from my sketchbook: lost in the stands

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I’ve had Phillies season tickets since 1996. I sat through some bad years and I sat through some great years, including 2008’s championship season. I’ve been to many ballparks in many different cities. The game on the field is only a fraction of the entertainment to be found at the ballpark. Sometimes the game doesn’t command the same interest as the antics in the stands. Last Sunday’s Phillies game was no exception. Once again, there was this guy…
was it section 137 row six or section 136 row seven or was it...
Lost. Hopelessly lost. I’ve seen him at many games. Reluctantly sent out to the concession stands by his group to load up on hot dogs and soda and beer and snacks. He waits in an endless line, missing several innings and usually a game-shattering play. Hearing the distant cheers, he stands stuck in a queue, lifting himself on tip-toes as he tries to catch a glimpse of the action on the field. Finally, his turn to pay arrives. He fumbles with a few pieces of damp currency, gets his change and hurries back to his seat. It is then he realizes he has become disoriented. He has visited so many food stands that he has forgotten where his seat is. And his friends have his ticket stub. He helplessly chooses a random aisle and spends the next five innings with his back to the game, scanning the crowd for a familiar face. The hot dogs are getting cold, the ice is melting in the Cokes, the beer is spilling. His friends don’t spot him — for Christ’s sake, THEY’RE  watching the game. Oh, it’s not always the same guy, but always he’s just as lost.

The dudes behind me account for the other entertainment in the stands. For fourteen seasons, in two different stadiums, some dude has sat behind me and kicked my seat. A child, an old man, a teen, a drunk. Doesn’t matter. They all kick. This past Sunday was my lucky day. I was treated to seat kickers AND some of the most inane conversation I’ve ever heard. There were two dudes, not much older than 21, dressed in their Phillies regalia, knocking back beer after beer and loudly expounding on the wonders of THEIR  universe…
[Note: Each statement started with an “ach”, a guttural clearing of the throat — JPiC]
Dude 1: ach, Dude, Johnny told me he’s, like, gettin’ a new car
Dude 2: ach, Dude, no way
Dude 1: ach, Dude, aw yeah. what kinda car does your mom drive? She’s got a truck, right? Does it drive good in the snow?
Dude 2: ach, Dude, it is totally cool in the snow.
Dude 1: ach, Dude what happened to your Phillies shirt?
Dude 2: ach, Dude, di’nt I tell you? Last year at the Phillies parade, I got hit by a car. I woke up the day after the parade and I had blood and dirt on my Phillies shirt and I said ‘Dude, what happened?’ and they said ‘Dude, don’t you remember? You totally got hit by a car and the dude that was driving got out all scared and shit and you started laughing and you ran away.’
Dude 1: ach, Dude, that’s awesome. Dude, y’know one time, my dad got tickets to a game back at the Vet [Veterans Stadium, home of the Phillies from 1971 to 2003. — JPiC] and my dad took me up to the press box and he knocked on the door and I met Harry Kalas [Harry Kalas was the long-time announcer for the Phillies, who passed away earlier this week. — JPiC] and he signed a ball for me and I just hung out in the press box with Harry and we were talking baseball. [Based on the “dude’s” approximate age, this anecdote is a total fabrication. — JPiC]
Dude 2: ach, Dude that’s cool. Yo’ dude, I didn’t know you smoked. Does your sister smoke? Does your mom know you smoke? Do you have to hide it from her?
Dude 1: ach, Dude, I’m gonna quit smoking in three years when I finish school.
Dude 2: ach, Dude, at my school, I was the mascot for the football team.
Dude 1: ach, What was the mascot?
Dude 2: ach, Dude, it was a cougar. It was great ’cause the girls all wanted to take their picture with me, so I had girls totally all over me. It was the best job ever. But it sucked.
Dude 1: ach, Dude, at school I have a break every morning from 9 to noon. It’s, like, the most boringest two hours.

And that’s how it went, non-stop for nine innings.
The Phillies won on a walk-off home run by Raul Ibañez. For one ticket price, I got twice the entertainment.

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IMT: green

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The inspirational word on Inspire Me Thursday is “green”.
And green can be big like an ocean or important like a mountain or tall like a tree
In 1955 for a five-minute puppet show called “Sam and Friends”, Jim Henson created Kermit the Frog from a green ladies’ coat that Henson’s mother had thrown into a waste bin, and two ping pong balls for eyes. From there, he launched a creative empire that stretched to public television, children’s entertainment, movies, character creation for hundreds of productions and special effects innovations.

