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.

* * * * * * 

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.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

robbery assault and battery

From the time he was discharged from military service at the end of World War II until the day he entered a hospital to have that pain in his stomach checked on — only to die ten days later, my father worked. And he worked and worked and worked.

The day after he arrived home from his assigned duty of keeping the world safe from Nazis, my father walked into a Penn Fruit supermarket in his West Philadelphia neighborhood and asked for a job. With absolutely no experience and zero prior interest, my father became an apprentice meat cutter. He trained with a seasoned butcher every day. He learned the ins and outs of hacking up a full side of beef into saleable cuts that would entice Mrs. "Shopping For My Family" consumer. He caught on fast and soon became very adept at his new — and now chosen — career. He became a reliable meat cutter and after a few years, he was named manager of the meat department. Over the course of his tenure at Penn Fruit, his acknowledged skills were the source of various transfers within the supermarket chain. His know-how was called upon to raise the production — and the profits — of a slagging meat department in lesser-performing stores. He'd train the staff on how to cut meat efficiently and for optimum resale. He'd stay at a particular store until the department could run as though he was in charge... and then he'd be transferred to another store where he could "work his meat-cutting magic."

After many years of working within the supermarket business, my father was promoted to store manager. He was able to apply his understanding of maintaining a profitable meat department to an entire store and all of its various other departments. Once again, the company saw my father's prowess in turning a profit that they continued to send him in to underperforming stores to turn things around. 

Some of the stores my father worked in were in some pretty rough neighborhoods. A supermarket was a regular target for armed robberies in broad daylight. Many of the stores in which my father worked were robbed. Several times. One store was situated across the street from the known headquarters of a local motorcycle gang. That store was robbed — on average — once a month. However, as many times as my father's store was robbed, it was always on my father's day off. Not once was he ever in a store when it was held up. Each time, the robbers dealt with my father's assistant manager or the head cashier. My father always seemed to be elsewhere. He'd get a call — after the incident — from the store while we were in Atlantic City or even just lounging around the house. He'd interrupt his day off and drive down to the store or to the police station. But he really had little to offer, as he never experienced the actual robbery.

Penn Fruit eventually closed its doors and ceased operations. My father took a job with Penn Fruit's rival Pantry Pride, who, after almost a decade, also went out of business. In that time, though, several Pantry Pride stores were robbed — also always on my father's day off.

Later in his life, my father took jobs in independent grocery stores. He never had difficulty finding a job because skilled meat cutters are a dying breed. Stores were only too happy to hire someone with so many years of experience regardless of their age. 

In the late 1980s, my father was working in a family-owned supermarket in West Philadelphia, just a few blocks from where he began his career. My father was busy cutting meat at the rear of the store where the meat department was located. Little did he know that two men brandishing handguns burst into the cash room near the store's entrance and demanded everything. The store was owned by a family man in his forties and the man's father, who was quite the entrepreneur. He owned a lot of properties in West Philly and was responsible for bringing a thriving business district to the area. He was a hard worker and a proud self-made businessman... and he'd be goddamned if he was going to allow a couple of punks to rob him of his hard-earned income. Guns or no guns, the father — unarmed himself — lunged at one of the gunmen. The robber pulled the trigger and shot the father square in the chest. He fell backwards into an office chair as the panicked robbers fled with what they had gathered up to that point — which was a couple of bags of cash, mostly ones, fives and tens.

One of the gunmen ran out the front door. The other headed towards the back of the store. The first door he found on his proposed escape route was the cooler for the meat department where my father was busily cutting and wrapping the day's offerings. The gunman breached the heavy plastic sheets that kept the cold in and startled my father. He pointed the gun in my father's direction and loudly demanded, "Which way is out?" My father could not speak. He just pointed in the direction of a metal door that led to the alley behind the store. The gunman left and headed to the metal door. He opened it and found himself in the alley... where two police officers were waiting for him. Meanwhile, the first robber who ran out the front door holding a bag of money in one hand and a gun in the other was also met by a Philadelphia patrol car who just happened to be driving down West 60th Street and turned on to Cedar Avenue. Both gunmen were arrested.

