josh pincus is crying

Billy Tipton was a jazz pianist who performed to moderate success in the Spokane, Washington area in the late 1940s through the 60s. His small group, The Billy Tipton Trio, played regular gigs for years at many popular jazz venues in the Pacific Northwest. He recorded and released two albums of jazz standards for independent Tops Records, but shunned further offers in favor of continuing his live appearances.

Billy had serious relationships with five women. These relationships lasted for years with several of the women identifying themselves as”Mrs. Tipton,” although he only eventually married former stripper Kitty Kelly. Billy had informed Kitty, as he did his other intimate companions, that he had been involved in a horrific auto accident, leaving him with permanent ribcage damage, disfigured genitals and rendering him sterile. He was forced to wear a tight, binding cloth around his torso to ease his pain and enable him to function.

Billy and Kitty adopted three sons and Billy loved the role of “family man/father”. He was an active PTA member and often accompanied his boys on Boy Scout activities. As the children came into their teens, their wild behavior was the cause of many arguments between Kitty and Billy. Billy left the house, opting to move into a trailer home with his boys. As the years went on, the boys left Billy on his own. With his music career long in his past, Billy had no income and lived in poverty.

In the late 1980s, Billy fell seriously ill from a hemorrhaging peptic ulcer. He refused treatment and died in 1989 at the age of 74. Kitty and the children contacted Ball & Dodd Funeral Home to make Billy’s final arrangements. While Billy’s body was being prepared for burial, the funeral director informed the family of a startling discovery. Billy was a woman.

Billy was born Dorothy Lucille Tipton in Oklahoma in 1914 and had lived his life as a man for 54 years. Each of his female companions were given and convinced by the same “accident” story. Billy insisted to making love in the dark and preferred to do the touching rather than being touched. In the darkness, he was able to conceal a prosthetic penis he wore attached to an athletic supporter. A shocked Kitty tried to cover-up the truth, but son William went public and made many talk show appearances and happily gave interviews to both tabloids and more reputable papers.

Jack Cassidy achieved early fame as musical performer on Broadway for over twenty years. He won the Best Featured Actor Tony Award in 1963 for his role in She Loves Me, a musical reworking of the play Parfumerie  (which, itself, made been remade several times as Shop Around the Corner  and, most recently, You’ve Got Mail). He also appeared in dozens of guest roles in episodic television — displaying his skills in both comedy and drama — and a handful of theatrical films. He earned two Emmy nominations. He was featured in a memorable role on the Mary Tyler Moore show as Hal Baxter, the equally pompous brother of news anchor Ted Baxter (played by the late Ted Knight).

He experienced a small resurgence in popularity in the early 1970s, however not necessarily for his own talents. Jack’s son, David, was the hottest thing on television, playing heartthrob Keith Partridge on the hit series The Partridge Family.  Jack’s jealousy of David’s success increased at the same rate of his son’s popularity. It didn’t help matters that Jack’s wife (and David’s step-mother), Oscar-winning actress Shirley Jones, was also featured on the show and was enjoying comparable glory. From Jack’s perspective, they were being rewarded with the great success that had eluded him and that he rightfully deserved. He was extremely critical of David’s and Shirley’s performances. He belittled the show itself, pointing out that he was a true actor and what they were doing could not compare.

In 1974, The Partridge Family’s run came to an end and, at the same time, Jack’s alcohol consumption increased. David observed his father’s behavior become erratic and unpredictable. Jack’s neighbor’s noticed similar action, when one afternoon Jack was spotted watering his front lawn in the nude. Another incident, a short time later, had Jack proclaiming himself to be Christ. He was admitted to a psychiatric facility. His marriage to Shirley was essentially over.

In 1976, newly-single Jack moved into an apartment in West Hollywood. In the early morning of December 12, 1976, Jack passed out, possibly from excessive drinking, while holding a lit cigarette. The couch caught fire and it quickly spread through the apartment. Jack’s body was found on the floor, as though he had been crawling toward the sliding glass doors to safety. He was so badly burned that he was identified by dental record and a pinkie ring that he was never without. Jack was 49.