On May 4, 1990, Henson made an appearance on “The Arsenio Hall Show”. He mentioned that he was tired and had a sore throat, but felt that it would go away. The next week, Henson traveled to North Carolina, to visit family. Feeling tired and sick, he consulted a North Carolina doctor who could find no evidence of pneumonia. He suggested that Henson take aspirin to combat his symtoms. Henson returned to New York and canceled a May 14th Muppet recording session. Henson’s wife Jane, from whom he was separated, came to visit and sat with him talking throughout the evening. By 2 a.m. on May 15, he was having trouble breathing and began coughing up blood. He suggested to Jane that he might be dying, but did not want to bother going to the hospital. It was in Henson’s character was not to be a bother to people.

At 5 a.m., he was admitted to New York Hospital. He was placed on a ventilator to help him breathe, but his condition deteriorated rapidly into septic shock despite aggressive treatment with multiple antibiotics. On Wednesday May 16, 1990, 21 hours and 23 minutes after he was admitted, Henson died from organ failure at the age of 53.

May 16th is my wife’s birthday. She felt like she lost a childhood friend. We all did.

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Monday Artday: yecchh!

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The challenge word this week on Monday Artday is (by my suggestion) “yecchh!”
First you take the peanuts/And you crunch 'em/You crunch 'em
I love peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. I always have. The drippier and gooey-er the better.

Before I began this illustration, I was inspired by an illustration of peanut butter and jelly done by my friend and fellow artist Matt Can Draw. Matt is ridiculously talented and is the reason I started this blog.

I met Matt several years ago when we both worked in the marketing department in the corporate headquarters of a large chain of after-market auto parts stores. We were two of a roomful of artists who diligently worked to produce weekly color newspaper circulars. We all spent long hours hunched over our Macs, arranging tiny pictures of oil filters and brakes shoes, checking and re-checking prices and making sure our mail-in rebate offers added up correctly. When we were finished, we translated the whole shebang into Spanish, thanks to the invaluable assistance of our in-house translator, as no one was versed in that particular romance language… outside of the menu at Taco Bell.

Matt’s cubicle was two away from mine. We were separated by a guy who spent more time surfing websites on his quest to free the inhabitants of Middle Earth than he did on his advertisements. One day, while waiting for a particularly large ad to make its way through the print queue to the giant color printer, I walked by Matt’s desk. He was doodling as usual. I commented that his drawing looked my drawings. Matt turned his head toward me, a puzzled look on his face. “You draw?,” he asked. “Yeah, I draw.,” I replied, “I’ve been drawing since I was four years old.” Matt was shocked. “I’ve never seen you draw.,” he said, still not shaking his surprise. Suddenly, his look of astonishment turned to contempt. “You know how to draw… and you don’t?, ” he sneered, “You should be ashamed of yourself.” I have ten years on Matt, but this guy was scolding me!  He seemed to be holding himself back from grabbing my shirt collar and shaking me. “When you leave work today,” he began his order, “you go and get yourself a sketchbook and start to draw again. Jeez!” As I slunk back to my desk, I still heard him muttering about me and shirking my illustrative obligation to the world. But, he was right.

That evening, I bought a sketchbook. That night, I began to draw again. That was almost three years ago.

Thanks again Matt.

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Monday Artday: doofus

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The Monday Artday challenge this week is “doofus”. That’s right… doofus.
hey stoopid!
I have been taking the train to work for the past two years. The train experience is very interesting. I never realized how many certified doofuses take public transportation.
There’s the “I gotta get on the train first” guy. This doofus is a grown man in a business suit who inches his way along the platform as the train slows to a stop. He aligns himself with the open door and he MUST BE THE FIRST ONE ON THE TRAIN! FIRST ONE!
There’s “Creepy knit hat I got bodies in my freezer” guy. This doofus wears a dirty windbreaker, zipped up no matter what the weather. He looks like he hasn’t bathed in years. Is that his neighbor’s or family member’s blood I see staining his jacket?
Then there’s “Staring squinty” guy. This doofus stares at my son and me as we wait for the train each morning. He checks the posted schedule with his eyes as slits then widens them to inquisitive orbs and stares at us until the train comes.
Don’t forget “What decade is this?” girl. This doofus (doofette?) is late every morning, arriving just as the train pulls into the station. She hurries up the platform steps, obviously having just dressed at a Grateful Dead concert circa 1968. She wears several blouses of similar sheer material and swirly patterns along with a tight denim skirt and bright colored tights. And nothing matches.

