just the facts

If you are a reader of this blog (with any sort of regularity, although I still can't figure out why anyone would be), you know all about my affinity for television. Especially old television from my youth, or in some cases, before I was born. I like old sitcoms, dramas, game shows and even commercials — all of which are readily available for viewing on cable TV or any number of streaming services. 

One of my favorite shows was Dragnet, a police procedural drama produced and created by actor Jack Webb. Dragnet began life as a radio drama, based loosely on a small role Webb played in the 1948 film He Walked by Night. Webb played "Lee Whitey," a police forensic scientist. Webb worked closely with a real Los Angeles police forensic scientist and decided that the intricate, detailed day-to-day work would make for an interesting premise of a weekly series. He was right. Dragnet premiered in the summer of 1949 on the NBC radio network. After a short period of adjustment and "growing pains," Dragnet came into its own. Under Webb's direction, actors were instructed to deliver lines in a slow, deadpan manor. Dragnet abandoned the shrill and high-strung presentation of other contemporary police dramas in favor of a slower, more concise demeanor. The show's popularity grew and Dragnet enjoyed a successful nine-season run.

At the same time, Dragnet made an easy transition to the fledgling medium of television. Loyal listeners got their first glimpse of Jack Webb as no-nonsense "Sergeant Joe Friday" on their TV screens in December 1951. Actor Barton Yarborough, who played Friday's partner "Sergeant Ben Romero" died suddenly after filming just two episodes. He was replaced by actor Barney Philips (best remembered for having an eye in the middle of his forehead in a memorable episode of Twilight Zone) for the rest of the first season. Season Two saw a new partner — "Officer Frank Smith" — played by Ben Alexander (after a brief run by actor Herb Ellis). This incarnation of Dragnet ran until the summer of 1959.

In 1967, NBC brought back Dragnet. This is the series with which I am most familiar. It, again, starred Jack Webb as "Sergeant Joe Friday" and the ubiquitous Harry Morgan as his new partner "Officer Bill Gannon." The episodes were shot in color and took full advantage of the budding "hippie" culture so prevalent in the country at the time. Webb and his cohorts represented all things good and pure, as they butt heads with various evil, counter-culture hippie freaks, pushing their society-corrupting "mary jane," "dexies," "reds" and "smack" on 60s innocent youth. Along with the standard robberies, break-ins and kidnapping, Dragnet in the 60s presented a variety of hot-headed teens and dirty hippies hell-bent on "puttin' to The Man," as well as young men and women holding respectable jobs, but "turning on" at home when working hours were through. It also dealt with race relations, while simultaneously being a little racist itself. 

Jack Webb was also a small screen "Orson Welles" of sorts. He regularly employed the same roster of character actors to appear in different roles over the course of the show's four seasons. Versatile veteran actors like Virginia Gregg, Stacy Harris, Peggy Webber, Herb Vigran, Olan Soule and dozens of others would pop up week after week as suspects or witnesses, as though we'd never seen them before. 

Virginia Gregg appeared in 14 episodes playing 14 different characters, from the flamboyant leader of a pyramid scheme to the helpful employee at a candy store (that is obviously supposed to be See's). Jill Banner, everyone's favorite "Spider Baby, " shows up in five episodes playing both sweet and surly. When the script called for a repugnant asshole, actors like Vic Perrin and John Sebastian (and — yes! — Bobby Troup, who went on to star in Webb-produced Emergency! and married Jack Webb's ex-wife Julie London) were only too happy to oblige. 

MeTV, the popular retro cable network, shows two episodes of Dragnet every morning beginning at 5 AM. Coincidentally, that's the exact time I wake up to go to work. While I enjoy a bowl of cereal and a cup of coffee, I half pay attention to the morning's Dragnet offering. Over time, I have seen the entire 1960s version of the  Dragnet series approximately a zillion times. I've seen Heather Menzies get threatened with a hand grenade wielded by an angry Mickey Sholdar. I've seen Tim Donnelly ("Chet" from Emergency!) head up a ring of dog-nappers. I've even spotted Kent McCord and Martin Milner playing their familiar roles of "Officers Reed and Malloy" before Adam-12 was a proper series.

