as she walked by. I told her what Jon had told me, and although she had never met Lisa, I could tell she was saddened. Not just at the loss of someone so young, but because of the unusual reoccurring role Lisa played in our lives.

For most of our relationship, my wife has been intrigued by the fact that I avoid my past like the plague. Often, we would go to a mall or to a restaurant and I would single out a man noting that I had attended high school with him. “Are you going to say ‘Hello’ and ask how he’s been?”, she’d innocently inquire. I would always answer in the negative, adding that if I gave a shit about “how he’s been”, I would have kept in touch. My dear, dear wife — sweet, warm and friend to all — still finds this perplexing. Year after year, I have expressed no interest in the festivities of a high school reunion. The thought of reliving the dreadful memories (the ones I can remember) of my teen years turns my stomach. Catching up with ancient acquaintances I expect would be lying about post-high school accomplishments turns my stomach even more. Sure, I had friends in school — close ones — but it seemed as though that portion of my life happened to another person. However, 2010 seemed to have brought that person back.

i'm such an environmentalist

2011-01-05T04:59:00.000-08:00

i go to the goodwill like seventeen times per week. maybe that's an exaggeration. but i love to see what people deem suitable for donation. sometimes it's like, you really didn't just throw that away? but other times it's, cool, i just got 2 heywood wakefield tables for 16 bucks (last thursday i really did. score).

i used to have an aversion to buying used clothes. not anymore. my best stuff is now from the gw. it all comes with these color coded tags (see above) and i was just thinking: plastic. landfills. but probably the not-very-eco-friendly tags are less evil than the recycling aspect of the gw is good. right?

Oh, Dem Golden Slippers

2011-01-02T17:16:00.000-08:00

Philadelphia is famous for a lot of things — The Liberty Bell, soft pretzels and cheesteaks... um.... did I already say "The Liberty Bell"? Okay, Philadelphia is famous for a few things.

Like most cities, Philadelphia has traditions that are not well-known to non-residents. One of the "locals only" customs in the City of Brotherly Love is the annual Mummers Parade. The Mummers parade, which has raged on every New Years Day for the past one hundred and ten years, is difficult to explain.

As a long-time non-fan of the Mummers, I will give it my best assessment. Obviously, it is a celebration of the brand new year. The Mummers Parade participants hail mostly from the close-knit, blue-collar neighborhoods of South Philadelphia. Various "New Years Associations", as they are called, each make their own costumes, arrange their own music and choreograph their own performances in a process that begins just days after the New Year's Day march up Second Street — "Two Street", as true Mummers call it. Like its West Coast counterpart, The Rose Parade, the Mummers Parade is hand-made. Each float is assembled and decorated by "guys in the neighborhood". The difference, though, is the Mummers parade looks homemade. Very homemade.

Each group's themes are kept a closely-guarded secret, as though they were matters of national security. Ironically, the themes duplicate each other from year to year and even from group to group. Face it, there is only so much that can be done with feathers and sequins and glitter when placed in the hands of a bunch of carpenters and pipe-fitters and truck drivers and tavern owners. So, any given year will see a presentation of "Fantasy of the Clowns" followed by an eerily similar "Clown Fantasy". A production of "Mardi Gras On Two Street" will often give way to a competing group's "Two Street Mardi Gras".

The parade is comprised of the unfunny Comics Groups, the not-so-fancy Fancies Brigades and, the most popular part of the parade, the string bands. Here, a simply-choreographed band of plumbers, welders and retired policemen, gaily festooned in fake plumage and rhinestone-encrusted satin, plunk out a barely-recognizable tune on banjo, accompanied by the din of flat saxophones and clinky glockenspiels. The band is led by a smiling and strutting group captain wearing a color-variant version of the band's chosen costume and caked with more make-up than a Times Square hooker.

Once the parade officially ends, the celebration continues well into New Year's night with the streets of South Philadelphia overflowing with music and alcohol and vomit, despite the adamant claim of a "No Drinking" policy among parade participants.

The most intriguing aspect of the Mummers Parade is that one day out of the year, it is perfectly fine for these guys to prance down Broad Street dressed in feathers, glitter, lipstick and gold-painted shoes, but, if these guys saw anyone dancing down Broad Street dressed in a similar fashion on the other 364 days of the year, they would beat the ever-loving shit out out them.

2010-12-30T18:44:00.000-08:00

i am sorry that i have not posted in some time now.
i wish i could say that i was too busy, or that nothing of note has happened.

i wish i could say that

i celebrated my 32nd birthday last night.

and yes, i wish i could say that another milestone made me wiser but really all all i can say is that it made my key board sticker.

i spilled a coke on it you pervs...

i do have story that i would like to share with you,

many years ago i was (and still am) friends with a guy who went on to a local university

which mean that i could go get college tail on weekends without the essays.

it is funny that it ended up that i had to bone up on my education, no pun intended, get these poor young women to basically spread their sheets...

i am(was/is/are) an asshole.

i hope, id like to think that I've made some progress but i am not so sure (although i know that i do prefer a crossword puzzle to an unassuming young woman these days - they being somebodies daughters and all.)

anyway

i was out with a friend earlier who told me the story of how i did the most epic thing in the world.

and this is even better than the time i stole all the wheel locks off the bikes of the apartment complex in davis...

i had been at a hippie party, and another friend and i decided to knock down their teepee, and liberate (read: steal) some beer.

pockets full we ran to the car amidst the floating ashes (teepee+bonfire=civic event)

on the way home one of the guys in the back seat threw up in the street when we screamed at the...

one second.

after the hippie party we went to an all night 24 hour restaurant.

and someone (read: me) bet another guy that he could not drink an entire bottle of Tabasco sauce and a glass of milk.

high off his burning of a hippie party he accepted.

the deal was drink both and i would pay, he got half way through before the waitress who had served us our food took pity (read, again: did not want someone to puke in her section) and comped our meal.

we (not he) ate like kings.

that leads me to a spot in my like that is only vaguely remembered.

there have been many drinks over the years and when in the company of my friend, there might have been a time or two that i may bumped into things of no consequence with his truck, i am not proud to say it but then again i was young, and even that doesn't excuse it. still it only happened once or twice and no one was ever hurt.

that said.

we were driving home from the restaurant, i was not driving, i, sadly was in the back seat next to the guy that
who was stuck in the middle who started throwing up.

somehow he managed to hold it down until the driver finally pulled over, we were all screaming at him to stop the car.

and then that leads to the two women.

the ones we picked up at the hippie party.

now.

i can not tell you their names, and, more is the point, they looked like.

and

and i cannot tell you what stupid argument we got into (my friend and i) although i am kinda sure that it had to do with the pair of girls

I'm pretty sure that there may have been a midget cop (read: actual policeman of dwarfism stature)

but i do know that i can tell you this...

he left his truck cab window open, and i pissed into his front seat, the stream was mighty, it crept up from handle to window to seat.

that was around 3 in the morning.

he was (pardon the pun) pissed but by 6 we were playing video games and laughing about it.

and no, i did not help clean it up.

who's got a big red cherry nose?

2010-12-19T11:33:00.000-08:00

Last night, my son and I stopped for dinner at National Mechanics an hour or so before heading to a concert. National Mechanics is a restaurant and bar in the Old City section of Philadelphia,and one of my son's favorite haunts.

We came inside out of the cold December evening and were greeted by a dark-haired young lady who grabbed a couple of laminated menus and directed us to a table toward the rear of the dining area adjacent to the bar, lively with Happy Hour patrons. As we each perused our menus, a waitress, whom my son knew, politely introduced herself and took our drink orders. She returned with the two glasses and accepted our dinner requests.

My son and I talked as we waited for our meals. I regularly interrupted his train of thought to have him identify various songs playing on the slightly-too-loud piped-in music.

At a point in our conversation, I was distracted by something in my peripheral vision. The dark-haired hostess was having words with a man near the bar. The man, whose back was to me, was wearing an ill-fitting Santa Claus suit. Although they were less than two feet from where I sat, I could not hear their exchange over the ambient music. From the stern expression on the hostess' face, it was apparent she was not pleased. Her jaw worked and her brow knitted as she made her point. The Santa man listened silently and rocked slightly from side to side. Finally, he dropped his shoulders and staggered toward the the door. The hostess, with arms defiantly folded across her chest, watched to confim his exit. As she made her way back to her post by the front door, I tapped her shoulder when she passed within reach.

"Did you just throw Santa out of here?", I asked.

"Santa was in here earlier.," she replied, "He's had enough."

happy holidays

2010-12-17T10:25:00.001-08:00

sight

2010-12-15T10:56:00.000-08:00

hindsight is 20/20 and cheap sunglasses won't help you see at all. i know, that makes no sense. it's been one of those days.

sigh.

josh pincus is confessing

2010-12-12T05:45:00.000-08:00

I have spent nearly five years expanding my blog with observances of the quirkiness of my surroundings, chronicling the deaths of those once celebrated and now forgotten, stories from my past and, of course, my silly drawings. In that time, I presented my views on religion, both my own and those of which I am not a follower. Because I have often been questioned as the peer-appointed spokesman of the Jewish faith, I have tried to detail the unusual customs and rituals associated with being a member of “The Chosen People”. Well, it’s time for Josh Pincus to come clean.

I grew up in a Jewish household. To me, that meant we didn’t drag a tree into our living room every December, we didn’t dress up in our finest clothes on a late Sunday in April, and we didn’t believe that Jesus was Our Savior… whatever that meant. (Who thought, at six years old, I needed saving?) Despite the majority of my classmates also being Jewish, we weren't denied participation in Christmas card and gift exchanges at school and dyeing Easter eggs every spring. It also didn’t stop me from enjoying another practice associated with my communion wafer-munching friends — the visit to Santa Claus.

I have vivid memories of accompanying my Mom to one of several large department stores in the pre-mall days of the 1960s. The store’s toy department was jammed with all the latest offerings to fulfill a child’s appetite whetted by Saturday morning commercials and the thick Sears Wish Book. Just past the aisles of colorful playthings was an area gaily decorated with twinkling lights and pine garland and speckled with oversized red velvet bows and piles of fake snow. In the center sat a raised platform covered with more fake snow surrounding a great throne on which sat the seasonal fat man himself. Several holly-decked pylons connected by candy-striped rope designated a queue line. Excited children chatted and fidgeted as they waited their turn to greet St. Nick and impart their requests for gifts.
My mom directed me to join the line while she made arrangements with the “elves” operating the huge tripod-supported camera for a photographic record of my encounter with Santa. (Although I’m sure he did, I don’t recall my older brother joining us for these yearly excursions. Obviously, he got wise to this scam at an earlier age than I did.) I patently waited for my chance to tell Santa what I wanted. I knew that we didn’t celebrate Christmas, didn’t have a Christmas tree and especially didn’t have a chimney or fireplace, but I never made the connection. All I knew was: if you wanted presents, this was the guy to ask. A smiling little girl in white tights and a plaid coat climbed down from Santa’s lap and happiliy skipped away. A college-age young lady in full elf uniform waved me in. My moment in the spotlight had arrived. My mom stood by the platform’s exit ramp and beamed. I’d fix that in a few minutes.