I’m sure they’re writing the same things about me on their blogs.

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IMT: spice

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The word of inspiration this week on inspiremethursday.com is “spice”.
let's groove tonight
Pierre St. Pierre de la Coriander Voss
In a remote little spot
Of downtown Paree
Sits a tiny quaint bistro
Know as “O C’est la Vie”

The chef at this place
Is renowned for his sauce
An ambrosial concoction
From Pierre St. Pierre de la Coriander Voss

In a big copper pot
Pierre mixes away
A secretive blend
Of thyme caraway

And dill weed and dill seed
And fennel and salt
And six cryptic spices
He keeps locked in a vault

He added some marjoram
Summer savory and myrrh
Spoonfuls of meadowsweet
And gave it a stir

From a few fat tomatoes
And zucchini cut ‘cross
With lemongrass sprinkles
Pierre created the sauce

He pinched, shook and drizzled
Poured, spooned and doled
Handfuls of Roquefort cheese
Minus the mold

Endless simmering later
In the big copper pan
Pierre chucked the whole mess
And opened a can.

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IF: fleeting

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The challenge word on illustrationfriday.com this week is “fleeting”.  When I did this illustration, I had a totally different narrative planned. I have since changed direction but the illustration still fits, albeit a stretch.
madness takes its toll
In 1984, I graduated from the Hussian School of Art, a small but respected vocational art school in center city Philadelphia. Several hours ago, I returned from an informal Hussian class of ’84 reunion, reacquainting myself with many classmates, some of which I had not seen in twenty-five years.

In February of this year, I was contacted by John Errichetti (the first person I talked to on my first day at Hussian). John got my work number from LinkedIn.com. (Don’t try to find me. I’m not listed under “Josh Pincus”.) He left a voicemail on my office phone. I hadn’t spoken to John in a few years, so I called back. John told me he toyed with the idea of leaving a disguised voice message, identifying himself as the father of a twelve-year-old boy he claimed I was molesting and he needed to talk to me. He asked, “Would you have called me back?” “No.,” I answered, “I would have deleted the message.” He informed about the sketchy details of the reunion. The location — McGillin’s Olde Ale House, a frequent haunt during my art school days — was a place with which I was familiar, although I wasn’t sure if I would be able to find it sober.

This afternoon I hopped on the R1 train with apprehension in my gut. I was headed to see a group of people that I saw every day for four years, and then, suddenly, hadn’t seen in twenty-five. Twenty-five years is a big gap in one’s life. Many, many things happened in twenty-five years. I got married two months after my graduation. Both of my parents have passed away. I have a grown son that none of my classmates ever met. I’ve worked at twelve jobs in twenty-five years. I began to force my mind to think of people and incidents that hadn’t crossed my mind in years. This was going to be weird.

I hurried through the wet streets of Philadelphia and made my way to narrow Drury Lane and to McGillin’s front door. I took a deep breath, grabbed the door handle and entered. The darkened tavern was instantly familiar. I turned to the left was greeted by a chorus of “Oh my Gods!” from a small group of unfamiliar faces, some of whom extended welcoming hands to me. I thought, “Oh shit. I don’t know who these people are.” The group began to identify themselves. I knew them all, even if their visage didn’t strike a chord in my usually-flawless memory. Slowly, I matched the faces to those memories from a quarter-century ago. I ultimately remarked that I felt as though I arrived in a DeLoreon pumped with 1.21 gigawatts of electricity.

I spent an ephemeral afternoon of reminiscing about days long gone, events long past and friends long forgotten. As the day progressed, late arrivals added to the group. Former classmates drifted about, assembling into small groups, breaking apart and reassembling. Of course, there was the obligatory “what are you doing” conversation. But, the talk generally stuck around “remember this” and “remember that”. It was truly enjoyable to discuss and share a part of my life that had been stored in some dark recess of my brain with the people who were key players in those experiences. There were a couple of people, I am sad to say, I didn’t not recognize and even after an explanation, I did not remember. Time was kind to several of the lot, specifically the five female classmates that bravely mingled among the predominantly male gathering. I was disappointed that certain classmates were not able to make it. Conversely, I was happy that others were not able to make it.