But enough was enough. I ran through the series so many times, I was bored. But, then, I discovered that Buzzr!, another retro cable channel that specializes in game shows from "way back when" shows old episodes of What's My Line? opposite Dragnet in the same time slot. So, instead of watching Friday and Gannon interrogate a smarmy G. D. Spradlin for the billionth time, I watched a pre- M*A*S*H  Alan Alda ask "Is it bigger than a bread box?" I watched comedian Soupy Sales offer up a barrage of corny (but funny) one-liners before getting a "no" on his question from moderator Larry Blyden. And later, I cringed as Blyden made several decidedly racists, yet perfectly acceptable for the time, comments regarding a contestant who imports rickshaws to the United States. "Okay," I thought, "this will make a suitable Dragnet replacement."

The next day, Buzzr! showed Family Feud instead of What's My Line?

I wonder what else is on....?

(By the way, Jack Webb never — never — uttered the line "Just the facts.")

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

I fought the law

DISCLAIMER: If you are a lawyer, you might want to skip this week's entry on It's Been a Slice. I know how sensitive lawyers can get and I know how insulting I can get. In this post, I will knowingly make blanket statements and unfounded claims with little to no proof to back them up. If you are a lawyer, you won't find this particular post funny. (As for the rest of you, you may not find any of my posts funny, but I am addressing just the lawyers right now.) I am giving you fair warning to get out now.

I worked in the marketing department of a fairly large east coast law firm for nearly ten years. In that time, I grew to really, really hate lawyers. For the most part (uh-oh! here comes one of those blanket statements I was telling you about!), I found them to be arrogant, condescending know-it-alls who were convinced that just because they went to law school, they were capable of doing your job in addition to their own. They were experts on everything. They were a source of knowledge on just about any subject. On a personal level, I was often given unsolicited design advice and instruction from lawyers. 

It's complicated.

The firm that employed me was very aggressive when it came to marketing and the marketing department boasted over a dozen members. Nevertheless, lawyers constantly injected their own ideas, based purely on the fact that they went to law school. Once, I was designing an invitation for a conference in our Harrisburg office. The lawyer I was working with asked for the size of the invitation. In a telephone conversation, I told him it would be in postcard form, measuring eight and a half inches wide by five and a half inches high. He said he could not visualize it and requested a printed sample. I asked if there was a ruler available in his office. Again, he pressed for a printed, actual size sample. I told him it was the size of a regular piece of copy paper — one that is currently in a tray in the office Xerox machine — folded in half widthwise. He was not interested in any sort of exercise in origami. He demanded — demanded, I tell you! — a printed sample. I was convinced that, despite his years of college and law school education, this guy was either too important or too dumb to know how to operate a ruler.

One of my other jobs at the law firm was producing standard "support" ads for program booklets. These are very generic ads, usually offering "congratulations" or "best wishes" for someone being honored by a local organization. These ads were solicited to raise additional funds to either lessen the overall cost of an event or to contribute to a charitable entity. Because the law firm placed so many of these kinds of ads, the ordering process was streamlined to a few clicks on the firm's intranet. Every so often, an attorney - who was placing one of these ads - would request a full-color version. I would check the specifications from the organization to see if they allowed for color. If they did not, I would inform the attorney that the booklet in question would be in black & white. This, of course, would lead to an argument, because you cannot tell a lawyer that they can't have something they want. I would explain — again — that the booklet would be printed in just black ink. In some cases, I was ordered to submit a color ad and "see what they could do." Of course, "what they could do" was to tell me to resubmit a black and white ad.

Another time, I was having a heated discussion with a co-worker in her office. Perhaps our exchange got a little too loud and our voices carried out into the hallway. One of the firm's lawyers poked his head into her office. I expected him to tell us to keep our voices down, which would have been understandable. But, no... he actually began offering ways in which we could solve our little disagreement. My co-worker and I were so taken aback by the uninvited hubris this guy exhibited that we nearly forgot what were were arguing about.

Yet another of the firm's lawyers supplied a mailing list of contacts to whom he wanted a mass-mailing sent for an upcoming seminar that he would be hosting. He was very specific about the names included on the list and asked the woman in charge of mailing to pay close attention to the list — not to add any of the firm's other contact lists to his special list. The invitation was prepared, printed and mailed to his special list, as per his instructions. After a reasonable amount of waiting time, the seminar was canceled for lack of interest. The special list received not a single reply.

I was relieved of my position at the law firm just before Spring of 2018. I have had three jobs since then. But, my feelings toward lawyers have not waned. 