The kind-faced Santa looked down at me perched on his red-flocked lap and asked if I had been good this year. My six-year old mind assessed the question. As if any six-year old would fess up, I answered that I not only had I been good, I'd been very good. Then, he asked the most important question, the one I was preparing for. “What would you like for Christmas?”, he smiled. I wrinkled my brow at the “Christmas” reference. Then, I raised my head proudly, cleared my little throat and replied.

“My very own roll of Scotch tape.”

Santa stared, perplexed. “What?” he asked in a puzzled tone. “I want my very own roll of Scotch tape.”, I repeated. (Okay, I thought, the guy’s old. Maybe he didn’t catch me on the first go-round.) Santa looked over my shoulder at my mother. My mother frantically looked around for a place to hide. She glanced back at Santa with a “that-is-not-my-kid-on-your-lap” look on her face. Santa looked at me again and saw the “I-am-not-shittin'-around” look on my face. With disbelief, he stammered as he echoed my request.

“A roll of Scotch tape?”

I confirmed.

“Nothing else?”, he asked, somewhat hopeful.

I stared back at Santa with my own disbelief. “Nope” I said. Why on earth would I want anything else, I thought. I’m talking Scotch tape, my chubby friend! Do you have any idea how much fun I could have with my very own roll of Scotch tape?

The bewildered Santa smiled, nodded, handed me a candy cane and sent me on my way. I joined my mom who was busily trying to hide her embarrassment from the other mothers. “Did you just ask Santa for a roll of Scotch tape?”, she asked.

“Yep. Of my very own.”

Mission accomplished, we continued walking through the store.

(left) Josh Pincus visits with Santa, circa 1967.
(right) JPiC hits the jackpot!

My annual Christmas music compilation is available as a FREE DOWNLOAD for a limited time.
26 unusual songs, an annoying BONUS track and a custom full-color cover with track listings — all for you and for FREE!
Just CLICK HERE for “A Non-Traditional Christmas 2010.”

Happy Holidays from your pal JPiC!
(Please contact me if you have trouble with the download.)

Not a moment in my real life, but still a new comic!

2010-12-07T18:14:00.000-08:00

The most magical time of the year... I suppose

2010-12-04T16:23:00.000-08:00

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

26 unusual songs, an annoying BONUS track and a custom full-color cover all for you and for FREE!

Just CLICK HERE for “A Non-Traditional Christmas 2010.

Happy Holidays from your pal JPiC!

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

there's the wind up and there's the pitch

2010-11-30T21:11:00.000-08:00

I spent a long weekend at Harrah's Resort in Atlantic City with my family. This is not another account of my wife's affection for gambling. This is a story of racism, once again, rearing its ubiquitous head.

After breakfast, my son and I headed back to our hotel room while my wife spent some time in the casino. (I don't know... maybe she was checking out the carpeting or lighting fixtures for an upcoming home improvement project.) We stood at the bank of six elevators waiting for one to whisk us up to our room on the thirty-second floor. A chime split the air announcing the arrival of an elevator. My son and I filed in. We were followed by a man and woman in their thirties and another couple, I would venture to guess, pushing seventy. The doors shut.

The older man — a short, bent-over fellow — was giving the younger man the "once-over", until he finally cleared his throat and addressed him. "You look like C.C. Sabathia.", he croaked. His thin lips curled back, revealing an obviously false set of equine-like choppers. The object of this observation was a very tall (about six foot-five) black man sporting a New York Yankees baseball cap. He was preoccupied with his cellphone, unaware that the old man's comment was directed at him. So, the elderly gentleman repeated his assertion, this time a little louder — "You look like C.C. Sabathia".

C. C. Sabathia is a Cy Young Award winning, four-time All Star pitcher for the New York Yankees, whose seven-year, $161 million contract is the largest in Major League Baseball history. He is six feet-seven inches tall and weighs 250 pounds. The only thing that our fellow elevator passenger had in common with Mr. Sabathia was he was tall, he was black and he wore a Yankees hat. He was approximately half the girth of the Yankee hurler and didn't remotely resemble him.

The young man smiled uncomfortably and mumbled apologetically to the old man, "Heh, heh... I wish I had his money." Just then, the doors opened and the younger couple exited the car. The older man and his silent wife remained for one more floor, ultimately leaving the elevator occupied by just my son and me. Once we were alone, my son turned to me and, noting my short stature and pointing to my red hair and glasses, said, "Y'know, if that guy in the Yankees hat wasn't here, the old man would have told you that you look like Woody Allen."

Yankees pitcher C.C. Sabathia

Another story of racism can be found HERE on the josh pincus is crying blog.

we're s-h-o-p-p-i-n-g

2010-11-30T20:22:00.000-08:00

Several hours after a full Thanksgiving meal of lentil soup, mashed potatoes, green beans and a huge slice of Tofurky as the crowning jewel, my wife and I set out for a traditional Thanksgiving evening ritual.

At midnight on Thanksgiving, we found ourselves in a queue line for The Disney Store at the Hamilton Mall, just outside of Atlantic City, New Jersey. Two Disney Store employees were monitoring the flow of customers into the store and pacifying the anxious by passing out printed fliers highlighting special limited-time offers. From behind a cloth-tension line barrier, we observed a mall alive with bustling bodies, each laden with many bagged purchases. In front of us were two women busily discussing their buying strategy and listing the potential recipients of their discounted scores. They also commiserated about the wretched children they left at home and how they toyed with the idea of sleeping in their cars to avoid returning to the afore-mentioned, child-packed abode. Behind us, we overheard several more women having almost the identical conversation. Yet, they were in line, at midnight, on a family holiday, at a store that stocks items targeted to the 2 to 9 year old demographic.

I turned to my wife, a lifelong passionate shopper, and said, "It's midnight. Our son is 23. And we don't even celebrate Christmas. What the fuck are we doing here?"

"Social experiment.", she answered.

2010-11-30T14:48:00.000-08:00

Sometimes between when class is out and when I have to go get the girls, I study. Sometimes, I read a book or write a paper, or knock out a PowerPoint presentation. But, today, I went outside and the air was crisp and the sinking sun was blanketing the earth in its yellow rays. So, I grabbed the camera and I went for a walk.

Sac State is a beautiful campus with beautiful trees, Oaks and Redwoods, all nestled next to the river. So, I went up the walking trail, past the levee, and across the foot bridge

and on the other side I fell in love with this mangled looking tree as it basked in the sunset.

I took a few more shots, a few deep breaths, and then headed back to campus to load up the girls and start our journey home.

Today, I reveled in the Small Things: A brisk walk, an evening sunset, some quiet time to be introspective. I fell in love with nature, and then I remembered what makes life so wonderful - the beauty and the joy.

Intentions

2010-11-30T11:59:00.001-08:00

2010-11-26T04:55:00.000-08:00

s'been awhile...

i'm probably not going to be as much fun as i've arguably have been, im flat out broke, i am not able to find work and i know that tdirl is mostly based on things that happen, and when you are not able to go out and record, things do not happen so much.

so i thought i might post my thanksgiving experience.

(self editing here ie. robert downing jr. crap... eh fuck it)

Just hangin' round a roadblock

2010-11-22T19:44:00.000-08:00

On Thursday, I was sitting in my office and I was distracted. I knew somewhere, 39 floors below me, was a Philadelphia soft pretzel calling my name. I jumped from my desk, hastily put on my gray Phillies hoodie and my denim jacket, darted down the hall and made a determined bee line for the elevator.

Philadelphia soft pretzels are my Kryptonite and the pretzels of my dreams are sold at the Philly Pretzel Factory location just inside Suburban Station, a sprawling network of tiled walkways snaking underneath downtown Philadelphia. Besides offering access to various routes of public transportation, Suburban Station boasts an array of shops and services and fast-food establishments.

In the lobby of my employer's building is a long, steep escalator that deposits riders at an exit, one level below the bustling street. This exit leads to a tributary corridor of the train station. Once though a set of revolving doors, I am just a Dunkin Donuts, two short stairways and a water ice stand away from pretzel pay dirt.

I hurried to the pretzel vendor. From the size of the queue line inside, I was not alone in my cravings of a mid-afternoon pretzel. I spotted a few familiar faces in line. Faces I regularly pass as I make my way from my morning train to my office. Some were permanent residents of the train station, who had managed to scrape together a few coins to trade for a snack (or in the case of some, a long-awaited meal).

I took my place in line behind a man wearing a dirty and frayed jacket. He gripped a loaded plastic bag from Shirt Corner, a mens' clothing store that is thirteen blocks away. From the size and heft of the bag, it obviously did not contain shirts. I inched closer to the counter as each customer's order was filled. The man in front of me placed and received his order. He meticulous traced the surface of his pretzel with complementary mustard squeezed from a plastic bottle. When his doughy baked knot was properly anointed, he exited the store. I gave the counter girl my order, got my pretzels (three and an accompanying Coke Zero — the Number Three Combo) and headed back to work.

When I got to the first small stairway I had to scale, there was the pretzel guy who was in front of me in line — just standing and eating his pretzel. He had not made it very far from the front door of the pretzel store. He was standing equidistant from either wall and dead-center before the stairs, blocking anyone who might be walking in a straight line. Among the "straight-line walkers" who were prohibited from pursuing a direct route were me and hundreds of other people. He was oblivious to the world around him, aware only of the mustard-covered yeasty ambrosia he was apparently enjoying. And he apparently chose the perfect place in which to experience his enjoyment to the fullest. I jockeyed my way around his girth and was followed by a parade of similarly inconvenienced walkers. I glanced back and pretzel guy was still transfixed in his moment of zen, as hunks of pretzel tumbled around in his head.

tuesday rocketh

2010-11-16T10:05:00.000-08:00

(image coming soon, my camera battery died)

maybe some people would think this is the beginning of a bad day: you wake up and discover one of your pet snakes has escaped the tank. i found it exciting. where is she? will she turn up? will one of the cats find her first? who would win a battle between the snake and a cat?

i wish none of my pets harm, let me be clear on that point. and, anyway, i found the snake, slithering around in a desk drawer. all's well that ends well!

thinking i would be home, snake hunting for a good portion of the day, i had made no plans. since i found the snake early on, i hit the goodwill. i found 4 excellent books, some japanese pottery, a real pashmina brand pashmina, and a FABULOUS andy warhol tote bag that must have come from some museum shop. all for under $4.50!

and it's only 1 pm

this is what happens when you cant afford to go out at night it seems...

2010-11-14T03:18:00.000-08:00

so I'm hoarding whats left of my savings and trying to not waste it on weekend endeavors, so i seem to be spending a lot of my time at home.

and watching thing like tosh.0, nick swardsons etc., and stuff like that.

oh and in this case some kind of showtime special, hosted by Shannon Elizabeth that turned out to be part stand up-part strip show.

which would have been fine, had my mom not been there.

and of course before i had the chance to realize what was really going on the questions began...

and when the comic left and the stripper took of her shirt i hit "info" and saw that it was a "variety" show...

so i quickly hit recorded items and we finished the evening on an episode of scrubs.