During a conversation with classmates Tom Romano and Lorin Stein, Tom chuckled and reminded me of my affinity for The Rocky Horror Picture Show. Lorin laughed too, adding,”You saw that movie, like, 10-15 times, right?” I glanced at the floor. “More like a hundred and fifty times.”, I sheepishly corrected. It was funny that Tom brought up Rocky Horror, as just before I left my house, I had completed the illustration above. How fitting the words of Richard O’Brien from the song The Time Warp —

“Time is fleeting.”

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from my sketchbook: nick adenhart

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calling all angels
Three nights ago, the only thing on 22-year old rookie Nick Adenhart’s mind was not giving up any runs to the Oakland A’s starting lineup. Nick scattered seven hits and three walks across six innings, while ringing up five Oakland batters on strikes. Nick was looking great in his 2009 season debut as part of the pitching rotation of the Los Angeles Angels of Anaheim. Reliever Jose Arredondo took over pitching duties in the seventh inning and gave up two runs. The Angels sent two more relief pitchers in. One blown save later, the Angels had lost and, although he threw six scoreless innings,  Nick finished the game with a “no-decision”. Nick and his teammates hit the showers. In two hours, a selfish, lowlife, drunk piece of shit named Andrew Gallo would take away Nick’s chance at a second start.

Nick was a passenger in a friend’s Mitsubishi Eclipse as it approached the intersection of Orangethorpe Avenue and Lemon Street in Fullerton, California, a short distance from Angels Stadium. Andrew Gallo, driving with a suspended license and a previous DUI conviction, ran a red light in his Toyota Sienna and smashed into the Eclipse, instantly killing two of the passengers. Gallo fled the scene on foot. Emergency workers arrived and pulled Nick and his friends from the wrecked vehicle. Nick was rushed to University of California-Irvine Medical Center, where he died from injuries sustained in the crash. Gallo was apprehended on an embankment on interstate 91, thirty minutes after the accident.

On Friday morning, April 10, Gallo was charged with three counts of murder, one count of fleeing the scene of a traffic collision involving death or permanent injury, one count of driving under the influence and one count of driving with a blood-alcohol level above the legal limit. Gallo’s blood-alcohol level was triple the legal limit. He faces a sentence of 55 years in prison.

The day before his first 2009 start, Nick called his dad in his native Baltimore and insisted he fly in for the game. “You’re gonna see something special.” he told his father.

This story was updated in the Orange County Register on June 11, 2009. The driver of the car in which Nick Adenhart was a passenger was legally drunk, according to autopsy reports. She was also under the legal age for the comsumption of alcohol.

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from my sketchbook: adrienne shelly

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baby, don'tcha cry/gonna bake a pie/gonna bake a pie with a heart in the middle
Adrienne Shelly began her career with starring roles in independent filmmaker Hal Hartley’s The Unbelievable Truth in 1989 and Trust in 1990. She followed those roles with parts in Law & Order, Oz, and Homicide: Life on the Street and two dozen off-Broadway plays. She stepped behind the camera as writer and director four times beginning in 1996. With four features under her belt, she wrote, directed and starred in the independent hit Waitress, which premiered at the prestigious 2007 Sundance Film Festival.

Adrienne had an office in an apartment building in Manhattan’s West Village. At 9:30 in the morning on November 1, 2006, her husband dropped her off at the office. He felt it was odd that he had not heard from Adrienne all day. He returned to the building around 5:45 p.m. He, along with the building’s doorman, entered the office and discovered Adrienne hanging from the shower curtain rod, a bedsheet knotted around her neck. Originally ruled a suicide, a police investigation revealed sneaker prints that did not match Adrienne’s, as she was found wearing socks, not shoes. Adrienne’s husband stated that money was missing from his wife’s purse. He also insisted that she would not have taken her own life.
Five days later, police arrested construction worker Diego Pillco, a 19-year-old Ecuadorian illegal immigrant who confessed to killing Adrienne after she complained about the noise he was making in the apartment below hers. Pillco said that he “was having a bad day.”

At his trial, Pillco entered his plea as guilty. He said that, contrary to his original story, Adrienne had not complained about noise. She had actually caught him stealing money from her purse after he slipped into the apartment. When she tried to call the police, he grabbed the phone and covered her mouth as she began to scream. He admitted to choking her with a sheet, tying it around her neck, and stringing her up to make it look like she committed suicide. Pillco received 25 years in prison without parole when he was sentenced in March 2008. At sentencing, Adrienne’s husband was given the opportunity to confront his wife’s killer. He looked Pillco in the face and called him “a coldblooded killer” and that he hoped he would “rot in jail.”

