cover me

My favorite radio station, WXPN in Philadelphia, just announced the theme for its annual "Countdown of the 885 Greatest..." whatever for this year. In the past, they have ranked albums, songs, artists over the course of a week or so in the early part of December. After opening up the voting to listeners via the station's website, the playback is subject to heated debates and angry disappointment by those who take countdowns and rating things waaaay too seriously. Countdowns (as well as halls of fame and awards shows) are meaningless. They are based on opinion and only opinion. However, people hold their opinions very dearly. Very dearly. Dearly enough that opinions have been known to cause fist fights and loss of friendship.

I rarely listen to WXPN's annual countdowns for any long period of time. Sometimes, I will tune in just for fodder for posting snarky comments on social media (something I am known to do) until I lose interest (something I am also known to do). Otherwise, I have no interest in knowing that Creedence Clearwater Revival's "Up Around the Bend" was voted the 432nd best song by a group comprised of a guy that hated his brother (Oasis' "Wonderwall" came in considerably higher.) I don't care to rank and rate music, so I never vote in the countdowns. I just want to listen to songs.

This year, the theme is The 885 Greatest Cover Songs (the station's signal comes in on 88.5, hence the randomness of the tallied amount of final entries). I love cover songs. I love to hear one artist's interpretation of another artist's composition, especially songs that are so-called "classics." I love to hear obscure versions of familiar songs. Conversely, I like to hear a familiar song, only to discover that the version everyone knows was previously recorded by someone else, but for some reason, just wasn't a hit. I like offbeat and unexpected takes on popular songs. Covers are cool and I just might listen to this year's countdown more than I did in years past.

Cover songs themselves can be broken down into subcategories of their own. One of my favorites (and I'm sure this will be brought up in the course of XPN's playback this year) is songs that you didn't know were covers. For example, "The Gambler" by Kenny Rogers. Not only is that song a cover, but it's the third recording after the original version. The song was recorded by country singer Bobby Bare. It did not chart, so the song's composer Don Schlitz recorded it himself, with similar results. Johnny Cash included it on his 1978 album Gone Girl. Kenny Rogers took a shot with it the same year and scored a Number One hit on the Billboard Country chart. It reached Number 16 on Billboard's Hot 100. Another surprising cover is "Superstar," the eerie ballad that reached Number 2 on the Billboard chart for The Carpenters in 1971. It was originally recorded by folk-rock duo Delaney and Bonnie in 1969. Richard Carpenter saw Bette Midler sing the song on The Tonight Show late one night and thought it would be perfect for his sister's vocals. He was right. How about Barry Manilow's signature "I Write the Songs?" Yep. A Cover. It was originally recorded by pop husband-and-wife duo The Captain & Tennille in May 1975 and released as a non-charting single by teen idol David Cassidy before Manilow reluctantly recorded it a few months later. It hit Number One for Manilow. The song's author, Beach Boy Bruce Johnston, included the tune on his own solo record and Frank Sinatra re-recorded it as "I Sing The Songs," entirely missing the song's meaning.

Other songs like Blondie's "Hanging on the Telephone," "I Love Rock 'N' Roll" by Joan Jett and The Blackhearts and even Chubby Checker's "The Twist" are all covers. Yes sir... this year's countdown is going to be a wild ride.

The voting opened just a few days ago and runs until the end of October. Voters are limited to a list of ten songs. I have been compiling my list since the theme was announced. My list, of course, will not represent the best cover songs, because that is merely opinion. There is no "best." I will just submit a list of some of my favorite cover songs. I suppose songs will be ranked by how many people vote for the same song. If that's the case, none of my selections will even make the list. But that's okay. I can listen to them anytime I want.

And at this point, my list of ten songs has been whittled down to twenty. But, I have plenty of time to vote.

I know my list will include THIS GEM. It's my favorite cover song of all time.

You can vote in WXPN's Countdown HERE.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

life in the fast lane

A few days ago, I went to my son's house after work. Although I live in Pennsylvania, I work in New Jersey. As a matter of fact, my last three jobs have been in the Garden State. Many people who live in Philadelphia and the immediate surrounding suburbs work in New Jersey. It's really not that far and there are several bridges that take an interstate traveler to essentially the same place. New Jersey is weird that way. (New Jersey is weird in other ways, but that's a subject for another blog post.)