If you are a regular reader of this blog (besides me, I wonder why anyone would be a regular reader of this blog), you know I spend an inordinate amount of time watching television. I have taken notice of several commercials for local law firms — two in particular. The first features a local lawyer discussing his various case wins with a group of folks in a relaxed setting. Everyone is seated on a sectional sofa while the lawyer expounds on his winning record — delivered in a tone that's a strange combination of empathy and arrogance, with the "empathy" part sounding very insincere. The lawyer in the commercial reminds me of a lawyer I encountered almost ten years ago when an alleged UPS employee sued me (via my insurance company) over an alleged fall on my property. He is slimy and weasle-y and in a gazillion years I would never hire this guy to represent my interest in anything.

In another series of commercials for another Philadelphia law firm, the two principals are shown discussing important facts of a pending case (I assume) while strolling past prominent and recognizable sights in Philadelphia. There are scenes of them near the Liberty Bell and Independence Hall and City Hall. (I suppose they opted against showing them cavorting with Gritty and that's probably for the best.) Both gentlemen are dressed in tailored business suits. One of them, however, desperately needs a haircut. Up front, he has a receding hairline, but in the back....? It appears as though he leapt from his barber's chair to attend to an unexpected emergency and never returned to finish up his haircut appointment. Ever. And that appointment was months ago. I'll tell ya... if I decided to employ the services of this particular law firm and this guy and his "bushy bushy blond hair-do" walked into the office for our first consultation, I would immediately show myself to the door. There ain't a jury in the world who would take this alta kaker and his flowing locks seriously. Plus he reminds me of an old boss that I hated.

I actually have plenty more to say about lawyers, but I think I've made my point. Plus, I probably have lost a few readers.

So, sue me.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

many miles away

The internet is a funny thing. 

Thanks to the internet, I have discovered and interacted with dozens and dozens of people with whom I share a common interest. Some people share my love of old television shows and movies. Some, like me, have decided to make graphic design their chosen career. Others — and these are a decidedly eclectic group — have eschewed "normal" hobbies like stamp collecting, scrapbooking and crocheting in favor of seeking out the final resting places of celebrities. Yep... I number myself among those folks. And we are a surprisingly large contingent.

Through the magic of a network of interconnecting computers that stretches completely around the globe, I have "met" a number of folks who think it's totally normal to traipse through a cemetery on a sort-of scavenger hunt to locate the grave of a favorite actor that has passed... or perhaps an unsung hero to pay long overdue respect.

That's how I "met" Mark Masek. Mark Masek has written several books about cemeteries, chock full of tales of the famous, the not-so-famous and the notorious, for no other reason than keeping their memories alive. He also created the cleverly-named Hollywood Remains to Be Seen website, wherein he provides maps and directions for locating the graves of all levels of deceased celebrities across all of the major cemeteries in California and beyond. I used Mark's invaluable resources when I planned my first cemetery visit over a dozen years ago.

I don't remember when I first connected with Mark via the World Wide Web. It was either on Instagram or back when I was still a Twitter user. Then, when I joined Facebook, (reluctantly, I might add), Mark and I connected and engaged in "conversation" that reached beyond cemeteries. We discussed old movies and television programs from our youth. Then there was baseball. Mark was a fan of the beleaguered Chicago Cubs and we often exchanged friendly jabs when baseball season got heated as the coveted post-season approached. I would make rapid-fire posts about the soon to be beleaguered Philadelphia Phillies and Mark was right there to remind me what I had said about the Cubbies. In 2020, I began a series of artistic posts on my website that Mark really liked. I created movie posters, recasting current, popular titles with actors and actresses from Hollywood's Golden Age. I did my best to mimic the style, color, design and fonts for the era. I ended up doing 76 of them. Mark commented regularly, expressing his appreciation of the series and singling out some of his favorites. I was humbled by his compliments.

And then there was the calendar. Mark created the Deathiversaries calendar, a comprehensive chronicle of celebrity death anniversaries (a different one on each day of the year), accented by beautiful photographs of grave markers — one for each month. Mark did some extensive research and never duplicated anniversaries from year to year. Mark also took the pictures himself. Every year when I received my calendar, I'd post a little plug on my Facebook page, touting the possible appeal to my fellow taphophiles (yeah, we even have a collective name). Mark would always thank me for the post.

On December 15, in my own daily celebrity death anniversaries, I noted the 1675 passing of Dutch painter Johannes Vermeer. Mark commented that he'd never forget where he was when he heard the news.