Adrienne’s daughter, Sophie (who was two years old at the time of Adrienne’s murder) is featured in Waitress as Keri Russell’s daughter.

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IF: talisman

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The illustrationfriday.com challenge word this week is “talisman.”
grace my hand
The Monkey’s Paw
A man, a woman and their grown son received a visit from the man’s friend – a sergeant in the military. The sergeant brought the family an artifact from his world travels — a monkey’s paw. He explained that the withered simian appendage possessed magical powers and that the owner would be granted three wishes. The family was intrigued. Suddenly, the sergeant tossed the paw into the fire raging in the hearth. The man quickly retrieved it, cradling the near-charred talisman in his lap. “Better to let it burn, cursed thing!” said the sergeant. “It will only cause you trouble.”

After a while, the sergeant bid farewell to the family and left their home. The man closed the door behind his friend and turned his attention to the monkey’s paw. His family gathered around him. They gazed in wonder at the paw. It was small, gray and wrinkled with bent and gnarled fingers. A dark nub of a bone protruded from the severed wrist. How could such an hideous object offer such cheerful promise. The sergeant’s story must have been just that — a story. The family stood silent, in deep reflection, until the man said, “Well, what have we to lose? I’m going to try a wish. What the heck!” He thought for a moment. “We could always use some money. I don’t want to be greedy. How about a thousand dollars!”, he said as looked to his family for approval. The woman and the son stared in terror as the man lightly the rubbed the paw and spoke. “I wish I had a thousand dollars”, he said. He dropped the paw to the floor. “It moved!”, he shrieked, “I felt the damn thing MOVE!” The family looked around their modest home. Nothing. No money.  Just as they had expected. Disappointed, they went off to bed.

The next morning, the family had forgotten about the events of previous evening. The son left for his job at a local factory. Several hours later, there was a knock at the front door. The woman answered it. On the doorstep was the son’s supervisor from the factory. He held his cap in his hands and his head was bowed. He looked up at the woman with tear-filled eyes. “There was an awful accident, ma’m.,” he began, “Your son has been killed. I’m so sorry.” The woman burst into tears. The man rushed to the door to comfort his wife.

The next day was the son’s funeral. Family, friends and co-workers gathered at the home and offered their condolences to the man and woman. The son’s supervisor approached the couple. He drew an envelope from his jacket pocket and presented it to the grieving parents. “We took up a collection at the factory,” he said, “We hope it helps. Your son was a great worker and a good guy.” The supervisor left with the other mourners. When the house had cleared, the man opened the envelope. He gasped. It contained exactly one thousand dollars. The man turned to his wife. “It worked!”, he proclaimed, “The paw worked.” His wife countered, brushing off the notion as  pure coincidence. “It isn’t coincidence! In its own twisted way, that paw grants wishes.,” the man said. The woman answered, “Sure, but at the expense of our son’s life!” The man thought for a moment then spoke. “Perhaps we should have been more specific in our wish.,” he said.

A few weeks went by, but the man and the woman were still distraught over their loss. The woman was half-heartedly cleaning the home to distract her thoughts. She came across the monkey’s paw in a drawer. She held up the primate appendage and turned to her husband. “I will wish our son back to us!”, she said gleefully, “This thing took him away. It can bring him back.” The man replied, “I don’t think that’s a good idea. I think we should just get rid of that thing and never talk about it again.” The woman was adamant. She held the paw before her and uttered her request. “I wish my son would come back home!”, she said. Suddenly, from downstairs, they heard a loud knocking on the door. The man and the woman looked at each other in shock. “He’s back!,” cried the woman, “My son has come back!” The man grabbed her shoulders and shook her sharply. “It’s been weeks since he died! He has been decomposing in the grave! And it was a closed casket funeral! Remember the accident? His head was completely crushed!”, the man yelled at his wife. “No!,” she protested, “My son is out there! I must let him in!” “But, again, you weren’t specific in your wish! You just wished he would return home!,” the man clamored “Whatever horrible thing is knocking on our front door  — it isn’t our son!” The woman pushed him away, turned and rushed to the stairs, all the time calling out, “I’m coming, my son!” In her haste, she dropped the monkey’s paw.

The knocking continued – slow and methodical and relentless. She raced down the staircase and bounded towards the door. The man picked up the paw and followed, just steps behind his wife. Then, a thought entered his mind. He stopped and held the paw before him. He closed his eyes and wished. “Man, am I hungry. I’d like a half-rack of barbecued ribs and a side of cole slaw. Nah, better make it a full rack.”

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