This would have saved Sonny Corleone's life.

When I first started working in New Jersey, I immediately purchased an EZ Pass. This ingenious little invention mounts conveniently on my car's windshield and allows easy (or, in this case EZ) access to special lanes on toll bridges. There is some sort of electronic reader mounted high above the EZ Pass lane that scans a car's EZ Pass and deducts the toll amount from the users' account. Or (in my case) charges a credit card that's on file in the EZ Pass system. It's quick, convenient and avoids any contact with a human being — three selling points that make me very happy. The EZ Pass system has pretty much eliminated the job of "toll taker" on the Pennsylvania Turnpike. There are also no toll takers on the Tacony-Palmyra Bridge, the one I take to and from work almost every day. My alternate route — The Betsy Ross Bridge — still has a few booths manned by real, live human beings for those commuters without an EZ Pass and a car ashtray filled with loose change. Actually, spare change is useless on a bridge, as the toll is up to six bucks on most of the bridges between Pennsylvania and New Jersey. The Tacony-Palmyra Bridge and the Betsy Ross Bridge also feature technology that reads a car's license plate and will bill the driver by mail. So, you really don't need cash.

Unless you're crossing the Walt Whitman Bridge and you're not paying attention.

Like me.

Job security

Every so often, I go to my son's house in South Philadelphia after work. Sometimes it's to feed his cat if he is working late. Sometimes, it's to feed his cat if he's away on vacation. Sometimes, it's to pick him up for a concert that — most often — does not involve his cat. That was the reason for my most recent trip. A concert. The most convenient bridge from my job to my son's house is the Walt Whitman. The Walt Whitman Bridge boasts a whopping fifteen toll booths to accommodate the volume of traffic that regularly use the thruway. The far left end of the bank of toll booths are clearly marked "EZ PASS ONLY." The next few are labeled "CASH ONLY" and the far end offer more EZ Pass options. Scattered among the toll booths are several that are labeled "LANE CLOSED" with a bright red light and a large gate blocking any access to the lane. Despite my unfounded and totally irrational fear of bridges, I try to navigate my car across four lanes of converging traffic to position myself in one of the EZ Pass lanes. On this particular day, I was not paying attention. Or perhaps the late afternoon sun was obscuring the identifying signs. Or maybe my glasses were smudged. Whatever the true reason, I apparently drove into a "CASH ONLY" lane. Now on other bridges, the Cash Only lanes are also equipped with EZ Pass readers. Not on the Walt Whitman Bridge, though. No sir. The Walt Whitman Bridge is still staffed by a skeleton crew of day-glo vest wearing, car-exhaust smelling cranks who haven't smiled since the Kennedy administration. They are like postal workers or DMV employees, except with less skills.

Take your pick, but choose wisely.

So there I was, behind the wheel of my car, waiting for the non-existent EZ Pass reader to register six bucks from the transponder on my windshield, thereby raising the gate that stood between me and the shores of the Delaware River. I leaned forward to see if... well, I don't know what I was trying to see. Just then, Mr. "I Hate My Job" Toll Booth Worker barked out at me. "Six dollars please!" The "please" at the end of his request didn't sound the least bit friendly or pleasing. "I have an EZ Pass., " I explained as I pointed to the little white box of electronics clinging to the inside of my windshield. "This is the cash lane. Six dollars please.," the toll guy repeated, as he moved closer to my car. He stunk like the inside of an auto body shop — a stale combination of rubber, gasoline, carbon monoxide and sweat. "I don't have any cash.," I persisted. Toll Guy frowned. "Don't back up!," he warned, "I'll have to call your license plate in and fill out a form. He sounded as though he would have rather had a limb amputated than call in my license plate and fill out a form. In my rear-view mirror, I could see him scribbling on a pad of paper and then return to his little protective sanctuary to call whoever he had to call. In a minute of so, he pulled the top sheet off his little pad and stuck it in my face. "Write your EZ Pass account number on this and mail it in within ten days.," he announced. Then he reluctantly pressed a button to raise the gate. I was on my way.