On December 29, 2025, I had a brief online text conversation with Mark. A friend of mine posed an open inquiry for information about "print-on-demand" for calendars. I contacted Mark to ask about his experience with the company that prints his calendars. Once again (and certainly not unexpected), Mark quickly replied in great detail about his satisfaction with the process and the final product. He wished me and my family a "Happy New Year" and I returned the sentiment.

Another friend — also one I have never met, but who shares my love of cemeteries, television and all things pop culture — sent a message to me yesterday. She told me that Mark had passed away on New Year's Eve. 

I was devastated. It made no difference that Mark and I never met face to face. I had lost a friend. Condolences began to circulate among the tight, online group of cemetery enthusiasts to which I am connected — mostly from folks who, like me, had never met Mark. But, it was quite apparent that Mark was a good guy. Humble, knowledgeable, generous, funny, sweet, kind.

I'll never forget where I was when I heard the news. Rest in peace, Mark.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

walk, don't run

I had a day off from work and absolutely no plans. But things have a way of just... happening.

I woke up, had breakfast and was watching television. Midway through an episode of Leave It to Beaver that I had seen a zillion times, I decided to go out and visit a couple of nearby cemeteries that I have been meaning to check off of my list. (If you are new to the world of Josh Pincus, visiting cemeteries where famous people are buried has been a hobby of mine for many years.) Usually, I make a lot of preparation before a trip to a cemetery, but this time, I decided to wing it. I would just use the GPS coordinates posted on findagrave.com and hope to find the graves I was looking for.

I filled my trusty water bottle, grabbed a granola bar from the pantry and I was off. I said "goodbye" to Mrs. P as I closed the front door behind me. 

I drove through the entrance of Montefiore Cemetery, which is just a few blocks from my house. I navigated to the internet on my cellphone and clicked on the first grave on my list. I eased my car to the far end of the cemetery to Section 17. I parked, opened the door, got out and surveyed my surroundings.

And my phone rang.

I answered. It was Mrs. Pincus with an exasperated tone in her voice. I asked what was upsetting her. She told me that when she got in her car, the "flat tire" light was glowing brightly on the dashboard. I offered to take the car to a tire place the next morning (Saturday), as I already had plans for the day. She said that would okay, but she did have other errands to run later in the day. She finally agreed to my proposal and she'd make other errand-running arrangements. I continued to seek out the graves on my list. After a little frustration and little more searching, I found the first one. The second grave was closer to the cemetery entrance. After some wandering in and out of similar looking grave markers, I located the second — and final — grave of my morning quest. (A full report can be found here.)

I decided to forgo a trip to another cemetery. Instead, I went to take care of Mrs. Pincus's automotive issue. I drove over to my in-law's house where Mrs. P's office is located in a building on the property, but separate from the house. I parked my car on the street and walked up my in-law's long, steep driveway. I quickly ducked in to the office to tell my wife of the change in plans and then headed back out to her car. 

The mechanic that we've been taking our cars to for many years is located, coincidentally, just past the cemetery that I had explored earlier. I pulled my wife's car into his lot, which — to my surprise — was packed with cars. I could see through the glass of the pulled-down garage doors that each of his three bays had a car parked in it. I found a parking space, shut off the engine and went inside to the small office. When Dennis, our mechanic, saw me, he came out of the work area and took a place behind the tall office counter. I explained my dilemma about the flat tire light. I injected a little pathetic tone into my voice and boldly asked if he could take a look at it today.

"Sure," he said, then he added, "I'm kind of busy now, can you bring it back around noon?" I checked the clock on my cellphone and it read 10:40. I expressed my gratitude for squeezing me in and handed over the key fob for Mrs. P's car, explaining that I would just leave the car now and call my wife for a ride home. Then, I called Mrs. Pincus to report on the situation. She was very happy to hear and thanked me for taking care of things. She also said she'd be right over to pick me up, then she'd have to go back to work. I ended the call and waited.

And waited.

And waited.

Then, my phone rang. It was my wife. She explained that she was going to come over in my father-in-law's car, but it wouldn't start. I told her that my car was there and she countered by telling me that she didn't have the key fob to start my car. I exhaled loudly.

"I'll walk.," I said. "I'll just walk home.

My house is 2.7 miles from the mechanic's shop. I take this trip often, because the garage is directly across the street from the Domino's Pizza that we order from several times a month. However, when I go to pick up a pizza, I usually drive. No. I take that back. I always drive. Always.