This was the first time in six decades that my father was in a supermarket that was robbed. He was questioned by police, looking for his account of the events of that day. My father gave his honest answer. (This was a rarity, as my father was a longtime, habitual liar.) He told the police he was very sorry that he was unable to describe the robber, despite the fact that he stood just a few feet away when he burst into the meat department. My father explained that all he saw was the gun. A gun he described as being as big as a cannon — the barrel as long as a pool cue. He said the gun practically took up the whole room. He went on to say the only thought in his head was that he would never see his family again. The police politely thanked him for what little help he could offer. He was not questioned again and was not asked to appear as a witness in the subsequent court trial.

My father worked in two more supermarkets after leaving the one that was robbed. Considering that my father loved to fabricate stories and embellish upon actual events, he never spoke about that robbery ever again.

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rose tint my world

I must have seen the Rocky Horror Picture Show a hundred times when I was in high school. It became a weekend ritual. Almost a requirement. Every Saturday night, I would find myself back on Philadelphia's notorious South Street. I'd stop at Frank's for a giant slice of pizza. I'd browse the slightly risque greeting cards at Paper Moon. I'd buy a couple of little buttons from the display case at Zipperhead (yep, the same one immortalized in that song by The Dead Milkmen) and I'd contemplate buying a pair of those cool pants with the silver studs and black straps at Skinz. Before I knew it, it was time to queue up for the midnight showing of the Rocky Horror Picture Show at the TLA Cinema.

I'd usually go with someone different every week. Sometimes it would be a date. (If it was a first date, a second date was iffy.) Sometimes, I'd go with a group of friends. One time, I took my mom. (My mom was a "Cool Mom" decades before Mean Girls introduced the term.) 

For required viewing. 

A viewing of the Rocky Horror Picture Show was an event — an event that needed some preparation. There was the little bag of props — toast, rice, newspapers, a Bic lighter — all to be brandished at various times (triggered by key prompts) throughout the course of the film's 98-minute run time. In addition, there was an unwritten script of comments and retorts to be yelled out in unison, again, based on the utterance of certain lines of dialogue or actions on the screen. It was fun hearing a handful of new lines each week, mixed in with the old tried-and-true favorites. I am proud to say that I came up with a few myself and I heard them repeated at subsequent viewings. If you watch the movie without the renowned audience participation, there seems to be something missing. It's as though the long pauses between lines of dialogue are just begging to be filled with snarky comments.

Slowly, slowly...
it's too nice a job to rush.

I loved everything about going to see the Rocky Horror Picture Show — the campy story, the raucous songs and, of course, the audience participation. I even developed a tiny crush on the adorable Little Nell and her characterization of the sassy "Columbia." Well, I loved almost everything. In all honesty, I hated the little acting troupe that stood at the front of the theater, just under the screen, and mimicked the filmed action taking place just above their heads. I didn't mind (and actually appreciated) the attendees who fashioned their own homemade costumes of their favorite Rocky Horror characters. I marveled at the accuracy of the costumes, created from memory in the days long before the internet. But I didn't like the distraction of their little simultaneous performance while I was trying to watch the movie. Yeah, yeah. I know. I am in the minority. I know that most people in my age group — the first wave of Rocky Horror fans — liked the costumed performers. I actually knew a couple of the "performers" who worked the midnight shows at the TLA. I went to school with them. Some of their costumes were great. The guy who portrayed "Frank-N-Furter" was uncanny. I just didn't like that it was going on while the movie was running. I'd rather it was done pre-show or post-show, not during show.

I had not seen the Rocky Horror Picture Show in many, many years. However, I remedied that situation just today. In celebration of the film's 50th anniversary (How can that possibly be?), the good folks at Disney, the current keepers of the 20th Century Fox catalog, released an updated, remastered 4K version of the Rocky Horror Picture Show on their premium streaming service. From the moment those familiar lips graced my flat-screen TV, I was instantly transported back to the TLA and it was midnight — despite the sun shining brightly through my den windows. But, here I was  - talking back to the television. I was reciting witty comebacks that haven't crossed my brain in years. I was singing along with those memorable songs. I was pantomiming tossing toast in the air and dealing out cards. It was like riding a bike. 

Or... like a jump to the left.

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