When I got home, I copied the account number off of the front of the EZ Pass transponder on my windshield. I filled in the other required information and mailed the form off.

A few days later, I had to make a stop at my son's house again after work. This time — and for all future times — I paid close close attention.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

man on the moon

Much like the moon, the internet is a vast wasteland. And the "wastiest" of wastelands on the internet is Facebook.

Beats me, Ethel.

If you are a friend or follower of Josh Pincus... well, I question your judgement. Aside from that, you know that every morning, I post a smattering of celebrity death anniversaries. You know this... unless you have me muted, which I certainly understand and I don't blame you. If I were a friend of Josh Pincus, I'd probably mute him.... er, me, too. Just after I eat breakfast and before I leave for work, I scan the good old internet and post a series of photos of famous — and not-so-famous — folks to commemorate the anniversary of their passing. I have been doing this for years. Years, I tell you! I usually get a handful of "likes" or "cares" from the regular group of loyal, death-obsessed Facebook friends that are also awake at the ungodly hour of 5 AM. But, every so often, one post — right out of nowhere, for no discernible reason — gets a ridiculous amount of "likes" from people with whom I am not connected. Now, I have no idea how Facebook's algorithms work. I'm not even sure if I spelled "algorithm" correctly. But, these extra, added "likes" just baffle me. A few weeks ago. a post honoring the "death-aversary" of Lucille Ball's dependable co-star Vivian Vance racked up 27 responses, most of which were from people I don't know.

One small step

On August 25, along with Senator Ted Kennedy, singer-actress Aaliyah, celebrated author Truman Capote and baseball footnote Archibald "Moonlight" Graham (yes, he was a real person and, yes,  he only had one Major League at-bat), I posted my early morning acknowledgment of the passing of astronaut Neil Armstrong on the thirteenth anniversary of the sad event. Then I went to work.

Through the course of the day, as I toiled over the inane changes several supermarket owners had to their store's advertisements (my day job), I marveled as the "likes" for the Neil Armstrong post increased at an astounding rate... astounding for me anyway. Between requests to make a picture of a pint of blueberries bigger and instruction to change the price of country-style spare ribs from $1.69 per pound to $1.67 per pound, I checked Facebook to see Spaceman Neil's "likes" approach the 100 "likes" mark. I checked the actual post to find that, in addition to all of these "likes," several people had made comments.

And, as they say, the comment did not disappoint. They puzzled me, but they didn't disappoint.

The first one kicked off my bewilderment. One guy named Ian questioned...

...and he was quickly joined by a few of his conspiracy-theory leaning cohorts. Traitor? Neil Armstrong? Really? Oh wait. Are we still subscribing to that "man never went to the moon" bullshit? Do we still entertain the belief that the whole moon landing was staged by NASA and a group of Hollywood filmmakers led by the notorious Stanley Kubrick. Are we still standing by the unproven postulate that Kubrick's The Shining was a veiled attempt at an apology for partaking in a hoax on the world, filling his film with hints and symbolism, revealing that, when the film is played backwards or in reverse or something, it clearly states that the moon landing was a fake. Y'know.... if you're a moron.

Moments later, this comment appeared, thanks to the insightful Randall... whoever that is.

Um.... what? What does this mean? What does this have to do with Neil Armstrong? Or the space program? Or... or... anything, for that matter?

Yes, my friends, the internet is the lawless Wild West, fraught with colorful characters, ornery outlaws, shifty townsfolk, angry gunslingers, town drunks, and a group of people who still believe the world is flat and the great sun god drags the morning sun up over a mountain and pulls it back down at the end of the day... possibly in a great golden chariot. Regardless, I will keep posting my silly, stupid. mindless, borderline funny (the jury is still out on that one) entries on Facebook for your amusement... but mostly for mine.

But one thing is for sure. Facebook, oh, Facebook, why can't I quit you?

***UPDATE*** As of today, 38 people, most of whom I do not know, nor have any connection to, reacted to my early September post commemorating Steve Irwin's death. Oh.... the internet.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

If you want it, here it is, come and get it

Last night, like most summer nights, Mrs. P and I settled down in front of our TV to watch a Phillies game. The Fightin' Phils were playing the beleaguered Miami Marlins in Miami, coming off a series win against the league leading Brewers up in Milwaukee. The always unpredictable Phillies kicked off the game with an early lead on a Bryce Harper RBI single. 