2010-11-14T02:03:00.000-08:00

so i was thinking, over the last few weeks ive asked josh a few questions about his approach, or process that he uses/take when creating his art, and i found that while it was very similar in many respect to my own, that i was able to learn a few things, ie. photoshop brushes he used.

and then i thought, while this community has no weekly theme, it might be cool for the participants to share their artistic paths and explain how they create their pieces, their processes.

anyone willing to step up and do that?

Imploding Potato

2010-11-12T22:06:00.000-08:00

I am going to tell you something, and you better not tell anyone about what you read here. Yesterday, Mom told me to lie to my Dad. I just moved back with my parents due to some crazy ex issues. It has been a HUGE adjustment on everyone’s part. But overall everyone is glad to have me home. Then something stupid happen, I wanted to microwave a potato for a snack. So I got the smallest potato from the bag and tossed it in the microwave for four minutes. Mom called me from upstairs to help her with the computer. So I went to help her and then when I came back down stairs I smell FIRE.

I am a little absent minded, so I completely forgot about the potato and didn’t know where the smell was coming from. I was looking in the toaster and in the oven. Then suddenly it dawned on me “OH THE POTATO!” I open the microwave and there IT is! A black charcoal potato. I was horrified, it is possibly the dumbest thing I done in the kitchen.

I franticly began cleaning the microwave plate hoping to hide the evidence before Mom came down stairs. Then when I go to wipe down the microwave I see I giant crater on the top inside of the microwave. “Ohhhhh” Mom comes down asking what the hell that smell is. She pretty much lost it, “WHAT THE HELL DID YOU DO…HOW LONG DID YOU COOK THAT POTATO FOR!?”

I felt so bad; I told her I buy her a new microwave and that I was sorry. We then took turns scrubbing the microwave clean. Mom kept on about Dad and how mad he would be. My Dad isn’t a violent man, but for some reason Mom seem really worried about the microwave and Dad.

Hours later after we cleaned and I went to my room to think about how stupid I am, Mom came into my room and told me that she told Dad that SHE had the accident and remember that lie if he asks. I felt like I was being tested. WHAT…LIE ABOUT IMPLODING POTATO? During Dinner, Dad made lite conversation towards Mom “…so what did you burn in the microwave?” I felt awful hearing the lie come from her mouth. I still don’t know what to do; I don’t want to go against Mom’s request to not say anything.

and i get to see shit like this

2010-11-12T03:45:00.000-08:00

i went out earlier tonight.

its getting to be a more rare thing.

but i went, and sat. and watched.

and just as was leaving then this gem happened.

does the whole world have adhd???

2010-11-10T10:53:00.001-08:00

we paid a good bit of cash to see Roger Waters play The Wall last night; good parking, great seats. the show was incredible. too bad every shit head in my immediate vicinity was drunk, loud and stupid.

i mean, we all paid good money to see this show, right? yet these people around me, they were chatting with each other, shouting things like "this is the greatest show EVER!!!" and clinking their plastic beer cups and proclaiming undying friendship. the sentiments were fine, but were they necessary, say, during roger's monologue?

i didn't think so. i asked the people in front of me to sit down and be quiet, then i yelled at two of them, telling them if they wanted to talk they should take it to the hall, and THEN i told the folks behind me to please "shhh" - a gesture met with great hostility, but i persisted and they did "shhhh" for a good while.

people were up, down, back to the bar, off to the bathroom, talking, talking, god. i've never experienced anything like it in my life. when there was an intermission, i was really worried things would get a lot worse. having a break, would these people be capable of settling back down?

thank god for pot. a lot of sparking up went on and the second part of the show was a dream. like church. immaculate.

it's happy hour again

2010-11-08T20:26:00.000-08:00

Last week, my place of employment invited everyone in the Philadelphia office to a "happy hour" as a show of appreciation. Since most "social" programs have been cut as a result of the recent downturn of the economy, a small gathering like this was welcomed by the employees.

At four o'clock last Wednesday, a full-coverage email went out encouraging everyone to take some time out of their day to congregate in the office library for light fare and alcoholic and non-alcoholic refreshment. I joined some of my department co-workers and queued up for the free eats.

The company was kind enough to recruit a caterer to furnish an array of hot and cold appetizers, some displayed in large metal chafing dishes. I am a vegetarian, so I am constantly scrutinizing all edible offerings placed before me. Since the serving vessels were not labeled, I stuck with the things I recognized, although some of the mystery foods did look good. So, I scooped up a couple of slices of bruschetta and went over to some of my co-workers.

As we made small talk and happily munched from our individual plates, I directed my friend Kym's attention to the buffet table, specifically to a plate piled high with small pie crusts stuffed with a thick and creamy, green-flecked filling. Just past the pies was a mutli-tiered plate laden with thinly-sliced celery and carrot sticks and ceramic crock of dip. Pointing to the pies, I asked Kym if she knew what they were. She raised her eyes, extended her finger, and, with a deadpan expression across her face, she confirmed, "That? Right there? Those are carrots."

I looked at Kym. "Do you really think I can't identify a carrot?"

I ate the bruschetta until it was time to go home.

come in here dear boy

2010-11-08T19:37:00.000-08:00

This past Friday, my wife and I indulged in one of my favorite double-features. Based on her (rampant? excessive? extravagant? .... let's say "passionate") gambling, we were awarded free buffet and free tickets to bad-boy magicians Penn and Teller at Harrah's Casino in Atlantic City. After stuffing ourselves like Thanksgiving turkeys, we enjoyed a stellar performance by the celebrated illusionist duo. Upon exiting the showroom, my wife headed to the casino for a few hours of pressing a button on a slot machine while it eats dollar after precious dollar of our hard-earned income. I dislike gambling. Not because of any sort of moral issue. I just find it boring. My wife, however loves it. And since I enjoy spending time with my wife, I feed an inordinate amount of cash into one of those machines, too.

Saturday evening brought us to our second casino in as many days. Even though Philadelphia legalized casino gambling in 2004, after much debate and protest, Sugar House Casino opened its doors just this past May, making it the first casino within the city limits. My son was attending a concert at a venue two blocks from Sugar House Casino. He asked for a ride home after the show, and since he does not drive, my wife and I obliged his request, knowing that we could kill some time at the casino. Fishtown, as you may imagine, isn't an upscale Philadelphia neighborhood, as, say Society Hill or Rittenhouse Square. The name being the first indication. The building that houses the casino is big and bright and flashy and totally out-of-place in the dingy, blue-collar community.

We parked and walked through the parking lot (past a sign warning against leaving your children in your car — a chronic problem in Philadelphia area casinos, thank you) to the main building. Upon entering we were surrounded by flashing lights and the mechanized "cha-ching" of coins (coins no longer fall from slot machines, only bar-coded paper vouchers). My wife settled at one of her favorite themed machines while I wandered for a bit. I sat down in front of a slot machine in the large No Smoking area. After a few minutes, I caught a whiff of the unmistakable and nauseating smell of cigar. I looked around and spotted the source of the stench. Over at a nearby craps table stood a man with slick helmet of coiffed black hair. He was wearing a classic tuxedo and, in his hand, he held a fat, long, black salami-like cigar — it's far end smoldering and erupting in thick, gray smoke. He rolled the stogie lovingly between his stubby fingers and, with his other hand, cradled the waist of a trampy-looking trollop, who was over-dressed in a sequined mini.

I marvelled at this prick as I reminded myself that I was in Fishtown — fucking Fishtown — and not on the set of a Martin Scorsese film. "Who the fuck dresses like that?", I thought. This guy reinforced my belief that anyone under the age of sixty that smokes cigars is a douchebag. Cigars are things our grandfathers smoked. Old men on a park bench, with no pleasure left in their life, smoke cigars. Bookies and gangsters in 1940s movies with Edward G. Robinson and George Raft smoke cigars. Forty-year old guys do not smoke cigars unless they are in a casino in Fishtown trying to impress themselves and the bimbo they're trying to charm into the sack.

He may as well have had a neon sign over his head that flashed "Asshole" in glowing red letters.

...and my wife does not have a gambling problem, goddammit!

2010-11-07T10:02:00.000-08:00

There's a coffee shop I like to go to. A home away from home, if you will. In general, I am too consumed by some text book or essay to notice what is going on in the courtyard where I like to sit and sip coffee while typing something resembling BS (designed to get me an "A" on whatever assignment is most pressing) as fast as my fingers can go.

Drawing is not really my thing, but I figured... when in Rome and all that.

Like any truly awesome place, there is a set of "regulars" that can be found at nearly any given moment in that courtyard - most of whom I know by name and exchange pleasantries with a few times a week. Its important to know that I have spent time in this courtyard for as long as I can remember. I have exchanged pleasantries with these regulars for years; with some, for decades. I'm not really sure what made today different, but today... I looked up. And suddenly, today, it struck me...

This is special. This is what I love most about Midtown... the way that people of different ages, races, genders, socio-economic ranks, and belief systems come together in one place and form friendships. Its what makes the places I love so, well, lovable.

Same place, different view... more my speed when it comes to art.

So, today, I pulled up a chair and re-learned the game of chess; I exchanged more than pleasantries with people who I have known of, but not really known, for years. Today I learned more, I formed stronger connections; I invested myself in the community. And when you really think about it, isn't that what life is about? What makes life enjoyable is that connection to others which gives us a reason to know that we are more than just the sum of our own parts.

How will you connect today?

(cross-posted at Small Things)

2010-11-01T15:19:00.000-07:00

so halloween.

it started slow, this neighbohood used to be a popular spot to trick or treat, but as the years passed the childern grew up and moved on to other things.

this year a new generation of kids took the streets and soon i was pausing the tv every three minutes or so to pass out candy to children who were barely old enough to understand the concept of the holiday.

id open the door and some of them would try to walk in the house, making a beeline for the basket of candy by the door, or each one of them would ring the bell, even after id started passing out treats.

they were cute tho and some of them made me think of the child that i once had in my life.

many of them, well lets say that there were a few exchanges that went down like this:

like i said, cute, right?

see the thing of the night was that traditionally every year my mom hosts the family halloween party, but since the passing of the grandparents get togethers have dwindled and paired with the fact that all the cousins that are of my generation no longer have to resort to begging for candy, what was supposed to be a fun night of drinking laughter and trivial pursuit ended with my aunt and uncle coming over for a quick dinner and then leaving for other pursuits.

then my mom went to bed leaving me to gaurd the door against witches, spongebobs and quite a few bumble bees.

and then my sister called.

we hadnt been able to get ahold of either sibling earlier that day (as it turned out my mom had written both their numbers down incorrectly, and i dont call them often enought to have memorized their numbers - they swtch plans too often and get new ones - so i kept getting this number has been diconnected messages with every attempt) she had rallied and was bring her fiance and my other sis, and they were on thier way.

and the night then turned for the better as i got to enjoy their company, my mom got up and we watched the giants smash the rangers until my future brother in law (rangers fan) couldnt take it any more and we put the last harry potter movie on in the ninth inning.

which then was promptly ignored as the photo albums and acoustic guitar mad their appearances.

wine was dunk, stories were told, and my mom at one point said:

followed by a pregnant silence.

and then laughter.

when everyone recovered my soon to be brother in law announced to the room: "thats going into your blog!"

and so it has.

on a clear day you can see forever

2010-10-31T11:41:00.000-07:00

I took this photo of the Disney Studios in Burbank, California on Saturday, October 23. This view, from high in the Hollywood Hills, can only be seen from one place.