In 1949, Agnes Morra, a 15-year-old heroin addict, gave birth to a boy named Michael. Michael was given formula laced with an opiate derivative because he had become addicted to heroin in utero. Michael’s father, a career gangster, was deported to Italy. Agnes soon developed a relationship with a drug-addicted former boxer, who regularly beat her and young Michael. The boxer eventually murdered Michael’s mother.

For self-prescribed therapy, Michael began to perform as a stand-up comic under the stage name “Rockets Redglare”. He became a fixture in the small clubs of Manhattan’s East Village. He also spent a lot of time in drug rehab, hoping to kick his addiction.

Rockets worked as a club bouncer, as a roadie for a band called the Hassles (featuring a young Billy Joel), and acted as a bodyguard and drug supplier for Sex Pistols’ bassist Sid Vicious and artist-musician Jean Michel Basquiat. Rockets made a drug delivery to Sid Vicious at the Chelsea Hotel the night Vicious’ girlfriend Nancy Spungen was murdered. In the book, Pretty Vacant: A History of Punk, it is speculated that Rockets was her killer.

Rockets made his acting debut in director Jim Jarmusch’s 1984 film Stranger Than Paradise. That role led to more  small, quirky roles as seedy characters in films like Desperately Seeking Susan, After Hours and Down By Law. He played the hotel clerk who welcomed a frightened Tom Hanks to his questionable accommodations in Big. He taunted Eric Bogosian’s character as a deranged and angry caller in Talk Radio.

In 2001, while battling various addictions, Rockets Redglare died from a combination of kidney failure, liver failure, cirrhosis and hepatitis C. He admitted, “Anything I ever liked…I always did to excess”. Rockets was 52.

“These people, dressed as they are, come from all over the United States to make deals here in the Marketplace of America. Let’s! Make! A Deal!” — Jay Stewart

Jay Stewart broke into show business as a sax player, but landed a few announcing jobs after his graduation from college. Jay became the announcer on the fledgling Let’s Make A Deal one year after its premiere. Let’s Make a Deal  host Monty Hall called Jay “the best second banana you ever found in your life”. In addition to annoucing, Jay carried prize boxes and appeared on stage in various costumes when “zonk” prizes were awarded.

When the original version of Let’s Make a Deal  left the air in 1977,  Jay announced for other game shows like Sale of the Century, Joker’s Wild  and Tic-Tac-Dough until 1981, when the suicide of Jay’s daughter disrupted his career.

Jay returned to the airwaves in 1983, announcing on Pat Robertson’s 700 Club  that he had found religion and it was helping him to deal with his daughter’s death. However, Jay never fully overcame her death and, coupled with chronic back pain from the years of heavy lifting on Let’s Make A Deal,  he turned increasingly to alcohol. After a brief stint as an agent for other TV announcers, Jay committed suicide by shooting himself at his home in September 1989 at the age of 71.

Nothing surprises me. Nothing. Everyday, I hear about things people do and things that happen to people and I’m not surprised. I hear and read news reports relating supposedly shocking events and I’m still not surprised.

In 1983, beloved local Philadelphia weatherman Jim O’Brien died while skydiving. He jumped out of an airplane and, while attempting to help a fellow skydiver untangle his parachute, Jim didn’t allow enough time to open his own ‘chute and he plummeted to his death. It was sad. It was tragic. But was it a surprise? No. After all, he did  start off by jumping out of an airplane. It’s not like he slipped in the bathroom and his ‘chute didn’t open.

In 2001, professional race car driver and seven-time Winston Cup champion Dale Earnhardt died on the last lap of the Daytona 500 when his car hit the track wall at 180 miles-per-hour. Was is sad? No doubt. Was it tragic? Of course. Millions of NASCAR fans had lost a hero. Was it a surprise? Did I mention he was going 180 miles-per-hour?  He wasn’t taxiing Dale Junior over to the mall to giggle at girls on a Saturday afternoon.  