In the top of the fourth inning, hirsute outfielder Brandon Marsh cranked a two-run shot to right centerfield making the score 4-1 in favor of the Phillies. The next batter, newly-acquired centerfielder Harrison Bader, took a 1-1 pitch from Marlins reliever Lake Bachar and sent it 410 feet into the left field upper deck of LoanDepot Park. The Marlins, who have not been doing particularly well this season, only managed to draw a little over 15,000 spectators to a stadium that holds over 37,000. Needless to say, each section boasted more empty seats than ones with fans in them (if there are, indeed, any Marlins fans). But, as with any ball - fair or foul - that finds its way into the stands, a small crowd gathered quickly around the spot where the ball landed. There was a bit of a scramble as a knot of fans reached and grabbed — until one lucky fellow in a red Phillies t-shirt emerged from the melee with the homerun ball held tightly in his fist. He made his way back to his seat (one section over from "Ground Zero") and presented the ball to his son, also decked out in Phillies red and sporting a large baseball mitt on his left hand. A few other folks, seated on either side of the man and his son — also in Phillies colors — lauded the boy with congratulatory shoulder pats. Dad gave the boy a warm "father-son" hug. Everyone was happy for this kid.

Well, almost everyone.

Just as Dad was basking in a moment of satisfying familial bonding, this angry woman from one section over came to voice her outrage. Apparently, she was one of the people in hot pursuit of the Harrison Bader homerun ball. (She can be spotted and identified by her distinctive hairdo in the crowd photo above.) She shrilly interrupted a serene "father-son" moment with harsh words, flailing arms and a vindictive attitude. (I'm guessing a Delco transplant or just in South Florida for a visit.) She startled the man and evoked a look of horror from the boy. Even without sound, her little game of "Outraged Charades" could be clearly understood. She was obviously of the belief that the ball was rightfully hers. After all, she held a ticket for a seat in Section 135, entitling her (if she interpreted the agreement printed on the back of her ticket correctly) to "all baseballs that land anywhere in a fifteen foot radius of her seat." The woman pressed closer to the man, scowling and pointing to accentuate her case. Exasperated and defeated (and just wanting this woman to leave), he relented. He pulled the ball out of his son's protective glove and handed it over to the woman. She snapped it out of his hand and she stomped away. Her exit was accompanied by a rousing chorus of "boos" from the surrounding crowd.

Now, I don't know if you've ever been to a baseball game and I don't know if you've ever had a ball land near you, but there are a few things you should know. First, a hit baseball comes off a player's bat as though it was fired out of a cannon. If you feel that you are in the ball's trajectory, your first inclination is to duck or otherwise get out of the way for fear it may — very well — take your head off. Second, there are unwritten rules among fans regarding any ball that finds its way into the seating area. And those rules are... there are no rules. It's every man (or woman) for themselves. No matter who grabbed or touched or saw the ball first. No matter where your seat is in proximity to the ball's landing point. No matter how many games you've been to or how long you've been a baseball fan. Whoever walks away from those reaching for the ball... gets the ball. The end. No further discussion. One exception, as per the same unwritten baseball etiquette, is: if you are an adult, give the ball to a kid, for chrissakes!

Did you understand all that? Because Two-Tone Tessie sure as hell didn't get the memo. Her relentless badgering of this poor man was... was... embarrassing, uncomfortable and went against everything baseball and human decency has taught us. For the remainder of the game, she sat in her seat, gripping the five-ounce, leather-covered, 216 red-stitched hunk of cork, and got "booed" and jeered and heckled by everyone within earshot. At one point, she even stood up and gave the crowd "the finger" with the same hand in which she held the spoils of her triumph.

Meanwhile, someone in the Marlins organization got wind of the situation. They sent a team representative up to the boy's seat and presented him with a big bag filled with baseball and Marlins promotional merchandise. The elation on his face when the team rep handed over the bag revealed the return of a good mood to the boy and his family.