Wanna know where I was when I snapped it?

Click HERE and find out.

2010-10-31T04:25:00.000-07:00

regarding missed... stuff

i hate going to the movies alone.

i often wonder how many films i have missed out on seeing because id been dumped.

or that "awesome" moment when you see the last movie you watched as a couple in a theater go to video, and you think... huh, already?

its also funny that i cannot remember the years of the relationships that ive had but by who i sat next to during some flick and what the film was.

is that sad, or just normal?

anyway i was sitting alone at the spot i usually haunt, no pun intended, and was subjected to "halloween night."

surrounded by more men in drag than i had been since my college years in san francisco, and slutty witches, nurses, schoolgirls... well you name a womens costume and add "slutty" in front of it and youll get the idea, and possibly an erection or wet, depending on your gender and/or proclivity.

as i mentioned above, for whatever reason i am not really able to track things in general by date per se, but by things like what i was reading, watching, or hearing at the time.

so my life is measured by things like:

spacehog: in the meantime... highschool: senior
eurythmics: sweet dreams... before my parents divorced
the weakerthans: watermark... just before college and her

tom petty: free falling... dad died (in her later and more dementia ridden years my grandmother would ask if i had a father, i told her he died, and she asked how... so i responded "lead poisoning" my mom spit out her coffee... grandma didnt get it... he ate a bullet, sorry for that aside.)

or days, not dates, again no pun intended, but things like holidays, like halloween.

and how i had this real great one that i had spent with this woman who would eventually crush me in ways that im sure will make some lucky therapist very rich someday if i ever get around to it.

i was sitting there tonight and thinking that it wasnt even ten years ago that i was spending this holiday, having fun.

and not sitting alone in a fog of smoke and drowning in an ocean of people grasping my pen like wreckage trying to stay above water and i remembered a quote i heard once which i will paraphrase here.

everything i do
was more fun
when you were
doing it with me.

2010-10-31T03:19:00.000-07:00

we had chineese tonight. i got this.

translation?

its not shit, son, its manure.

a painting from my past

2010-10-30T18:35:00.000-07:00

I did this painting in art school in 1981. I never felt I was much good at painting and I gave the original to my friend Sam, one of my biggest fans and supporters of my work.

Despite Sam's regular change of address,we remained friends over the years, even though there were many times that we lost touch.

Sam found my painting and sent a scan of it to me in 2007. Of course, I had long forgotten about it.

HERE is a link to a story I wrote about my friend Sam back in March 2010. I wish he could have read it.

16 years ago (roughly)

2010-10-29T06:34:00.000-07:00

so i dug deeper

2010-10-27T12:47:00.000-07:00

from my barista days, and you know, transformers.

my defunct blog about serving assholes coffee: http://coffeewageslave.blogspot.com/

its kinda both funny and depressing going through old sketch books...

reading things you wrote, stuff that you were going through ten years ago... and still seem to be battling.

oh...

idea.

i know that this is a free form forum and not prompt driven, but what the hell.

I COMMAND YOU ALL TO GO AND SCAN OLD SKETCH BOOK PAGES AND POST THEM HERE...

or you know, not.

i did something stupid

2010-10-24T04:32:00.000-07:00

i went through some of my old sketch books

and scanned some of the things that i didnt post before

its stuff i never got around to scanning,

i hope its of intrest to you

but for the grace of god my mother couldnt find her keys this morning

2010-10-22T09:56:00.000-07:00

so you all get this.

which wasnt going to be posted till tonight at best but since im up and cant get back to sleep...

enjoy.

apoligies to those bands/performers that didnt make the strip, you might have been mentioned but not by her so dont feel so bad about it.

sorry im not posting as often as i should be

2010-10-19T05:42:00.000-07:00

i spent the last day and-a-something in bed, tryng to sleep and finding nothing but unsettling dreams of children i lost, debt that i havent, and college teachers that i suspected wanted me but never had the chance to fuck.

i both hate and love my dreams.

mostly hate.

i hate it when the weather changes.

it makes me remember.

i hate remembering.

i forgot to tell you

2010-10-18T17:21:00.000-07:00

so two weeks ago, i was sloughing the dead skin off of my son's pet python because he was having a bad shed. it was not enjoyable for either one of us. before i realized what happened, the snake shit on my crotch.

eeeewwwwww.

(i figured this post would be more palatable sans image)

sorry its been awhile

2010-10-15T04:18:00.000-07:00

im not sure what to make of this one.

i had my ipod in my ears and was grading papers for **** when i caught this in the moment between songs.

it was this young woman who kept playing with a shot of something brown and smiling in a sad sort of way.

without looking all that sad while doing it... if that made sense.

anyway, with work to do i jotted the quote on a post-it and continued giving our nation's future failing grades.

streets of fire (and brimstone)

2010-10-14T09:43:00.000-07:00

Why are Christians so concerned with non-Christians' current convictions and afterlife fate? And why do they need to spread the teachings of their scripture to followers of other scripture and convince them that theirs is better? Proselytizing is a predominately Christian phenomenon and I just don't get it. (According to the sage source Wikipedia, the groups noted for their extensive proselytism include Anglicans, Episcopalians, Born-Again Christians, Jehovah's Witnesses, Jews for Jesus [affectionately called Christians among Jews], Roman Catholics, Southern Baptists, Mormons and Seventh Day Adventists — all Christian-based sects. It should be noted that Jews do not actively seek converts, as we are not completely happy with all of the members of our current natural roster.)

Guerrilla preaching is everywhere. I've gotten crucifix-emblazoned pamphlets proclaiming my inevitable trip to Hell handed to me in the train station. I've had leaflets — warning the grim consequences if I don't accept Jesus as my one true savior — waiting for me under the windshield wiper of my car at a mall. And if you live in or nearby a large city, you'll see that a bustling street corner is the perfect pulpit for preaching "The Word" according to.... whoever.

Street corner religion is most intriguing. There's a guy I pass most mornings in Philadelphia's busy Suburban Station on my two-block walk to work. For the most part, he is dirty and disheveled, save for a Philadelphia Phillies cap proudly perched on his matted hair. He is dressed in torn sweats and a windbreaker that has seen better days. He offers passers-by small, black & white circulars of a religious nature. He mutters an unintelligible speech punctuated with a random shout of "Jesus" after every third or fourth word. During baseball season, when the Phillies were suffering through an extended slump, I figured his Lord had better things to attend to and was ignoring his loyal service.

I am fascinated by another single prophet addressing his permanent al fresco congregation at the corner of 16th and Market Streets, a weathered volume of (possibly) scripture in hand, screaming his own interpretation to anyone within earshot. On various occasions, I have heard snippets of his doctrine to include advice on how to raise children, dealing with unconfessed sins, following Jesus' predestination for working as a stockbroker or at McDonald's, and the Blessed Virgin Mother offering transportation service to the airport. A co-worker tells me that he sputters out the word "lesbian" whenever she crosses his path on her way home.

I'm not much for religion. Most of it makes no sense to me. And when you have a guy like this as your spokesperson, I'm gonna need a little more convincing that this is the pathway to salvation. Although, I may take Mary up on that ride to the airport.

and like a good neighbor

2010-10-12T18:54:00.000-07:00

Look, just because my house happens to be next to your house doesn't automatically make you my friend.

After two years of marriage, my wife and I moved from a rented apartment in northeast Philadelphia to a three-story, six bedroom twin home just outside the city limits. A fire wall separated us from our connected neighbors. Occasionally, we heard muffled voices through the walls and once in a while there would be an odd "cooking" aroma, but I'm sure they had similar complaints about us after our son was born within our first year.

The neighbor we saw most often was just across our side-by-side driveways. She was a single mother of two boys. My family's relationship with her family was a friendly "hello" if we passed each other on the driveway. Sometimes I would have to remind her boys not to ride their bikes across my lawn. They apologized. Once, she sternly requested that I not mow my grass at 8 AM on Sunday morning. I apologized.

And then she moved.

A couple, slightly older than my wife and I, with a small child moved in to the vacant home. He was a spaced-out hippie holdover. Harmless but clueless. Their boy was a quiet and unusual child who rarely spoke and took to instant idolization of my son (much to his dismay). She was... was... a... um... total whack-job. She was very, very vocal about how her old neighborhood was wonderful and how this neighborhood was unfriendly. Could it possibly be you, I wondered. I had an immediate dislike for her.

Soon, they got a dog. A big hound that soulfully howled twenty-four hours a day. The loud howling was coupled with her loud yelling trying to quiet the animal. In the early morning hours, she would stand on her driveway (which is directly under our bedroom window) and scream at her son's protests over going to school.

The couple divorced. He moved out and things got worse. She got another dog. A small thing with a high-pitched "yip" that created cacophony when blended with the other mutt's wailing. She clamors about on her driveway at 5 AM, sorting her glass recyclables and loudly singing an off-key medley of show tunes for her own amusement. Then, she erected a basketball backboard at the top of her driveway, so her ridiculously uncoordinated son could rebound a basketball off our car every time he missed a shot (which was quite often). Then, she took in a boarder who, we later discovered, was a recovering drug addict that had fallen off the wagon. Two weeks ago, he broke into my car and stole my ashtray filled with pennies (about forty cents), then disappeared.* I am constantly picking her blown-over trash cans off my driveway, along with the trash remnants that accompany them. I regularly find empty bottles and food containers (from brands I do not use) in my yard. She installed motion-activated spotlights on the side of her house that are aimed at my house. She extended her driveway over the property line and spilled mud and debris onto my driveway during the concrete-mixing stage of the construction.

This morning, I was awakened by the sound of her crying and screaming loudly on her driveway. In my darkened bedroom, and without the aid of my glasses, I squinted at my alarm clock. It was 6 AM. "What the fuck is she doing now?" my wife whispered in the dark.

We've been asking that question for years.

* It cost me $75.00 to replace the ashtray, and I don't even smoke!

does this make me a bitch?

2010-10-08T06:44:00.000-07:00

yesterday i was in my favorite parking lot hangout. right by the hair salon, the fabulous shoe store and, yes, dunkin donuts. i pulled in and tried to park between these two cars (see diagram above). my trucklet fit, however, my passenger and i could not emerge. this angered me. my favorite parking lot made the spaces too small and most people can't stay within the lines anyway.

so i backed out and went to the outermost spot in that aisle (NOTE: my above diagram neglects to portray the two empty spots between my ultimate parking spot and the car to my left. this is due to my hurried drawing and the size of the paper i used).

ANYway, i parked in the end spot. it just so happened that this large truck which was towing a car wanted to drive through the lot and, in doing so, he wished to utilize the space i had just occupied. the truck came to a halt and the driver looked at me with incredulity. and i? well i...

just didn't give a shit. i went into the fabulous shoe store while the driver stared at me. he lingered a good long while, maybe thinking i'd come back out. i didn't. i didn't give a shit.

day by day

2010-10-07T20:26:00.000-07:00

Okay, so yesterday I was sitting in the waiting room of a doctor's office. There were a few other people — three men and a woman — each seated in a plain brown armchair, some thumbing through magazines, one reading a newspaper. I was the only person in the room who was under the age of seventy. One man and the woman were having an inane and pointless conversation about the availability of Phillies playoff tickets. Each offered incorrect information to the other about how they understood tickets to have been distributed. I was about twenty minutes early for my appointment, so I knew my name would not be called any time soon.