Now, I am 64 years old and, recently, I have found myself huffing and puffing after climbing the stairs in my house. I have had some difficulty extracting myself from the sofa after an evening of intense television watching. I've heard some strange popping and cracking when I straighten my legs or back or other body parts that seem to feel better in a bent or curved or stretched state. Plus, it has been quite sometime since I have done any sort of walking that didn't end with a visit to a restaurant. In other words, I am in no shape to walk nearly three miles. But, I am stubborn. I don't share a lot of personality traits with my father (although some people will tell you differently), but I did inherit his sense of "I'd rather do it myself." So after, dismissing my wife's suggestions of taking a bus ore calling for an Uber, I set out on my 2.7 mile journey home.

I don't know if you are aware, but 2.7 miles is far! For a good portion of my little trek, there were no paved sidewalks. In a few places, I had to walk across the edges of a few house's front lawns, lest I put myself dangerously close to the surprising amount of traffic that transverses the outer reaches of Elkins Park. Along the way, I walked through the outer reaches of a Ukrainian cemetery, one that I have passed countless times on my way to get a pizza. Now, I was able to get a close-up look at the head stones, elaborately engraved with religious iconography and Cyrillic characters. Eventually, I found a wide and welcoming paved sidewalk that ran along the perimeter of an elementary school. Soon, though, the sidewalk inexplicably ended at the driveway of a corner house.

I crossed the street at a traffic light and decided to continue my route through a residential street. Elkins Park boasts an interesting variety of large and spacious mansions and small, compact houses. Around the late 19th century, the area was the location of the summer homes of some of Philadelphia's wealthiest citizens. Folks like Peter Widener and William Elkins retreated to huge, multiroom estates north of the bustling city Surrounding these impressive structures were smaller, more modest accommodations built specifically to house the servants of the rich. (Guess which one I live in?) I passed a few large homes, some still used as private residences, while others have been converted to apartment buildings or, in one case, a school. Nearby, on the same street, were several blocks of smaller homes that were dwarfed by the giant properties.

Boy, did my feet hurt!

Nearly an hour after I left my wife's car in the care of our mechanic, I arrived at my wife's office. I trudged up the long, steep driveway that runs the lengths of my in-law's property. I startled Mrs. P when I burst through the door and collapsed in the big swivel chair that sits by her desk.

My wife looked at me as I breathed heavily and slurped a healthy slug of rejuvenating water from her water bottle. "You're crazy.," she said.

"No," I corrected her, "'Crazy' is going to four different supermarkets in the same day." I reminded her of her activities from the previous day. She was fulfilling a long shopping list for her octogenarian parents who insist on getting specific items from specific supermarkets and will not settle for substitutions. Convenience be damned. The mini bagels must come from Giant's bakery while the salmon must be purchased from Aldi. No exceptions.

"That's 'crazy'", I clarified. "What I did was 'admirable.'" Okay, maybe it was a little crazy.

And I can guarantee, the next time I order a pizza, I am not walking over to pick it up.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

no milk today

When I was a kid, I guess I drank a lot of milk. There was always milk in the refrigerator. It was usually a big gallon jug, as there were four people in my family, including two growing boys. My brother and I would have cereal nearly every morning and cereal required milk. Sometimes, after school or on a weekend afternoon, I'd pour a small glass of milk for myself, grab a few (or more than a few) Oreos from a package in the kitchen cupboard and have myself a quick, typically kid-friendly snack. However, if I think about it, most of the milk in our house was consumed by my father.

My father was a creature of habit. Once he did something, he would always have to do it. I suppose that started back in World War II, when, as a young seaman in the US Navy, he tried his first cigarette — and he never looked back. Cigarettes became a part of his daily routine right up until the day he died. He also always put his shoes and socks on first when he got dressed and then struggled to get his pant legs over his fully-clad feet. I don't know why he dressed in this order, but he did. He always did. My father also had a giant glass of chocolate milk and a Tastykake Chocolate Junior every night before he went to bed. It was as though he could not get to sleep without those two components. My father insisted that our kitchen was always stocked with milk, Hershey's Instant chocolate milk powder and a box of Tastykake Chocolate Juniors. The Tastykakes were usually hidden by my father so they would always be available for him and him alone. If, by chance, my brother or I would eat one, it had better not be the last one or we would suffer the wrath of one Harold Pincus deprived of his daily, late-night, pre-bedtime ritual. We were permitted to mix a spoonful of Hershey's Instant into our milk as long as enough remained for my father's milk, but if there were no Tastykake Chocolate Juniors around when my dad was ready to hit the sack — well, let's just say there better have been at least one. We seemed to go through a lot of Hershey's Instant in the Pincus house. Between my father, my brother and me, a one pound can never seemed to last very long. I remember the lid of the metal container had to be removed with the help of a crowbar, but a metal spoon handle would often suffice. The recommended two "heaping" teaspoons never delivered enough chocolate flavor for my liking and I would usually add a little bit more to my milk. I think I caught my father dropping up to three spoons worth of Hershey's Instant into his milk. His rationale being "I'm paying for the goddamn stuff. I'll use however much I goddamn please." My mom, who was in charge of keeping our kitchen's food inventory maintained, never allowed the Pincus house to be without Hershey's Instant.