But, things didn't end there. The broadcasters rarely acknowledge anything of this nature during a game, but Ruben Amaro Jr, a former Phillies player turned broadcaster, expressed his displeasure with the whole affair — live on the air — in between his non-stop (and usually irritating) analysis of the game in progress. The immediacy of social media was instantly ablaze with viral video and acerbic commentary, along with on-the-spot video of the incident  shot from different vantage points. Commenters on various social media platforms weighed in (as commenters do), saying that the dad should have never given up the ball. Others said they would have tossed the ball back on to the field and told the woman: 'You want the ball? Go get it." Some clever internet user even referred to her as "Cruella De Phil."

The entire situation found its way to the Phillies. After the game — a gratifying 9-3 whupping of the Marlins — arrangements were made for the boy (later identified as "Lincoln" and just a few days shy of his birthday) and his family to meet Phillies centerfielder Harrison Bader. Bader, a recent acquisition from the Minnesota Twins, has already endeared himself to Philadelphia baseball fans with his infectious energy, quirky "crabwalk" when positioning himself under fly balls and his blond curls poking out from under his cap. Bader, still in his game uniform, met Lincoln and his clan in the cement depths of the stadium. He shook the boy's hand and inscribed a bat for him, saying, "Sorry you didn't get a ball, but I have a signed bat for you. Is that okay?" Lincoln's smile let Bader know it was more than okay. (Later commenters speculated that the woman would lay claim to the bat as well.) With the revolving door that has been the Phillies offense in centerfield, I think Harrison Bader may have just landed that permanent position. 

© Philly Goat

As for the woman who finally got her ball? Well, social media has promised to find out her name and make her famous in a way she would rather not gain fame. Local Philadelphia news outlets have flooded the internet with the sordid tale. National media like Newsweek and TMZ have also spread the story. And local t-shirt studio Philly Goat has already immortalized her and the incident has already taken its rightful place in Philadelphia sports history...  alongside throwing snowballs at Santa Claus and making death threats to Mitch Williams.

Go Phils. Go Birds. Yo.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

the show must go on

In February 1991, I purchased Innuendo, the fourteenth studio album by Queen and the final effort to be released in lead singer Freddie Mercury's lifetime. As of right now, I have listened to the album in its entirety twice. The first time I listened to it was the day I brought it home from the store (probably a now out-of-business Tower Records). The second time was this past Tuesday, in my car on the way home from work.

I was an instant Queen fan from the moment I heard "Killer Queen" blaring from my radio one late October evening in 1974. Amid the breezy pop of Olivia Newton-John and the bass-heavy funk of Billy Preston, the sound that Queen produced in a precise three minutes was positively alien. I had never heard anything like Queen, and I needed to hear more. I bought Sheer Heart Attack, the full album on which "Killer Queen" appeared, as well as Queen's previous two releases, aptly named Queen and Queen II.

As far as teenage Josh Pincus was concerned, there was no better band than Queen. I saw them live several times, totally captivated by Freddie Mercury's charismatic stage presence. From the very beginning of each concert until the final note of the encore, Freddie held the audience in the palm of his hand. The band's recorded musical output continued to break rules, defy genres and offer new and innovating songs. 

Until it didn't.

In the 80s, my love for Queen sort of waned. My interest in other bands led me away from the teenage comfort Queen brought me. Bands like The Clash and Adam and The Ants brought an edgier grittier sound that Queen didn't attempt. In the middle 80s, the Queen sound became formulaic. They were putting out faux disco, faux punk and faux new wave. They were trend followers instead of trend setters. Even though I continued to buy Queen albums, I did so out of obligation rather than interest. I gave each new release the obligatory listen, then returned the disc to its jacket, never to grace my turntable again. Where I once knew the track listing of every single early Queen album, I couldn't even name a song on The Miracle or A Kind of Magic. A recent episode of the HBO Max sitcom Hacks opened with a Queen song called "Breakthru," which — I swear! — I had never heard before.

In February 1991, I bought Innuendo. I listened to it and, honestly, I hated it. Aside from the epic title track which kicked off the album, it sounded like an unfinished work-in-progress. Songs meandered and just never went anywhere. Their once-innovative songs now sounded forced and just all over the place. When the CD finished, I put it back into its protective case and returned it to the end of the "Q"s in the alphabetical arrangement on my music shelves. And there it stayed for 34 years.

