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I have ranted… I mean, related many anecdotes from my nearly thirty years as a professional artist. There’s one story that I have told numerous times, but have never put into print… until now.

I was employed for almost five years in the advertising department at the main headquarters of a major after-market auto parts retailer whose mascots are three big-headed Jewish guys, one of whom used to smoke cigars…. y’know the company of which I speak? Well, I worked with a group of other artists in a large, moldy, poorly-ventilated studio. We were a happy (and mostly) fraternal group. We were expected to be human machines, cranking out various versions of full-color weekly advertising circulars at unrealistic breakneck speed. The ads, which were essentially the same each week with the same three hundred products rearranged, were tedious, time-consuming projects. High importance was placed on accuracy and alacrity. Compensation was minimal in comparison to expected output. Our decisions were constantly undermined by the advertising executive committee who — as they say — didn’t know shit from shinola. But, we were artists and we were used to it.


One day, one of my co-workers had his lunch resting at the top of his desk, waiting for the noon hour to roll around. His choice for his afternoon repast was a selection from the Betty Crocker “Bowl Appetit” line of microwave meals. This was a relatively new product (at the time) and several of us artists were admiring the package design. The disposable plastic bowl was slipped into a cardboard sleeve. The front of the package — the side that would entice the customer when placed on a shelf — was split across the middle. The top half bore the familiar “Betty Crocker” logo and the words “Bowl Appetit” in big, friendly, italic letters. The bottom half featured a full-color photo of the freshly-prepared product; glistening noodles, velvety sauce, flecks of vegetables and just the slightest suggestion of steam. The two halves of the design were bisected by a rippled block of color with the specific flavor of the meal written out in the same, friendly type as the product name. The back side of the package depicted other available flavors (Fettuccine Alfredo, Three-Cheese Rotini, some chicken something-or-other) and a small sample of each one’s packaging, all immediately identifiable as part of the same product line.

Turning the package over again to the front, we saw something that caught our attention almost simultaneously. At the top, near the “B” in “Bowl” was a large, gaudy, blue banner trimmed in yellow. Within the banner, the proclamation “Great For Lunch” was emblazoned in searchlight yellow, in a typeface not used anywhere else on the package. It was blatantly out of place and downright ugly. After some discussion, we artists theorized as to how this blemish made its way on to an otherwise well-designed, cohesive package.

We surmised that the creative packaging team at Betty Crocker were given the task to come up with an innovative design for a new product line. The group — layout artists, designers, computer graphics experts — all worked diligently. After several weeks and hundreds of designs, they emerged with a series of layouts and several prototypes. Each package was brilliant in its stand alone qualities as well as working as part of a series. Proudly, they made their presentation to the executive board in charge of research, development and some such bullshit. Suddenly, some out-of-touch, pencil-pushing, number-crunching dickhead stood up and questioned,

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A moldy apple in an old, wrinkled hand -perhaps a bit moldy too... 
(pen & ink)

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Jake couldn't remember if that plate in the back of his refrigerator was from Tuesday or Monday or October.

http://www.joshpincusiscrying.com/

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Ever since a visit to a California airfield, Douglas Corrigan became interested in flight. He began taking flying lessons at an airfield where aircraft manufacturers B.P. Mahoney and T.C. Ryan ran a small airline. He eventually took a job at their San Diego factory.

Just after Douglas was hired, a young aviator named Charles Lindbergh contacted Mahoney and Ryan with plans for a specialized craft. Douglas assembled The Spirit of St. Louis' wing and installed its gas tanks and instrument panel. When Lindbergh took off from San Diego to prepare for his famous flight from New York, Douglas personally pulled the chocks out from the wheels of the aircraft. When news of Lindbergh's success reached Douglas and his co-workers, they were excited, but Douglas vowed to someday make his own transatlantic flight.

In 1929, Douglas received his pilot's license and he purchased a used monoplane. He began to modify the craft, readying it for his own flight of glory. Unfortunately, the government repeatedly rejected Douglas' applications for transatlantic flight. He had flown from San Diego to New York on quite a few occasions and was certain that his modified plane could make the trip across the ocean. The US government believed otherwise.