Suddenly, the door creaked open and another potential patient joined us in the waiting room. This man, a hulking figure with a shaved head, dark and weathered sport coat and ragged Dockers, lumbered to the reception area, his heavy shoes crushing the carpet with each step. To confirm his appointment, he announced his name to the woman at the desk. Silently, she scanned the appointment sheet. She gave it the once-over again. She studied it a third time, this time she used her extended index finger as a guide, running it over each and every entry on the sheet. She glanced up at the man.
"Are you sure your appointment is today?," she asked.
"Uh, I think so," he answered, shrugging his slumping, though massive, shoulders.
She scrutinized the list again, this time more slowly and meticulously than her three previous attempts. She briefly conferred with another younger woman in hospital scrubs seated at another desk.
"Could your appointment have been yesterday?," she asked.
"I dunno. I thought it was today., " the man muttered, the words slurring together, barely intelligible.
The receptionist politely offered a solution. "I can make an appointment for you right now, if you like. Maybe for later this afternoon. Would that be okay?"
"That'll be alright," he accepted.
The young woman in scrubs interrupted. "Here it is!," she said. She directed her speech to the man. "Tomorrow!," she said, "Your appointment is this time tomorrow!"
"Okay," he said, "I'll come back tomorrow." He turned and headed towards the exit, almost knocking over a frail older man who had entered during this exchange.
My name was called and I was directed out of the Twilight Zone and into the first consultation room on the left.

this day in history

2010-10-06T19:56:00.000-07:00

History was made today in Philadelphia. If you are not a baseball fan, this will mean nothing to you, so you might as well just stop reading now. I am a baseball fan, so I will continue...

Today, Philadelphia Phillies starting pitcher Roy Halladay became the first pitcher in the history of Major League Baseball to pitch a perfect game in the regular season and a no-hitter in the post-season, both in the same season. Halladay is a soft-spoken, reserved thirty-three year old who goes out to the pitchers mound every fifth game and quietly does his job without pretense. When Halladay is "on", he can send chills down your spine.

I understand that he didn't cure cancer, or feed the hungry or bring world peace. His feat is pretty insignificant in the scheme of the universe. I know he's just a guy throwing a stitched leather ball in a game that eight-year-olds play. But in the eyes of baseball fans in Philadelphia, Roy Halladay represents a hope that has eluded them for way too long.

where rocking horse people eat marshmallow pies

2010-10-03T17:07:00.000-07:00

I'm gonna plead ignorance here. I did some research, but it only turned up bits and pieces and not a full explanation.

For some time now, I've seen these guys selling pies. I don't know if it is purely a Philadelphia phenomenon or if it exists in other cities. I've spotted them in several places, but mostly on the median strip in the middle of bustling Broad Street and Windrim Avenue and sometimes at the foot of the escalator off of 15th Street at the entrance to the Market-Frankford subway line and Suburban Station.

They pace the street, facing oncoming traffic, waving a shrink-wrapped pie in the air, silently offering it for sale. They don't call "Pies for sale!" or anything like that. They just pace and wave. Wave and pace.

The pies look vaguely homemade, with golden crusts and golden-brown filling, not unlike pumpkin or sweet potato. The salesmen are all African-American and their appearance is reminiscent of Nation of Islam leader Louis Farrakhan. They vary in age from early thirties down to barely seven or eight. Though not in uniform, per se, they all dress similar, as though they are following a dress code, sort of like Target employees. Solid color ill-fitting suit with pants that are too short to cover their white socks. Shined, two-tone shoes. White shirts adorned with a tiny red bow tie clamped tightly at the neck.

I don't know if they represent a particular group or movement or religion. I don't know the significance of their appearance. I don't know what the sale of the pies supports. And I don't know how the pies taste, but they sure look good.

Who are they and have they made it to your town yet?

oh hey there

2010-10-01T06:44:00.000-07:00

i had what i thought was a clever riddle. then i read it and decided it was neither funny nor appro to the

goings on.

anyway,

i went out tonight and between grading papers and doing crosswords i died a little more inside,

enjoy.

in my younger and more impressionable years...

2010-09-24T03:55:00.000-07:00

i read a book.

im not sure that this is correct but for some reason all i remember taking away from the great gatsby was an epic tale of self destruction.

same with catcher in the rye and one flew over the cuckoos nest.

down in flames.

anyway.

back about 12 years or so ago i used to sit on the ledge of an overpass spanning us highway 50, and watch the cars speed by at 1:30 in the morning.

later i moved to the bay area for college, and was housed, for a time, off 280 in daily city. where there was another overpass that was under construction at the time and watch people speed back and forth while i downed cans of whatever, my booted feet dangling over the late night traffic.

i know that it has been awhile since i posted and im sorry. things have been crazy in my neck of the woods here and i havent really had the chance to leave the house much. and the things that have been happening here arent funny and hardly worth remembering anyway.

tonight i decided to go out.

and did a crossword puzzle on the patio.

and there was a girl there that was trapped in the most painfully awkward conversation i have been witness to in a long time.

and she eventually latched onto me. in the sense that she focused her attention on the fact that i was multitasking and not trying to mentally or verbally rape her.

and i was clever, and funny, and she laughed.

the guy who was trying to get her gave up, belched loud enough to rattle the tables and left.

and we talked.

and slowly i realized that all this was pointless. she was nice and moderately cute but ultimately she was just empty calories.

we talked an i was trying to explain what was going on in my life and i realized that she was staying because there was no one else at the place and that i was making noise and moving around.

so i left.

the other day i heard a song, and its a song i know that i have to have heard before because i looked it up and its in a few movies that i have seen.

but tonight i heard it. really listened.

its called

"fair" - remy zero

Hey, are you lonely?
Has summer gone so slowly?
We found the ground
And that damage was done
It's cold as you fade into the sun
Where'd you go? To me?

But you're alive!
Well, it's only
Fallen frames, they told me
You stand out, it's so loud
And so what if it is?
It's cold as you face into the wind
Where'd it go to? tonight the sun shall see its light

So what if you catch me,
Where would we land?
In somebody's life
For taking his hands
Sing to me hope as she's
Thrown on the sand
All of your work
Is rated again
Where to go ?

And you were somehow the ran thing could allow
But it's all wrong
You're so strong
And this life and work
And choice took far too long
Where'd it go? tonight the sun shall see its light

So what if you catch me,
Where would we land?
In somebody's life
For taking his hands
Sing to me hope as she's
Thrown on the sand
All of our work
Is rated again

When I was sure you'd follow through
My world was turned to blue so thin
When you'd hide your songs would die
So I'd hide yours with mine
And all my words were bound to fail
I know you won't fail
See, I can tell
i doubt that this is a thing that many people experience, but do you ever listen to a song and think that it would be okay if you died while it was playing? like if i listened to this than killed myself it would be fine.

or if i put it at the end of a movie that bled into the credits.

i guess its all kinda the same thing right?
,
at anyrate.

i have a few.

this is one of them, maybe not top 5 but definitely top 10.

so left the patio, ditched the flat half-a-beer and fully flat conversation and drove to the overpass that i sat on back in high school and listened to that song over and over until my ass was numb from the cold concrete and i made my way back here.

so that was this day, you know, in real life.

losing my religion

2010-09-22T22:27:00.000-07:00

I see my friend Randi at the train station a few times a week since she and her family moved into the neighborhood. Coincidentally, we work in the same office building.

This morning, the train schedules were way off because when I arrived at the station at my regular time, the platform was packed with five times the usual amount of waiting passengers. A few minutes later, a visibly annoyed Randi stood by my side. She informed me that she had already been at the station earlier in the morning, waiting for a train that never arrived. She told me that several trains had zipped by with no intention of stopping. Off on the distant track, a train approached and we had this brief exchange...

R: "I hope this train stops. Please God."

The train wooshes by, leaving mussed hair and rattling newspapers in its wake.

JPiC: "It didn't stop. There is no God."

R:"What?"

JPiC: "You just said 'Please God' and the train didn't stop. Your God has forsaken you."

R: "That's because of the jerks at SEPTA! (the region's mass transit company)"

JPiC: "The train goes by and it's SEPTA's fault. But, had the train stopped, would it have meant that God had answered your prayers?"

R: "Shut up."

more death

2010-09-22T05:30:00.000-07:00

not to be morbid, but, well, ok it's kinda morbid.

so two fridays ago one of my dearest friends took her own life. i knew she was having a rough time but i didn't know... well.

so yesterday, i was at her house, talking with her husband, and he took me into the room where she did it. and offered me some of her things, to remember her by. and i was overwhelmed, overcome, but i chose something. a bag, a really nice one, they were all really nice.

i took it home and inside i found computer disks. a project that she and i had worked on years ago, a really great idea she had had, one i wish we had seen through.

maybe i should work on it for her? maybe it's a sign?

i'm just so tired

2010-09-16T03:39:00.000-07:00

I'm actually reposing this from my personal blog.

Back around May I had my yearly pap smear, which turned out to be abnormal. My GP assured me that sometimes this happens, but just to be safe I should schedule a follow up for a few months later. Which I did.

I went in for my follow up three weeks ago and the results were still abnormal, which meant that I had to make an appointment with a gynecologist. The earliest I could get an appointment was for yesterday, where it turned out that I had more abnormal cells that need to be biopsied...I'll spare you the details of that, needless to say that it hurt and it still hurts a bit.

I have a follow up scheduled for the 28th, when I will make sure to let you guys know what the diagnosis is. The gyno has assured me however that if the results turn out to be edging towards cancer, we have caught it early enough that I should be all right. She talked me through the procedure that would then have to happen...it will be filled with more pain I'm sure...and then really from now on I'm going to have to get a pap every 6 months instead of once a year.

So really to sum up I'm fine, but this was really scary.

2010-09-15T04:16:00.000-07:00

(click to enlarge)

i find myself.

numb.

alone.

yeah. mostly alone.

you talk to people and all the feel like they need to do is offer platitudes.

proverbs.

words of common sense.

an then you go out to escape the insanity of your family imploding uploding upon itself and you get this:
two young women on a patio bitching about how men always cheat.

and here i sit knowing that its not just men that "suck" but people, human nature, and gonads that tend to cause us trouble.