Although he began exhibiting symptoms as early as 1982, Freddie Mercury was officially diagnosed with AIDS in 1987. Rumors about his health ran rampant in the press for years, with Freddie and his bandmates vehemently denying every one. Throughout 1989 and 1990, Queen recorded Innuendo, with a weakened and frail Freddie Mercury determined to finish the album. Bandmate and friend Brian May regularly expressed concern for Freddie, only to be brushed off. Freddie forced himself to hit unhittable notes and play complicated piano pieces. After Innuendo's release, Queen was honored with an award for Outstanding Contribution to British Music. The band attended the awards ceremony with a gaunt and pale Freddie Mercury in tow. It was his last public appearance. On November 22, 1991, via his manager, Freddie Mercury publicly confirmed his AIDS diagnosis. He passed away on November 24.

I don't know why, but just this week I pulled out my copy of Innuendo and loaded it into my phone to listen via Bluetooth on my commute home. The album seemed new to me, as none of the songs sounded the least bit familiar. But I listened. Freddie's voice sounded surprisingly strong, belying any hint of poor health. Some songs were intricately arranged. Others were playful and filled with snide humor. Most harkened back to the bombastic quality that made Queen Queen. It was like a trip in a time machine. 

And it was sad.

Innuendo seemed to play out as the coda of a career. It was Freddie Mercury's swan song and he was determined to go out like he came in — with a loud, obnoxious, sardonic bang. He knew his fate. He knew this was his final act. And the final result shows it.

I will probably never listen to Innuendo again. I don't see a reason to.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

look away, look away, look away dixie land

It is certainly no secret how much I love television. I especially love old television shows, the ones I watched as a young and impressionable child. Thanks to the magic of syndication and endless reruns, I have also developed an affinity for television shows that were broadcast before I was born. Truth be told, I have watched reruns of shows that I don't particularly like. Shows that I find annoying, frustrating, unrelatable and downright awful. But, I watch them. I've watched them in countless reruns... over and over and over again.

I find it funny how many shows I have just recently discovered, even though they ended their series run decades ago and most (if not all) of their primary cast is now long dead. There are some shows with which I am familiar, but don't like. Yet, I watch them. I have seen every single episode of I Love Lucy, a show I cannot stand. I have seen every episode of Hazel, a show I dislike more that I dislike I Love Lucy. I have seen every episode of more recent shows, like Welcome Back Kotter, a show I despise more than Hazel and I Love Lucy put together! However, I still enjoy such sappy series as Family Affair and My Three Sons. I am fully aware of just how hokey and unrealistic these show are, but there is still something endearing about them... at least to me. Your mileage may vary.

This morning, I caught myself watching an episode of Dennis the Menace. The last first-run episode of Dennis the Menace was broadcast on July 7, 1963 — a month before I turned two. I'm sure that I never saw a single episode of Dennis the Menace in its initial four-season run. I'm almost certain that my parents never watched it. Although it was the lead-in to the ridiculously-popular Ed Sullivan Show, I'm positive that my father's limited patience wouldn't have lasted two seconds subjected to Dennis's irritating antics. Besides, Dennis the Menace was on opposite The Jetsons. My brother, who was six at the time, probably preferred the outer space cartoon adventures to some pain-in-the-ass kid making life miserable for his neighbor. I, of course, only remember watching Dennis the Menace in reruns on a local UHF channel when I was home sick from school. Over the course of many many reruns, I have managed to see every insufferable episode of the series and will still watch it from time to time... including this morning. Honestly, I was not giving the show my full attention. I was perusing the situation on Facebook, a distraction that surely did not exist in Dennis the Menace's original run.