Steve Irwin, who gained fame as an adventurer and self-proclaimed crocodile hunter, was a likable and rambunctious character. He died in 2006 when he was snorkeling in Australia’s Great Barrier Reef. Steve was swimming just above a stingray when the ray’s barb raised up and pierced Steve’s chest, penetrating his heart. Was it tragic? Yes. Was it sad? For his family and fans, sure. Was it a surprise? No. After all, he was swimming just above a stingray. He wasn’t absent-mindedly referring to his shopping list in the supermarket when a stingray popped out of a display of nectarines and jammed its barb into Steve’s chest.

In February 2010, Dawn Brancheau, a 40-year-old trainer at SeaWorld, was killed when Tilikum, a six-ton killer whale grabbed her by the ponytail and dragged her around its tank until she drowned. This was the third incident involving this killer whale that resulted in death. Was it sad? Yes it was.  Was it tragic? It sure was, as the unfortunate incident was witnessed by two dozen straggler tourists as they hung back while exiting the seating area after a show. Was it surprising? If my job required regular interaction with something that has “killer” as part of its name, I’d rethink my career choice. Miss Brancheau had  to have known that she didn’t work with a “happy-go-lucky” whale.

 One day two weeks ago, I was coming home from the train station. As I walked up my driveway, I noticed that my next-door neighbor, a woman in her fifties, was high in a tree in her backyard, sweeping out a treehouse. I shook my head in silent disapproval. I was not surprised, however, because in the ten years that she has occupied the house adjacent to mine, she has been predisposed to doing weird shit. Once inside my house, I told my wife what I had witnessed outside. She rolled her eyes and a “what now?” expression crossed her face. Suddenly, the air was split by a shriek. My compassionate wife dashed outside to find our neighbor crumpled in a heap on the treehouse’s small balcony, one leg wedged and dangling between two slats. A 911 call was made and soon rescue personnel were working to free my neighbor as she moaned in a combination of pain and embarrassment. Was it sad? I suppose. Was it tragic? I guess. Was it a surprise? Well, she was  sweeping a treehouse. That’s a house  up in a tree!  She wasn’t tidying up the guest room when she tripped over the vacuum cleaner cord and fell out of a tree.

Last week, I saw a story on the news about an attack by a grizzly bear on some campers in Montana’s Soda Butte Campground, near Yellowstone National Park. The errant bear entered three different campsites, attacking two people and killing a third man after dragging him 25 feet from his tent. Was it sad? You bet! Was it tragic? Oh my goodness, yes! Was it surprising? If some uninvited visitors were sleeping in the middle of your living room, what would you do? Oh, before you answer, you’re a 900-pound bear. Yeah, I thought so. These people weren’t mailing their electric bill and a birthday card to Gramma when a bear leaped out of the mailbox.

I understand the sadness to be felt when stories like these are related. I can even appreciate the feeling of “There, but for the grace of God go I”. Stuff like this can happen to anyone. Right? Well, I have no plans to ever skydive. I rarely drive over the posted speed limit. I don’t swim, but if I did, it wouldn’t be anywhere near stingrays. Or killer whales. If necessary, I will find someone more agile that I to sweep out my treehouse (by the way, I don’t have  a goddamn treehouse). Twenty-four years ago, I bought a house with the intention of keeping my family from having to sleep in the dirt, so you won’t ever catch me camping. I can guarantee that when my time on this Earth is through, I won’t pass on to the Great Beyond through the jaws of a grizzly bear.

Surprised? I didn’t think so.

Karen Greenlee worked as an embalming assistant at a Sacramento mortuary. She aspired to work in this field because of her life-long fascination with dead bodies. As a child, she visited — and later broke into — local funeral homes to observe and “interact”  with the corpses. Her obsession turned into infatuation and then into love.

Karen had “encounters”  with over forty corpses — some by entering mortuaries after hours, some by breaking into sealed tombs in cemeteries. She was caught “in the act”  on several occasions, but was merely chased away from the premises by funeral directors fearing bad publicity.