As I got older, I did not follow in my father's footsteps. My taste for milk did not carry over into my teen or adult years. I have never poured myself a glass of milk to drink anywhere past the age of ten. I still eat cereal every morning, but I pour a  minimal amount over my Honey Nut Cheerios A few years ago, my son asked if I am still drinking cow's milk. He went on to explain that I should cut down on my dairy intake and suggested that I switch to almond milk for my cereal. At first, I balked. Then —  very much unlike my father —  I took my son's advice. I bought a carton of almond milk. I tasted no difference between almond milk and cow's milk. I've been buying almond milk ever since.

My wife told her father about my switch and he said he'd like to try almond milk. My father-in-law is not the most flexible or receptive-to-change person I have ever met. He (much like my own father) is very much set in his ways. My wife bought a carton of almond milk for my father-in-law. Allegedly, his highly sophisticated taste buds detected a "taste" in the complex flavor profile of almond milk and he rejected this little non-dairy, "I don't like anything new" experiment. The remainder of the carton was sent to our house. (This has happened several more times since as he half-expected to like almond milk on subsequent samplings. He did not.) While I do not fancy myself a food connoisseur in any respect, I cannot detect the remotest "almond" flavor in almond milk.

I still have no desire to pour and drink a glass of milk. As a matter of fact, the thought of it is a little nauseating. I'll happily drink the few drops left at the bottom of my empty cereal bowl, but that's it. No big glasses of milk for me.

I will, however, eat a Tastykake Chocolate Junior if one is available. You know.... in honor of my dad. Yeah... that's it.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

I'm dreaming of a white christmas

"I'm dreaming of a white Christmas/Just like the ones I used to know"

Are you? Are you really? Before the early 1940s, nobody was really dreaming of a white Christmas. Sure, folks thought about Christmas and all the things that came along with the Christmas season. Presents, family gatherings, sending Christmas cards, a visit from St. Nicholas... well starting in 1823 when that poem was first published. But the concept of a "white Christmas" didn't become "a thing" until a Jewish immigrant named Irving Berlin wrote a song called "White Christmas." Before that, Christmas songs were mostly religious in nature. "White Christmas." made its public debut on Christmas Day 1941, just a few weeks after the infamous attack on Pearl Harbor. Popular singer Bing Crosby sang the song on his radio show. He recorded it the following May for inclusion on an album released ahead of the holiday-themed motion picture Holiday Inn, which debuted, inexplicably, on August 4, 1942. The song performed poorly in its initial release. Bing Crosby wasn't especially thrilled by the tune, commenting during the recording session: "I have no problems with that one." But as Christmas 1942 approached and Holiday Inn gained traction, it topped the charts and became an international hit. It went on to sell fifty million copies, becoming one of the best selling singles of all time.

But, how many folks in later generations, even know why they want a white Christmas? They certainly don't want a white Christmas in Australia, where it's summer in December. So, a white Christmas is purely a Northern Hemisphere thing. Before Irving Berlin penned that beloved Christmas song, the concept of a white Christmas was barely a thing. It was alluded to in Charles Dickens' classic novella A Christmas Carol. Snow and wintery weather was described, but it was not the main focus of the story. It merely offered a setting in which the action took place.

I used to work with a couple of women who were very nice, very sweet, but not too bright as far as where their holiday traditions originated. First of all, they marveled at the fact that I was Jewish. They had never known anyone — anyone! — who didn't celebrate Christmas. They questioned me about holidays that they had never heard of, as though I was the Jewish equivalent of the Pope. (By the way, there is no Jewish equivalent of the Pope and if there were, it sure wouldn't be me.) When Christmas time would roll around, the questions were brought up again. It became tradition. "You don't have a Christmas tree?," they'd ask, as though they were asking how I was able to breathe without lungs. I'd explain that, of course, I had a tree, but I just keep it in the backyard, growing in the ground with the other trees. Being the sarcastic jerk that I am, I would often return the questioning, with a little bit of Josh Pincus attitude. "Why do you want a 'White Christmas'?," I'd innocently ask. "There wasn't any snow in the desert when Jesus was born." The two women would exchange blank looks and then look at me. They'd frown and furrow their collective brows, hoping that would force a convincing answer the front of their brains. Finally, one of them replied. "Well, you know..... it's nice for the kids." 