On July 8, 1938, Douglas left San Diego for New York, a trip he had made many times. His official flight plan had him returning to California on July 17. Douglas took off from Floyd Bennett Field in Brooklyn in a thick fog. He flew east and claimed he had become disoriented. With the fog refusing to lift and visibility at its poorest, Douglas was only able to fly with aid from his compass. Twenty-six hours into the flight, he dropped below cloud level and noticed a large body of water beneath him. According to his account, Douglas realized that he had been following the wrong end of his compass's magnetic needle. After twenty-eight hours and thirteen minutes in the air, Douglas touched his plane down at Baldonnel Airport in Dublin, Ireland.

When officials questioned him, Douglas stuck with his story of getting lost in the clouds and flying the wrong way. Upon his arrival back in the United States, the newly-nicknamed "Wrong Way" Corrigan was given a hero's welcome. The New York Post printed a front-page headline that read "Hail to Wrong Way Corrigan!" — and the headline ran backwards. Douglas also received a ticker-tape parade down Broadway with more people lining the sidewalks than had turned out to honor Charles Lindbergh after his transatlantic flight.

Long after his fame had faded, Douglas retired to an orange farm in Santa Ana, California. He passed away in December 1985 and he never changed his story.

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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 100th 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.”

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^CLICK IT^

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On June 1, 2001, King Birendra and Queen Aishwarya of Nepal were hosting a formal dinner party for Nepal’s royal family. 29 year-old Prince Dipendra arrived drunk at the party and his father, the King, ordered him to be removed from the festivities. He was taken to his room in the Narayanhity Royal Palace by his brother Prince Nirajan and cousin Prince Paras.

An hour later, Prince Dipendra returned to the party with a 9mm sub-machine gun and an M16 assault rifle. He shot his father first, then began to systematically pick off his relatives — aunts, uncles, brothers, sisters — darting in and out of the room as he fired round after round. His mother, Queen Aishwarya, ran from the room to get help.

When the Queen returned, she and his brother, Prince Nirajan, confronted Prince Dipendra in the palace garden. Dipendra shot and killed them both. He strolled across a small bridge over a stream in the garden and shot himself.

According to the rules of succession, Dipendra was declared King of Nepal. He spent his entire reign — three days — in a coma. Gyanendra Shah, Dipendra’s uncle, was named King on June 4 when Dipendra died.

Incidentally, Gyanendra’s ended in 2008, when the monarchy was abolished and the interim Federal Republic of Nepal formed in its place. Gyanendra became a private citizen and was stripped of his royal status.

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One of the slimiest, shiftiest villain to ever grace the silver screen was the despicable Hans Guber, as portrayed by Alan Rickman, in the original “Die Hard”.

Under the guise of a group of international terrorists, the cold and ruthless Hans and his cohorts merely wish to steal 640 million dollars in bearer bonds from the vault of the Nakatomi Building in Los Angeles. Their plans are eventually thwarted by visiting New York City cop, resourseful John McClane, the self-proclaimed “fly in the ointment; monkey in the wrench”.

“Die Hard” is actually based on the 1979 novel “Nothing Lasts Forever” by Roderick Thorp. The book, itself a sequel to Thorp’s novel “The Detective” (filmed in 1968 with star Frank Sinatra), was adapted for the action film with several alterations, most notably the inclusion of the Hans Gruber character, who did not originally appear.

Josh Pincus is Crying has even more of my illustrations.

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She spent her entire screen time in “The Wizard of Oz” tormenting Dorothy Gale. Whether it was in her role as Miss Almira Gulch, the wealthy but crotchety landowner who takes Dorthy’s beloved Toto away under court order or as the main roadblock in Oz keeping Dorothy from returning to Kansas, The Wicked Witch of the West was as evil as they come. (Okay, so Dorothy killed her sister with a house, but she was a witch, after all.) The Wicked Witch was eventually served her just desserts when a slow reaction to a hurled bucket of water brought her to a bubbling and steamy demise.

Margaret Hamilton, who portrayed the Witch, was in reality a former kindergarten teacher who loved children. (Two of her students during her teaching days were future actors Jim Backus and William Windom.) After her iconic, career-defining role in “The Wizard of Oz”, Margaret often visited schools as part of her advocacy for public education. She loved the childrens’ reaction when she told them that she played the witch and was often coaxed into performing the famous cackle to squeals of delight.

A veteran of over 100 movies, television productions and a turn as “Cora” in a popular series of Maxwell House coffee commercials, Margaret passed away at age 82 in 1985.

Josh Pincus is Crying shows even more of my illustrations!

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Another story about dance can be found HERE.
Another story about spontaneous combustion can be found HERE.

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