The Programming Department at Antenna TV chose the twenty-fourth episode of Dennis the Menace's second season to broadcast this morning. The episode — entitled "Dennis and the Fishing Rod" — centered around a tried and true sitcom trope. Dennis wants to buy his dad a fishing rod, but he doesn't have enough money. This scenario has popped up on dozens of other series, from Father Knows Best to Leave It to Beaver to any number of "family based" shows. As I scrolled between Facebook and Instagram on my phone, a line of dialogue caught my attention. It seems while Dennis was looking for additional funds to supplement the pittance fished from his piggy bank, he found a stack of papers belonging to his visiting grandmother. Among the papers were several ornately decorated pieces of paper that Dennis and his limited intellect were unable to identify. He presented the papers to his father and grandmother who then explained that they were money from the Civil War. They belonged to Dennis's great grandfather Jedidiah Mitchell who served under a general in the Civil War. General Robert E. Lee, to be specific. She went on to proudly proclaim that ol' Jedidiah was a personal friend of General Lee and he was a true hero. Dennis's dad chimes in to echo his mother's assertion. "He sure was!," says Dad, a broad smile drawn across his bespectacled hatchet face.

What??? Dennis's great grandfather fought on the Southern side of the Civil War? Dennis's great grandfather was a goddamn antiabolitionist! Dennis's great grandfather fought to uphold the right to own slaves. And Dennis's dear old dad is singing his praises as a "hero!" Boy oh boy! If I didn't hate Dennis the Menace before, I sure do hate him now! 

As the episode progressed, Dennis asked to wear Jedidiah Mitchell's hat and uniform, despite it being way too big. Grandmother Mitchell said "of course you can!" adding that Jedidiah would be proud. So Dennis sported that Confederate hat and uniform as when he went to show off to his beleaguered neighbor Mr. Wilson. Mr. Wilson, an avid history buff and collector of coins, stamps and things of that nature, didn't bat an eye when his young neighbor bounded into his house decked out in full Confederate military dress. He was, however, very interested in the Confederate money Dennis brought over. While examining the bill, Mr. Wilson was given the "okay" sign by the engraved image of Confederate president Jefferson Davis. The episode went from an innocent pursuit of a fishing rod for dad to a full-on misrepresentation of what the Civil War stood for, who was a hero and the continued "white-washing" of American history. I don't even remember if the fishing rod was ever purchased.

This episode, as well as many others in the series, was co-written by Hank Ketcham, the creator of the Dennis the Menace comic strip. Maybe he should have stuck to single panel gags in the funny pages of the daily newspaper.

I knew there was an underlying reason I hated watching Dennis the Menace. Now I know.

RIP Jay North (1951-2025)

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

don't talk to strangers

I'll never learn.

I have been working at my current job for a little over four and a half years. The job is fine, something I have been doing in one form or another for over forty years. Everyday, I arrive at work two hours before my scheduled shift time. I sit in an empty, quiet office — all alone — and I knock out a lot of work. Quickly. Efficiently. And — most importantly — uninterrupted by the banal, droning, meaningless, inane conversation carried on by my co-workers. When my co-workers arrive at work, I do not participate in any of their conversation. I work. I am very focused, mostly because my job requires me to be focused. I cannot understand how my co-workers can carry on lengthy conversations about reality shows and films in the Marvel Cinematic Universe and problems with various family members. One day recently, I overheard a particularly loud co-worer make multiple phone calls to line up a cleaning service for her mother's house. I heard every painful detail of the process loud and clear... and this person's desk isn't even in the same office as mine. She's down the hall, and yet, it was as clear as if she was sitting next to me.

My co-workers know very little about me. Some, I'm sure, don't even know my last name. I have had many, many jobs over the past forty years where I was personable, friendly and talkative with my co-workers. But now... at this point in my life... I just don't feel like it anymore. I don't need to feign interest in the lives of a bunch of people I merely work with. The extent of my conversation with my co-workers is limited to work-related subjects. Period. I don't want it to go any further than that. I'm not rude. I just don't initiate conversation and I don't care to "jump in" to an existing one. I just want to do my work, get paid and go home.

Unfortunately, I broke my own rule this week. I'm not sure why or what compelled me, but I did. And I learned why I should keep to myself.

There's a guy who comes into work at 3 o'clock, a scant 90 minutes before I am scheduled to leave for the day. I acknowledge his arrival with a nod or a quiet "hey" uttered under my breath. But that's it. It was almost a month until I found out his name is Tom. Tom sits at a computer at a desk about ten feet behind me. He sits and I sit and we tackle our respective work until 4:30 rolls around. Then I grab my water bottle, my cellphone that has been charging on a pad by my computer monitor and I leave. Sometimes, I raise a hand in parting salutation as I head for the office door.