What? What does that mean? How did that attempt to answer my question? How does that explain your tradition? Jeez! I went on and on and on about Judah Maccabee and his ragtag band of soldiers fighting off the Greco-Roman Assyrian army (or whoever they fought) and how the oil in the temple lasted for eight days instead of just one and why we eat fried food to commemorate the "oil" aspect of the Chanukah story. Okay, okay... I fudged on some of the details, but at least I was far more convincing than "It's nice for the kids." That made as much sense as yelling English into the face of someone who doesn't understand English to get them to understand.

I get frustrated by "traditions" that are blindly followed by people who don't even know the reason why they are doing what they are doing. There are so many Christmas "traditions" that are dragged out every year that have absolutely nothing to do with the birth of Jesus. A lot of them were borrowed from other cultures. There is nothing wrong with that. But if you don't understand why you are doing these things, you kind of look like a dope. Even an excuse of "Well, my parents did this, so I'm doing this" is better than "Uh... I don't know." I had another coworker at another job who would talk about all of her cherished family traditions as though these rituals were handed down from generation to generation... only to discover that her "traditions" were read about in a magazine during her train commute into work that day.

If you are "dreaming of a white Christmas," good for you. If you like snow, that's fine. If it's because a songwriter told you to over eight decades ago, that's fine. If it's because "Uh... I don't know." Well, as they say in the South: "Bless your heart."

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

shticks of one and half a dozen of the other

When I was little, I had a bunch of kids from my block over to my house for a birthday party. My mom arranged for a bunch of games for my guests to play, like pin the tail on the donkey and musical chairs. For our version of musical chairs, I selected the record that my mom would play and stop during the course of the game. I selected "The Let's All Call Up A.T.&T. and Protest to the President March" from Allan Sherman's second album My Son, The Celebrity. I knew every word to that song. (As a matter of fact, I knew every word to every song on the five Allan Sherman albums that my parents had in their modest record collection.) The kids who came to my party had never heard this song before. You see, in a few years, these kids — the same ones who were jockeying for that last chair in my living room and stuffing themselves with birthday cake — would be made aware of the fact that the Pincus family were Jews and Jews killed Jesus. And, in their naïve eyes, that crime would be pinned squarely on me. But for now, they just listened to the silly song that played on our record player and eyed up the chair that they hoped to snag when the music stopped. The song — as far as they were concerned — was just an upbeat march. They were oblivious to the other tracks on the album. Tracks like "Al n' Yetta," "Harvey and Sheila," "When I Was a Lad" and other titles with a decidedly Jewish slant. None of these kids' parents owned any Allan Sherman albums. Nor would they ever.

My mom introduced me to the songs and humor of Allan Sherman. I thought the songs were funny, even if I didn't get all the references and jokes. I was six years old, for goodness sake! I had no idea who Benjamin Disraeli or Billie Sol Estes were. I had no clue that the tunes to which Allan sang his silly lyrics were actual songs. But, for some reason, these songs — these albums — struck a chord with me. I just loved them.

When  I got a little older, I discovered the Dr. Demento radio show. Along with such novelty classics as "Fish Heads" and "The Cockroach That Ate Cincinnati," Dr. D often played a number of Allan Sherman tunes that I recognized from my youth. I still knew all the words, only now, I was finally getting more of the jokes. I finally was able to appreciate the clever wordplay Allan Sherman put into his parody lyrics. It was like I had unlocked a secret door and I was permitted to enjoy these songs — that were beloved to me anyway — in a whole new light. I was always intrigued by the definite Jewish appeal of Allan Sherman's music. It's kind of like Seinfeld or Mel Brooks movies. You don't have to be Jewish to enjoy and appreciate it, but if you happen to have been born and raised in a Jewish family, there are definitely a bunch of additional jokes you are privy to.