In 1993, Karen was caught driving a hearse carrying a body that should have been delivered to a funeral two days earlier. When police took her into custody, she was in a drug-induced daze. A search of the vehicle revealed a lengthy letter — inside the casket — in which Karen confessed her sexual relations with deceased males. She detailed being turned-on by the smell of a freshly embalmed corpse. She was sentenced to eleven days in jail and fined two hundred fifty-five dollars. Her crime was interfering with a burial and stealing a hearse and the body it carried. She received a relatively light sentence because, at the time, California had no laws prohibiting necrophilia.

I’ve done many drawings of Jesus. As a character and what he stands for, I love putting him in oddball situations. Some of my Jesus drawings have appeared on my blog (like Jesus as a children’s party entertainer,  Jesus as a hockey goalie and Jesus as a skateboarder) and some have just remained in my sketchbook.

Well, here is the drawing that started it all — Jesus on His Day Off. I drew this in 2006 and never posted it. I always got a kick out of it, though.

Roy Sullivan, a U.S. park ranger at Shenandoah National Park in Virginia, was hit by lightning on seven different occasions between 1942 and 1977. He survived all of them. Roy was included in the Guinness World Records as the person struck by lightning more times than any other human being.

In 1983, Roy died from a self-inflicted gunshot wound over an unrequited love. He was 71.

At 6′ 11″, Mel Turpin dominated the court as starter for the University of Kentucky Wildcats basketball team in the 1984 NCAA Final Four. He was the Southeastern Conference scoring leader and still holds the record for most field goals in SEC tournament play. At center, he was an aggressive player, scoring 42 points in a game against Tennessee.

He was the sixth overall pick in the first round by the Washington Bullets in the 1984 NBA Draft. Although there were high hopes for Mel, he was immediately traded to the Cleveland Cavaliers. But, Mel never achieved his full potential in the NBA. He struggled with fluctuating weight, earning him the derisive nickname “Dinner Bell Mel”. He was traded to the Utah Jazz and then back to Washington where, after five unremarkable seasons in the NBA, he called it a career. In a year that included future superstars like Charles Barkley, Hakeem Olajuwon, John Stockton and Michael Jordan, Mel Turpin was considered one of the biggest disappointments in draft history.

After his retirement, Mel worked as a security guard.

On July 8, 2010, Mel committed suicide by self-inflicted gunshot wound. He was 49.

I have chosen a very unusual career. I’m an artist. For most of my life, I’ve had to explain exactly what I do and it’s never been an easy task. Everyone knows what a policeman or an accountant does. My father was a butcher; even vegetarians knew what he did. But, being an artist is different. Unless you are an artist yourself, you can never know how  different.

When I was a kid, I drew a lot. When the other neighborhood kids were out playing, I’d be in the house drawing. My older (and way more athletic) brother would often question my mother about my behavior, but still I’d draw. I’d doodle the inhabitants of worlds that existed in my mind. I’d create characters and illustrate their adventures in elaborate, multi-paneled comics drawn on any spare blank piece of paper I could get my hands on. I decorated my side of my shared bedroom with my drawings as a strange dichotomy to the sports pennants that graced my brother’s allotted space.

I was an average student in school, excelling only in areas that allowed me to express my artistic prowess. Assignments requiring me to create some sort of poster were my specialty. My classmates were amused by the little scribbles I’d pass around just out of the realm of the teacher’s gaze. As my schooling progressed, I began to consider my future plans and options of employment. By high school, most of the teachers of my academic subjects, exasperated by my disruptive and borderline-rude behavior, tossed me out of their classrooms. I gravitated to the art department where I felt comfortable, though not always welcome. As a senior, I had one art instructor who was not much older that I was. She was a sort of mentor to me. One day, without my permission, she submitted a drawing of mine to a local student art show. When I found out, I was furious, as I was not into any type of competition. When she handed me the “Third Place” medal that my piece had won, I was still a bit annoyed, but secretly pleased with my accomplishment. And when she told me that I showed endlessly more talent than she ever did, I was bewildered. I also decided, much to the chagrin of my parents, that I would pursue a career as a professional artist.