But this week, a conversation... sort of..... erupted. I still don't remember what prompted it, but I think he brought up the subject of — of all things — "collecting autographed photos." A nerve was struck! Until recently, I collected autographed photos starting way, way back at a time when my son was still in a stroller. (He's now 38 and — SURPRISE! — no longer requires a stroller for getting around.) I have over a hundred photos, all proudly displayed on the walls of my basement. Tom (my late-in-the-day co-worker... remember?) mentioned that he, too, collected autographed photos. We exchanged a few brief anecdotes about obtaining said photos, all the while I kept thinking to myself "Why am I having this conversation?" I glanced at the office clock and quickly ended the conversation and quicklier made my exit.

The next day, Tom lumbered in to work as usual at 3 o'clock. I was busy doing last-minute corrections to an ad that was due to print at day's end. Tom took his usual place behind his computer monitor. But, then, he loudly cleared his throat in a very obvious attempt to get my attention. I turned around to see Tom produce a large photo album from a cloth tote bag he had carried in with him. "I brought this in to show you," he proudly announced as he placed the album on a communal work table and spun it around to allow me easy access to open and peruse its contents.

I opened the book and turned each page. Tom had accumulated quite an impressive collection of autographed photos. The overarching theme was old Westerns. Shows like The Virginian and a number of John Wayne feature films were represented with color and monochrome glossies personally inscribed by the hands of James Drury, Clu Gualger, L.Q. Jones and other "stars' of the same "mid-fame" stature. There were a few I did not recognize and their illegible signatures didn't add any help. However, there they were, perched on a horse alongside the Duke himself, although Mr. Wayne's signature was conspicuously absent from any photo in which he appeared. There were photos of Ernest Borgnine, Ben Johnson and more recent names like Tom Selleck. There were non-Western stars like Mel Brooks and Don Rickles. Towards the back of the volume, cleaved as if in some sort of invisible separation, were a succession of female stars, including Raquel Welch, Debra Paget, Angie Dickinson, early television staple and future game show hostess Ruta Lee, horror icon Caroline Munro, Debbie Reynolds, Adrienne Barbeau and — my favorite — Doris Day. The book ended with a photo of President George W. Bush, who Tom sheepishly admitted was probably inscribed with an Autopen. I nodded approvingly as I closed the book. "This is great, Tom.," I said as I returned to my desk for the final hour of my workday.

There's another guy at work. He's a tall man with white hair and a perpetually confused expression on his face. I don't know exactly what his position is, but he does have his own private office and he often wanders the hallways loudly singing the wrong lyrics to classic rock songs. Just before I got ready to leave for the day, the tall white-haired man walked into the office which I sometimes share with Tom.

"I hear you brought in pictures of naked broads!," he bellowed through the smirk on his face. Tom explained that he brought in his collection of autographed photos as a follow-up to a conversation we had the previous day. The tall white-haired man hefted the book into his large hands and began to page through it. "Where are the chicks?," he demanded, as he turned each page after disappointing page. He commented on a few of the photos of men until — midway through the tome — he arrived at the first female image. "Woah! Ho! Ho!," he exclaimed as he closely examined a photo of Doris Day, bringing the book right up to his face. "She's got a fuckin' great body!," he stated as he gave the black & white image the ol' "once over." From then, he gave his un-asked for impression and assessment of every single photo of a woman included in Tom's collection, punctuating each lascivious comment with words like "boobs," "hooters," "knockers" and "chest." He even threw in a stray "sweater meat." He went off on a detailed commentary of Adrienne Barbeau when he reached her photo, injecting his already creepy remarks with uncomfortable analysis of her ample endowments. "Wow!," the tall white-haired man continued, as he poked an exploratory finger at the decidedly not provocative photo of Debbie Reynolds, "Talk about a fuckin' hot body!" Tom and I said nothing. We were both taken by such surprise by these uncalled for assertions that we were rendered speechless — simultaneously! The tall white-haired man finally put the book down, leered for a moment at the closed volume and left the office. I gathered up my stuff and said goodbye to Tom.

And THIS, my friends, is why I don't talk to my co-workers.

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