2010-09-14T03:46:00.000-07:00

tonight at 7:40 this evening i was watching my grandmother while the rest of the family had dinner, i had eaten earlier.

she had been having trouble breathing for the last day or two, not really eating or taking fluids.

so there i was just standing there watching her struggle to breathe, taking the odd deep breath and i told her that i loved her and that it was okay.

and that was it.

she was gone. one second she was there and right before my eyes she died.

i havent really processed this yet, i havent really cried.

so all in all, not the best of days.

the greatest american hero

2010-09-11T16:36:00.000-07:00

I collect autographed photos of celebrities. Before you get all impressed, I specifically focus on celebrities of the, shall we say, "washed-up" variety. For nearly twenty years, I have attended various sizes of so-called collector shows, where dealers gather at a contracted hotel conference room and display their treasured wares for curious hunters and collectors of post-war pop culture. In the more recent days of post-eBay, many of these regular shows have disappeared. The few that remain have had to resort to extremes to make attending more appealing to potential patrons. A few shrewd show organizers began touting appearances by actors whose careers had waned in the eyes of a fickle public. These performers swallow their pride and sit in an area separate from the vendors behind a folding table stockpiled with 8 x 10 glossy photos of themselves at the pinnacle of their popularity and others from lesser, sometimes unfamiliar, productions made when their demand was on the decline. For a reasonable fee (that has lopsidedly escalated over the years), a fan can awkwardly reminisce with a childhood idol and walk away with a personalized souvenir of the encounter.

I have well over one hundred photographs in a collection that boasts the likes of such luminaries as Lisa Loring (Wednesday from the TV series The Addams Family), Larry Mathews (Ritchie Petrie on The Dick Van Dyke Show) and the lovely Erin Murphy (little Tabitha from Bewitched). Most of the celebrities are pleasant and cordial with a few being extra friendly and engaging. Some are totally devoid of personality. While others are are downright assholes, behaving as though this whole scenario is beneath them and Hollywood will be knocking on their door any minute after a thirty-five year absence.

One show, in particular, that I attend regularly is the twice-yearly Monster Mania in Cherry Hill, New Jersey. I look forward to this show for several reasons. I get to see my friends and fellow artists Matt and Will and we have a blast marvelling at the plethora of horror-related memorabilia on display. But, this show is also one of the few remaining shows to offer face-to-face time with forgotten stars of recent and not-so-recent filmed entertainment.

Usually Monster Mania advertises one celebrity appearance that is "the deal breaker" and this year was no exception. Upon reading the list of scheduled guests, I, along with my son E., Matt and Will, were absolutely psyched to meet the one and only William Katt, star of Carrie and, most importantly, The Greatest American Hero, the single greatest television program since Paul Nipkow began messing around with the transmission of moving pictures in 1884. (Maybe.)

We entered one of two conference rooms whose walls were lined with tables at which celebrities of varying levels of fame were seated. Some were conversing with fans while others, gathering no interest in their presence, stared off into space. Standing adjacent to a table at which L.A. Law star Corbin Bernsen entertained questions from a young couple, was Mr. William Katt, busily covering up his stacks of photos with a dark tablecloth. My friends and I approached Mr. Katt and asked if he was leaving for the day. He replied in the negative, explaining that he was scheduled to participate in a "Q & A" session for the next hour. He thanked us for stopping by and sincerely requested that we return in sixty minutes. We, of course, obliged.

We killed time perusing the dealer room, gawking at some of the other celebrities (like Eric Roberts and wacko deluxe Gary Busey) and catching up with the events in each other's lives (Will informed me he had lost his job the day before). The hour had flown by and we headed back to seriously commune with Carrie White's prom date. Sure enough, there was William Katt, now uncovering the photographic chronicle of his career. He was moving rather like he was in slow motion, but we thought nothing of it. I got in line behind a guy who already gripped an accumulation of pictures in his hand. My son stood next to me while Matt and Will queued up behind us. When our turn arrived, I approached the table where a droopy-eyed William Katt sat motionless behind. I told him I was a fan of his 1980s TV show and selected a photo of him in full costume to be inscribed. He picked up a Sharpie and wrote "Believe it or not! Thanks- William Katt" across the bottom of the photo — a reference, of course, to the show's iconic theme song. I passed a twenty into his waiting palm and he handed me the pic. Matt, who was on the fence over whether or not to drop twenty bucks on an other autograph, was overwhelmingly convinced once he saw Katt's clever inscription. Matt stepped forward, chose a photo, mentioned something about the horror film "House", another of Katt's roles, and waited for Katt to begin writing. Katt sat, slightly rocking from side to side, the whites of his eyes slowly becoming obscured by his heavy eyelids. He held the Sharpie a good three inches above the photo and made circles in the air, the pen point never connecting to any writing surface. We all exchanged glances with each other, confirming that we were all witness to the same thing. Mr. Katt remained in this state for — no exaggeration — three minutes, at which time, Matt leaned into my ear and whispered, "He is sooooo fucking baked!" Finally, after regaining brain synapse and divining a clever sentiment, the pen met the glossy photograph and he wrote "Thanks for coming. William Katt". He put his hand out for payment from a now-disappointed Matt and he gently blew the fresh ink dry. "You guys want a picture?," William asked, slurring his words and staggering to his feet. We arranged ourselves in a standard pose and, as Will raised his iPhone to snap the shot, William rearranged us to a pose more to his liking. Will quickly took the picture, thanked Mr. Katt and made our way from his table. Almost simultaneously, E., Matt, Will and myself said "What the fuck was that?" "I'll tell you what that was," offered Matt, "he was totally fucked up."

Now I know the real power behind getting that suit to fly.

2010-09-10T02:04:00.000-07:00

so today...

i was sitting on the couch, around two in the afternoon reading a book when the doorbell rings.

i go to the door and open it.

and my heart stops.

its her.

her from college.

her from the best memories that ive had with another person in my entire life.

its her and shes standing right there.

she throws up her arms and says that shes sorry and that shes back if ill have her.

and falls into my stunned embrace.

and i can smell her shampoo, her breath, feel her warmth.

and i say of course.

i honstly cant remember the last time i really felt this happy, and all this shit that i have been dealing with in my life seems suddenly not so overwhelming.

she came back, she said she worked her shit out and now shes ready.

and then we kissed.

and then i woke up, i had fallen asleep.

and the overwhelming sense of loss came crashing down on me, i experienced losing her all over again, and i couldnt help but weep bitterly for a while.

i dont understand why my subconcious did that to me.

when im awake i can barely remember her face anymore.

god tho it seemed so real.

another expert

2010-09-09T17:45:00.000-07:00

This past Tuesday, my son E. and I went to see singer-songwriter Stan Ridgway in concert at the Tin Angel, a small venue on the second floor of a restaurant in center city Philadelphia. Stan, for those (read: most) unfamiliar, was the leader of the quirky 80s band Wall of Voodoo, most famous for their MTV-heyday era hit "Mexican Radio". Stan has had a 27-year solo career since severing ties with Wall of Voodoo, releasing eleven albums and acquiring a passionate cult following. Stan rarely tours outside of California, but E. and I have been lucky enough to see him live several times. (Yeah, we number ourselves among that cult.)

After dinner and twelve dollars worth of ice cream from the quaint and old-timey Franklin Fountain, E. and I hiked over to the Tin Angel. The street entrance to the Tin Angel opens to a long and steep staircase that leads to the narrow and intimate second-story performance room. Having arrived an hour or so before the official showtime, we took our place in the small queue line that had begun forming.

Ahead of us on the stairs, we soon found out, was the world's foremost expert and authority on all things Stan Ridgway. He was with a younger woman and another man sporting a souvenir t-shirt from a previous Stan Ridgway tour. (I sarcastically lamented to my son that I had forgotten to wear my Stan Ridgway shirt. Now, how would he know I was there to see him if I wasn't properly labeled.) As we stood and waited, the expert expounded on Stan's career, highlighting various other musicians he had played with and carefully name-checking albums from early in Stan's discography. He related stories he had read about the inspirations for songs and appearances Stan had made on foreign music programs in the 80s and 90s. He dropped the names of Stan's influences and collaborators and haughtily announced what he predicted to be the set-list for this evening's show. His two companions seemed about as impressed by his vast knowledge and insider information as E. and I were from our eavesdropping. Not content with spewing little-known tidbits about the evening's headliner, he began a lengthy dissertation chronicling the multitude of performers whose autographed photos graced the wall of the stairwell. His comrades were not nearly as dazzled by his insight as he was, as the expressions on their faces betrayed their indifference. After a lull in his monologue, he returned to the subject of Stan Ridgway by asking his male sidekick, "What's your favorite Stan Ridgway song?" I was hoping he'd direct the question to me, as my answer would have been, "Hmmmm, that's a difficult one, but I'd have to say I'm kind of partial to... Fuck you, asshole."

It's interesting that I seem to encounter one of these guys at every concert I attend. Every concert seems to have a pre-show band expert placed in the crowd within earshot of me. The expert is there to inform his entourage of live music greenhorns about the show they are about to see. He will tell of the past shows he has seen and rank them in ascending order of entertainment "wow factor". He will prepare his pals for disappointment, as this show can't possibly match the performance he saw the band give in July 19-whatever. He knows every note and every word to every song and will sing along with each one — straining his voice to heard above the crowd as though he was asked to duet. If this guy's behavior doesn't seem familiar, well then, you are probably that guy.

2010-09-09T03:26:00.000-07:00

This actually happened last week, but I felt it was a perfect first post...I promise to be more timely in the future.

Anyway I was at my GP's office for a follow up (having some issues, it's a little worrying), and when the PA came in she commented on my Sesame Street shirt and how her daughter would love it.

This (naturally) lead to a discussion about how Super Grover is so much cooler then Elmo.

So yeah I found this really surreal... really how many people go to a gyno appointment and get into a detailed discussion on the merits of different Muppets.

Also Super Grover is the shit.

2010-09-08T01:41:00.000-07:00

this was actually yesterday but there is something about drinking caronas in the sun (im sure that there is a joke in that somewhere) that makes you (read: me) feel like i actually exerted myself in a physical manner.

anyway.

nip it! nip it in the bud!

2010-09-06T19:42:00.000-07:00

Mrs. Pincus and I just returned from a short trip to Laughlin, Nevada. Without going into too much unnecessary detail, it was a free trip with free airfare, free meals and free accommodations at Harrah's Hotel Casino. However, just because something is free doesn't mean it is wonderful or should be envied. Laughlin, it should be noted, would be the place of insertion for the tube if the state of Nevada were to receive an enema.

My wife and I, whose ages each hover around the half century mark, brought the average age waaaaay down when numbered among the other members of the chartered trip. We were one of the few that did not come complete with our own tank of oxygen, our own aluminum, four-wheeled walker or several cartons of unfiltered cigarettes.

Just after midnight Pacific time, we landed at Bullhead City International Airport, a flat one-story building reminiscent of a bus terminal located at the end of a two-lane blacktop road that bisects a huge expanse of dirt. A set of steps was wheeled up to the plane and the travel-weary group was herded off to waiting buses, but not before several dozen rewarded themselves with a cigarette for sitting patiently through a five-hour flight. After a three-minute ride across the Colorado River (That's right, the airport isn't even in Nevada. It's in Arizona.), we were assigned rooms via the contents of sealed envelopes and we were on our own for the next four days.

During the week, despite our greatest efforts, we spotted some people we recognized from the flight. One couple, in particular, stood out. The man looked like Don Knotts, the scrawny, nervous actor most famous for portraying Barney Fife on The Andy Griffith Show and, later Mr. Furley, the weasly landlord on later episodes of Three's Company. His female companion resembled 70s-era Cicely Tyson, the Academy Award-nominated actress famous for her ground-breaking role in The Autobiography of Miss Jane Pittman. We saw this couple everywhere. In the casino, in the restaurants and in the halls. At the end of the week, we saw Don and Cicely again as we boarded our airport shuttle bus for our journey home.