Allan Sherman's debut album was the fastest selling album at the time... and that time was 1962. That means two things. One - I am 64. I am at the tail end of Allan Sherman's first wave of fans. The original buyers of Allan Sherman's albums are dying off and their children, who enjoyed the songs secondhand, are also approaching the twilight of their twilight years. Most people in their 20s, 30s and 40s are not especially familiar with Allan's musical output. And two - Allan's efforts were soon eclipsed by four mop-top youngsters from Liverpool, England, whose infectious songs had far more impact on modern music than that chubby little guy's daffy little ditties. 

A few weeks ago, my son — a DJ on a local radio station — told me of an upcoming Allan Sherman tribute show planned for right here in Philadelphia. Thanks to our combined love of Allan Sherman, my wife and I made sure that our son was well versed in the celebrated satirist's music. The show, entitled Glory Glory Allan Sherman, a play on a play of Allan's Semetic-tinged take on the "Battle Hymn of the Republic" is sort of a preview of a proposed traveling revue with planned performances in other cities. The show would also honor the late music impresario Hal Willner and would be presented in Hal's eclectic and inimitable style. Tickets were secured and we counted the days.

The night of the performance arrived and the audience was just as I had imagined — comprised of collection of folks around my age, some older, not many younger. To be honest, if the event had taken place closer to September, one would have mistaken the entire assembly for Rosh Hashanah services. The roster of scheduled performers were recognizable names from Philadelphia and New York musical circles. After a few brief announcements (hmm... maybe it was Rosh Hashanah services?) the evening kicked off with an uneven and somewhat clunky take on Allan's best known song "Hello Muddah, Hello Faddah." Led by NRBQ's Terry Adams on piano, the otherwise silly song about a sad camper's lament was punctuated by an otherworldly interlude by 101-year old avant-garde saxophonist Marshall Allen of the legendary Sun Ra Arkestra. (Allen has made his home in Philadelphia since 1968.) While Allen's contribution was indeed mesmerizing, Terry Adams' out-of-kilter cadence of the lyrics was a bit disorienting and a lot confounding. A few low discontented grumbles made their way through the audience until the song's conclusion.

 

The show was put back on track and went full-speed ahead when Eric Bazilian, founding member of hometown rock heroes The Hooters, took the stage to offer an inspired interpretation of "Seltzer Boy" from Allan's My Son, The Folk Singer, complete with jarring percussion and Bazilian's soaring, plaintive vocals. One by one, Allan Sherman's joy was brought to fresh life by a stable of talented singers and musicians. The audience clapped, and in some cases, sang along to unforgettable bits of comedy like "One Hippopotami," "Sara Jackman," "Harvey and Shelia" and a slew of others.

A dapper Wesley Stace (the former John Wesley Harding), clad in a slick tuxedo, stirred up his British roots with a hilarious reading of "Won't You Come Home, Disraeli." The always unpredictable Rodney Anonymous (of esteemed Philly anarchists The Dead Milkmen) prowled the stage as he offered up a raucous assault with "A Waste of Money." (Rodney told me later that he really wanted to do "Pop Hates The Beatles," as he shares the same "distaste" for a certain Beatle drummer with me.) Low Cut Connie's piano-pounding Adam Weiner rendered an eloquent recitation of "You Need An Analyst" following an hysterical commentary about how half the audience were seeing therapists and the other half are therapists. Eric Bazilian then returned to the stage and strummed out the pseudo-Western "The Streets of Miami" while delivering the tale in a spot-on Old World Yiddish accent. (Perhaps, some day, he'll give us an "All You Zombies" with the same inflection.) The highlight of the evening was the incomparable Robert Smigel stealthily operating the endearing but vicious Triumph the Insult Dog as he "barked out" Allan's familial sing-along "Shake Hands with Your Uncle Max," replete with an endless supply of reappearing cigars. 

The whole cast appeared for the finale, "The Ballad of Harry Lewis," a tale of a brave garment worker would "went down with the ship" and the source of the show's title, followed by a few rousing choruses of "Don't Buy The Liverwurst." Afterwards, the entire cast happily mingled with guests, exchanging stories and anecdotes and precious memories. Everyone was there — whether on the stage or in the seats — to celebrate their shared love of Allan Sherman.

Eric Bazilian, Rodney Anonymous, Adam Weiner, Wesley Stace — all love Allan Sherman

And celebrate they did.

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BONUS! Here is Wesley Stace, Eric Bazilian and Rodney Anonymous onstage together — something you will never ever see again. Allan Sherman's music is capable of magical things.

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