Despite little support or encouragement from my parents, I enrolled in a small, but reputable art school in Philadelphia. Offering no academic courses in favor of a full palette of all aspects of art study, it was a difficult curriculum. But the teachers were seasoned professionals in the commercial art field and I learned a lot. I received in-depth instruction and (mostly) constructive criticism from fellow artists whom I viewed as peers. Four years later, with my Associates Degree and honed portfolio, I felt I was prepared to face the worst that the working world could dish out. The deceptively optimistic scenarios depicted by my teachers left me with little idea as to how bad it really would be.

I eagerly began my career as a professional artist as the art director for a chain of popular ice cream parlors. I was responsible for producing the advertising, store signage and material connected with promotion and marketing of the business. For a first job, right out of school, I thought it couldn’t get better or more fun than ice cream. Well, the gentleman who owned the company was the sleaziest, slimiest, shiftiest asshole I had ever met (at least up to that point in my life). He often told me he wished he had more time to teach me from his vast experience of advertising, composition, color theory and general artistic knowledge. The only things that this jerk-off could teach me were smoking, gambling and adultery. He knew how to make chalky-tasting ice cream and that was the extent of his talent. Another executive who felt it was within the boundaries of his expertise to offer me his career guidance was the company’s general counsel. Protecting an ice cream company’s legal interests and rights would seem the ideal background with which to critique my creative and artistic output.

And so began my lifelong battle with bureaucratic decision-makers whose latent artistic tendencies were hindered only by their complete lack of talent. For twenty-five years, I have been hired by organizations that were impressed by my imaginative illustrations, my unique eye for design and my keen wit, only to have those same people belittle and vilify my work out of frustration over their own creative inadequacies. I have been subjected to the artistic judgment of accountants, lawyers, computer geeks, carpet salesmen and one VP who — I swear to God — was stoned every second of the day. The so-called “powers-that-be” are less concerned with producing a quality piece of work than they are with arrogantly showing that they have the last word. I have been told, after hours of “higher-ups” poring over an ad crammed with arrows and bursts and bold type and hundreds of products, to change a small block of background color from red to yellow. I have been asked to “make this bigger, but not too big”. I have changed and changed back and changed again, only to have the final decision revert back to the original incarnation. Logos made large, pictures made small, logos made small, pictures made large — I’ve heard it all!

In the eyes of those outside of the creative field, this is the easiest job in the world. I fool around on the computer all day, for Christ’s sake!  I draw funny pictures with pencils and markers. Kindergarten kids do that! That’s not a job!  That’s not work! I have witnessed some colleagues being told that an eight-year-old who is “pretty good” on the computer could do this job.

Conversely, artists are rarely critical of each other. I think we all agree that art is totally objective. Who’s to say what is good and what is bad. It’s all just different and that’s what makes it all good. My friend Matt is a phenomenal artist. When I see his illustrations, I want to toss my pens and sketchbook in the trash and take up a more respectable trade like plumbing. Then, I’m taken aback when he lavishes praise on a drawing of mine that I would consider sub-par. We tend to be harsher critics of our own works than the works of others. If the perspective is out of kilter in my drawing or I mess up the rendering of a hand or foot, the mistake is amplified, if only in my eyes. I do, however, resent when I am cut down by someone who doesn’t know their ass from a hole in the ground.

I consider myself lucky. Of the 42 students who graduated with me from art school in 1984, I am one of but a handful who continued to follow their dream. A recent reunion revealed that many opted for non-art-related fields as diverse as nursing and home-construction. I plugged along and have managed to maintain an unwavering run in my chosen profession for over twenty-five years. I openly admit that I have voiced my share of un – or under – appreciated opinions, but I felt I was standing up for my convictions. I know that I will never be Picasso or DaVinci, nor do I want to be. I know that I am not smart enough to be a nuclear physicist nor do I pretend to be. I just want to be an artist and do my job. Now, get the fuck off my back.