Our plane touched down an hour early in Philadelphia. We were forced to taxi around the airport in search of a open gate and access to the terminal. It was like driving around the tarmac looking for a parking space. Finally, United Airlines offered its heartfelt sympathy by opening a gate for us, which our adept pilot promptly overshot trying line up the plane door with the expanding corridor that was our exit. (I shit you not!) At last, we were permitted to leave. Heading toward the baggage claim, my wife commented that she hoped we would never ever encounter any of these people ever again...ever.

Our designated baggage carousel was currently winding down from its previous flight. A few straggling passengers were watching three lonely pieces of luggage travel around and around and around— sad and unclaimed. Soon the carousel's perimeter was lined with many familiar faces from our flight, anxiously awaiting the arrival of our checked belongings. Don and Cicely staked themselves a prime spot directly across from Mrs. Pincus and me. We would soon realize that we had great front-row seats for the entertainment portion of our luggage retrieval. Suddenly, Don's weary eyes widened as he spotted, what he believed to be, one of his suitcases. In reality, it was one of the leftovers from the flight before ours, already on its fifty-eighth lap around the conveyor. He excitedly reached towards the bag and, upon realizing his error, pulled back. The black tweed overnighter continued on its familiar route. A minute later, the bag returned to Don's field of vision. And once again, he made the reach and, again, disappointment swept across his face when his mistake became apparent. I swear to God — and I am not exaggerating — he did this ten more times. Ten! Ten more times! I remind you that, at this point, there were three bags on the conveyor belt. A small red bag with a metallic ribbon tied to the handle, a beat-up blue suit bag and Don's bag's doppelganger. Each time the black bag came into Don's peripheral vision, he swiveled his melon-like head around and lit up, knowing that this time the case was his!

A flashing light went off and our group's luggage appeared in a clump and was soon in the hands of its rightful owners. After identifying and grabbing my wife's suitcase and my wheeled duffel bag, we waited to see what Don and Cicely's bag really looked like. It turns out, it was a swirly paisley pattern and as different from Don's prey as could be.

Mrs. Pincus and I made our way to the airport parking lot, never turning back once.

2010-09-06T04:31:00.000-07:00

i am still really affected by yesterday
i am depressed.

there was this guy out tonight that kept saying he was a cop, who kept roaming from table to table, chatting up the girls and trying to be the big man...

he was handing out cards.

and telling these young twenty-sometings that they were "goojf"* cards... big man.
*get out of jail free cards*

so apparently they exist, so long as a peace officer wants to fuck you in an ...

well, probably whereever he can, like a back of a volkswagon, it sounds like his mo.

2010-09-05T04:41:00.000-07:00

eleven years ago i was taking classes at the local junior college, mostly arts and humanities. each semester was like christmas, a never ending supply of new girls that i could potentially date.

it was a very shallow time of my life.

but i was young, moderately cute, and played guitar.

there was this one art class where i sat next to this cute burnette that i developed a bit of a crush on. we became friends and since she didnt seem interested in taking things further than maybe making out once or twice (i think?) i settled for friends.

and we gradually grew apart.

then i moved to san francisco and she los angeles.

and that was that.

tonight i went to my youngest sisters house for a going away party, my cousin is moving to costa rica, and her place was swamped with people i didnt know.

so in typical patrick style, when not able to booze it up (had to drive home after all), i hide.
i had a great time hanging out with my soon to be brother in law and his buddy, we sat out back and enjoyed the cool night and talked crap about everything.

eventually they went inside, i didnt.

earlier in the evening i notices a young woman with tattoo on her neck, a stylish vintage mens hat and a pair over-sized jackie o sunglasses.

and everytime i did venture inside for some food or a coke or whatever that i kept looking at her.

i could tell that her head was shaved, and drew my own conclusions on that.

so anyway, im out on the porch sitting alone and listening to people talk at one another and she comes out and i look up and say a name followed by the upturned pitch that accompanies a "?".

and it was her.

eleven years and there she was, this person i hadn't seen in ages at this random party in a town that was nowhere near where we had met.

as we talked about our lives she told me, and im not going to go into too much detail here as i havent asked her permission to talk about it, that she got sick, and that it wasnt good.
but she was upbeat and sarcastic and irreverent. and i made her laugh, over and over.

and then i had to cut it short cause i needed to get back home in case there was grandma issues (simple fact of life, no begrudging there).

as i drove home, and then sat around drawing i felt sad, despondent, this has affected me in a way that i didnt expect, here is someone that i may have thought about six or seven times in the past decade and i feel guilty for feeling like im losing someone much closer, like i dont have a right to that sense of loss, of sadness.

maybe its because shes not even 30 until next week. maybe its because i felt something for her once.

ive been around death, but its old people, people in their 80's, thats a 50 year deficit. and thats pretty fucked up.

i guess im trying to say something that i dont really know how to articulate, i feel like im dancing around it.

it was a nice talk though.

2010-09-03T04:40:00.000-07:00

i sat there

after a day of... you name your hell

i finally got to leave for an hour

and i got to see this.

2010-09-03T02:29:00.000-07:00

id like to set up a link exchange on the sidebar, somewhere above the archive, in hopes that sometime in the future there will be more than the five people who post here will arrive and crave more of your wonderful work.

so if you could either make a button for a link or indicate that a traditional text link is good enough that would help.

and if you want a button, thats on you, that said i love buttons.

Banner Banner Bo-banner, Banana-fana Fo-fanner...

2010-09-02T14:26:00.000-07:00

The votes have been tallied and it seems that Patrick's insanely brilliant TDIRL scrawl will top the blog, but please consider this...

The other banners would be perfect buttons for your (and all your friend's) blog(s)
Do you agree?
There's some sort of html code involved, but it can't be that complicated.

2010-09-02T13:16:00.000-07:00

i had to go to the hospital, not for myself, but for a family member that can't name for fear of reprisal from my... damn, i cant say from who either.

it seems that my family has taken a token interest in my work thanks to facebook and keep telling me "dont blog this"!

aw fuck it.

we were there for my grandmother and one of my aunts, im not naming names but if youre reading this you know who you are.

anyway, i was waiting, going on my second hour in a chair that wasnt comfortable in 1993 (allergy shots, once a week when i was in my teens) when a shadow fell over me.

i looked up and this... thing, a bandage over one eye, all bruises, no neck, and a shirt that had more stains than not was staring down at me.

and he said a few odd things, i asked him to ove along, and he stayed for a few minutes before shuffling off.

then i went back to my crossword and waited for another hour.

sunset

2010-08-30T20:58:00.000-07:00

what we have here is a failure to communicate

2010-08-29T10:35:00.000-07:00

Last night, I was at Harrah's Marina casino in Atlantic City. More specifically, their Waterfront Buffet. Harrah's buffet is a step up from most other buffets in Atlantic City casinos, with different stations featuring a mini-bounty of meat and vegetable dishes alongside many offerings from different international cuisines. Of course, it is all capped with a diabetic-inducing spread of rich and tempting desserts and the encouragement to sample two or three. It pales in comparison to its Las Vegas counterparts but, considering Atlantic City is a ninety minute drive from my front door, I can't complain.

Last night, after finishing the salad, sushi and Asian noodles from trip number one to the buffet, I was ready for the conglomerate of food I would soon call "my main course". I grabbed a dishwasher-fresh plate from the stack and went to peruse the evening's fare. As a vegetarian, my choices are somewhat limited in the meat-heavy provisions, but I can always find more than enough to fill my platter and satisfy my appetite. As with most buffets, enormous crab legs and other shellfish are quite popular and are presented as such. While I do eat fish, I also keep kosher, so crab and its shell-encased buddies are off my list. Cod and tuna are cool and Harrah's salmon, open-grilled before your eyes, is pretty tasty.

As I approached the Italian section of the buffet, laden with antipasto, Sicilian style pizza and a sausage-and-peppers mixture, I saw a tray labeled "Basa Oreganto". Beneath the folded cardboard sign were neat little lumps of white, ribbed, plump ovals — each dusted with tiny, green flecks and dripping with translucent melted butter. I stared at the dish, puzzled by its appearance. I examined the identifying sign again. I don't speak any foreign language (except a few words in Spanish and "Excuse me, where is Danny?" in Hebrew), but I concluded, by the green substance on the food and the familiarity of the words, that oreganto meant it has oregano in it. But, basa was not recognizable to me. I spotted a worker in the preparation area behind the buffet itself. He was unwrapping something or chopping something or checking some warming equipment — something food-preparation related. I cleared my throat to get his attention and motioned him over to me.

"Hi," I began, "could you tell me what is basa oreganto, please?" "Eh?," was his response. I gestured toward the food in question. "Over there," I again explained, "the dish that says basa oreganto..." He cut me off mid-sentence. "Pasta? You want pasta?," he asked and he looked past the basa oreganto toward the cooked-to-order pasta section. "No, basa," I said, slightly raising my voice above the ambient noise, "What is it?" "Pasta?," he repeated, his gaze at me turning to disbelief, "You know...like spaghetti." I felt myself involuntarily roll my eyes. (For Christ's sake, I thought, I know what fucking pasta is! Does this guy really think I couldn't identify spaghetti?) "No, come here", I said, as I guided him to the object of my inquiry. "This!", I announced, as I pointed directly at the green-speckled food. "Oh, it's fish," he finally answered. "Okay. Thank you.," I said. Unsure of basa's kosher status, I walked away without taking a piece. A woman holding a plate at chin-level, sparsely arranged with a small clump of mashed potatoes and a single thin slice of roast beef, stood nearby. With her face screwed-up in a perplexed knot, she interrogated me. "What is it?" she whined, drawing each word out into too many syllables. "Fish," I answered as I scooted past her. "Oooooooh," she yodeled, "I thought it was cauliflower."

Who gives a fuck what you thought it was. Where's the fucking ice cream?

maybe I'm amazed

2010-08-28T22:25:00.000-07:00

You think what your kid does is amazing? Look! Look at how he walks! He's amazing! Look! Look! He's pointing at that bird! Isn't he amazing? He just kicked that ball! He's amazing! Look! Look! He drew a picture of a flower! He is amazing! Look! He's eating a piece of bread! He's amazing!

Amazing? Those things? Are you kidding me? Those are the things that every kid does! I did them. You did them. Neil Armstrong did them. The pope did them. Brad Pitt did them. Jeffrey Dahmer did them. Everyone. Everyone who has ever lived on this earth has walked and pointed to something and kicked something and drew something and ate something. Amazing? That word is tossed about so often and so freely. And wrongly.

Recently, I read a story of a doctor who was treating a patient. His patient was a pregnant woman whose unborn child developed a tumor that was detected through a routine ultrasound examination. The doctor was able to open up the woman's womb, remove the tumor from the fetus and replace the fetus back into the womb. The woman carried the baby full-term and it was delivered without a hitch. That, my friends, is amazing. Your kid picking up an earthworm or dragging a fucking red crayon across a piece of paper or bringing home an "A" on his first-grade math test is not amazing.

There are 6.8 billion people on this planet. You think the things your kid does are amazing? Think again.

2010-08-27T23:33:00.000-07:00

(click to enlarge)

this was actually last night, tonight... i think i need to assimilate.
for what it may be worth the illo above was of a very attractive young woman who spent the better part of an hour complaining that her breasts were not large enough.

note: they were fine as far as i could tell... not that i was looking.

Let it Be

2010-08-26T03:37:00.000-07:00

I guess it's not really such a mystery.

When a song keeps showing up as often as this one does,
one ought to pay attention to its message.

Right?

(I realize this is the place where I make a small, sloppy apology for not illustrating my post. Instead, I ask that you please excuse the excess of Beatles titled posts. I'll try not to let it happen too often)

2010-08-25T02:19:00.000-07:00

You ever notice that the guy on destination truth on the syfy channel voice sounds like a hybrid of ray ramino and kermit the frog?

banner submission

2010-08-24T22:51:00.000-07:00

was doing some drawing at work and here are my submissions

a banner from JPiC

2010-08-24T13:07:00.000-07:00

A banner design from your pal, JPiC

a banner

2010-08-24T08:07:00.001-07:00

i guess i'm influenced by "back to school". anyhow. here.

i like patrick's better.

i guess ill put my money where my mouth is

2010-08-24T02:23:00.000-07:00

this is about five days old, and i really did not want to be the first to post.

lets see something more.

so

2010-08-23T23:18:00.000-07:00

some people, namely josh, have asked me for banner dimensions. i think somewhere along the lines of 550x330 (pixels) should be a good size, although im guessing that this website will rescale things to fit in the little boxes of the template.

also i wanted to take moment to thank all of you who are actively participating in this experiment, its nice to have a dialouge running, its something i miss from the days of ifn.

so keep up the great work and i cant wait to see what your brains come up with tomorrow!

Something in the Way She Moves

2010-08-23T20:02:00.000-07:00

Went to the movies alone tonight, because I like to do that.
It's one of those mega-cinemas with about 521 films showing at once.

I hardly had the ten-dollar-bill out of my pocket before that snarky-little, freckle-pawed, ticket seller in his Tweetyyellow shirt said, "One for Eat Pray Love."

He didn't even ask, he knew.

I hate that it shows.

(yeayeayea... an illustration coming right up..)

-And no I didn't buy the EatPrayLove Pillow Case Set..or any of the other EPL home shopping network crap.
Nauseating.
Or maybe it's funny.
I can't tell the difference sometimes-

not long after, but then again it's a null sum game...

2010-08-23T04:19:00.000-07:00

this hasn't happened in years.
i went to a bar. i sat down, noticed that there were people on the patio near where i was sitting talking over the karaoke; and i listened in hoping to get a good quote for tdirl.

TDIRL being this website... (and i am waiting for your banner submits)

it didn't happen. the quote that is.

what did happen is what used to be something rather regular when i was in my late teens to late twenties when i decided to pull out a drawing pad in a coffee shop and more often than not (in regards to the response not the location) a bar you would get a magnetic charge that attracted women...
and sometimes men. (mostly guys who draw or have stopped drawing and regreted it and "let me put down this cigar and pool cue and look at your sketckbook.)

here's a tip

i've said it before.
you want to be left alone in a bar, you do nothing but stare intently at your drink. you start drawing and its open season.

anyway, a young woman approached me asking what i was drawing, "didn't say you draw anime", and then asked to go through my ipod which has basically the first year and a half's worth of art.

she asked intelligent questions about my influences and was familiar with the tools i use.

anyway she went through all the pieces i had saved.
i think there were around 220 pieces.

and she was beautiful.

and kept looking me in the eyes.

2010-08-23T03:40:00.001-07:00

lamer than lame

2010-08-22T16:23:00.000-07:00

my real life is so lame that the highlight of my weekend entailed walking around the mall with my friend and her teenage daughter, yelling commands to an imaginary "barbara" just to mortify the teenage daughter.

me (stopping and turning over my shoulder): barbara! get me a pretzel!!!

teenage daughter: oh.my.god.shut.up.

that guy

2010-08-22T08:00:00.000-07:00

Do you know that guy? Of course you do. You've seen him before. I see him everywhere, and I know you do too. I've seen him in the mornings when I'm waiting for the train that takes me to work. Then, he's on the train. There's several of him on the train as a matter of fact. He's got his bag on the seat next to him, not allowing anyone to share his seat. He also eating something big and sloppy and totally inappropriate for the morning commute.

I've seen him on vacation, unhappily accompanying the family that he hates through a theme park or other tourist destination. He is sad. Sad about being there. Sad about being there with his family. Sad about the hand life has dealt him.

I've seen him at the supermarket, wanting to purchase that giant bag of barbecue potato chips, only to be told by his wife that he cannot get them. "They are not good for you," she berates him, as she drops a half-gallon of gourmet specialty ice cream into their shopping cart.

I've seen him in a restaurant, sitting at a table while his kids scream and yell and climb under the table and wander off to stand and stare next to someone else's table. Then they announce the need to visit the bathroom. His wife won't move her ass, insisting "I took them to the bathroom last time. Now it's your turn." He just wants to order three hot fudge sundaes and eat them at another table. In another restaurant.

I've seen him at my job, hunched over a desk, fighting back sleep, keying wrong information into a spreadsheet. He is neither qualified nor pleased to be doing his job. And he lies to his family about what sort of job he has and his level of importance within the company.

I know you've seen that guy. Just look around. He's there.

2010-08-22T02:28:00.000-07:00

(click to enlarge)

it's not every night that there is such a surplus of drunken women in their early-to-mid twenties that one would gravitate to me.

figures she was the "jabba" of the crowd. dont get me wrong im sure she has a great personality. you know, like demanding booze from strangers and all that. funny thing was that after the exchanges she sat down opposite me and watched the crowd mill around on the patio.

didnt say another word.

artist's lament

2010-08-20T06:34:00.000-07:00

My previous post reminded me of another recent entry on my own blog (aptly named josh pincus is crying).

Frustrated as an artist? I feel your pain, brothers and sisters, I feel your pain.

Read my story HERE.
Maybe it's your story, too.

2010-08-20T05:03:00.000-07:00

i was hoping that there would be more people involved with this, but i am thrilled, and not too surprised by the quality of those who responded.

now im going to ask two things from all of you.

a banner submission, for the site that we will vote on, and to email me potential members to invite.

twitter is huge right? maybe we can be the next old blog/twitter thingy

bitter?
bloter?

eh keep drawing.

well

2010-08-20T04:27:00.000-07:00

thursday nights are dollar pints and they tend to bring what could be called a crowd i guess.
but what they lack in volume of bodies they tend to make up in... um... consumption.

after this exchange someone called out: "CUT OFF"

and then her girlfriend (ie. friend that is a girl) announced: "we talk about all this shit all the time, jerk."

that said i went back to the ipod.

Beautiful Disaster

2010-08-19T20:12:00.000-07:00

uh-oh

2010-08-19T18:32:00.000-07:00

In January, a coworker (the woman who creates all deliverables electronic* and maintains the company website) reported that she was expecting — as in "a baby". Of course, everyone in the department was happy for her. A week or so after the initial springing of the joyous news, it was understood that I, as her regular back-up for days off and vacations, would be taking over her responsibilities when she goes out on maternity leave. I, as the resident graphic designer with a smattering of HTML and web experience, was the logical choice. So, in the coming months, some time was set aside each week for me to sit with — we'll call her "Jane", because that's her name — Jane, while she instructed me in the "ins and outs" of the tedium and minutiae that is a sprawling and cumbersome company website. I feverishly scribbled incomprehensible notes that I knew, months down the road, I'd never be able to decipher. Page upon page of my legal pad were filled with a secret code of carats and dashes and chevrons and brackets, as Jane expounded on the wonders of tags and file hierarchy.

Suddenly, as a precaution, Jane, although still able to work, was confined to bed rest for the remainder of her pregnancy. She was able to work from home and, however awkward, we were able to continue my training over the phone. Then one day, two weeks ago, I received the email I had dreaded. Jane announced that she was entering the hospital for the purpose of inducing her labor. It was sink-or-swim time for ol' Josh Pincus. I was flying solo, brother. I was fucked.

My first full week on my own went pretty well. In addition to my own work, I completed those assignments originally meant for Jane. I created projects based on templates that Jane had previously set up. I repeatedly referred to my illegible notes. (They turned out to be pretty helpful. I wished I had taken notes like those in high school.) As Friday approached, my head reeled, but my work dwindled to a manageable amount.

On Monday, it was more of the same. I edited pages, changing a number here or a phrase there. I created emailed invitations and entered additions to staff biographies. This afternoon, I was creating a routine page for a specific event. I carefully followed my step-by-step directions, checking and double-checking each operation with every new step. I clicked the big “upload” button and, a few “ERROR” messages later, the company’s intranet ceased to function. I stared in disbelief as my computer’s screen stared blankly back at me. "Internet Explorer cannot display that page" was the message displayed each time I meticulously entered and re-entered the intranet’s URL. I pulled my cell phone from my pocket and, although I was reluctant (and actually forbidden), I sent a text to Jane. It read “Uh oh. Please call me.” What seemed like a lifetime later, but was only five or so minutes, my phone rang signifying Cavalry Jane coming to my rescue. She was kind and sympathetic. She coolly asked, “Ugh! What did you do?” I explained every move I made. Every click, every keystroke, every message received and a timeline for all. Jane accessed the company’s network from home and was able to mirror the programs I was using. After a few exasperated moans and groans, she told me to call the company IT department. She determined it was most likely an internal server problem and it happened — coincidentally — at the same time I was making intranet edits. And best of all, it was not my fault. I emitted a huge sigh of relief.

Oh, I asked about the baby. I’m not a total asshole.

*how's THAT for corporate jargon

mumble mumble... something about bikini whales?

2010-08-19T04:36:00.000-07:00

i wish he was being tongue in cheek but he was dead serious.

this has been almost addressed several times here but had yet to make it.

karaoke.

it happens twice a week at the haunt and it generally consists of the same four or five people singing the same four or five songs... week after week.

its not so bad with an ipod in your ears, but on occasion the world manages to intrude.

and i always seem to notice that there is always at least one person, tonight a guy, who takes themselves way too seriously and acts like its as important as the not-important-at-all television show that is american idol .

you can tell that for them, its their time to shine.

and for the most part what they are doing isnt shining but something different that begins with an "s".

this was a while ago

2010-08-18T19:00:00.001-07:00

i was in my twenties and at a crowded bar when suddenly this fifty-something black guy squished into the booth next to me. i looked over, said hey. he smiled and said, "my name is calvin. i've got ten inches and baby THAT'S satisfaction." i smiled back and nodded my head in agreement.

okay lets play a game

2010-08-18T04:43:00.000-07:00

1. god it's been so long, i've been craving cock all month
2. im not gay but i'd totally fuck him/her (could be either)
3.do you think mcdonalds is still open
4. no i can't drink, if i start i won't stop, i can kill 3 pitchers, no problem.