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.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

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.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

a must to avoid

Have you ever walked or driven past a place that you have never been to and, just by the looks of things, thought to yourself, "I am never going there!"? I do this a lot. Sometimes it's a store. Sometimes it's a restaurant. This time, it's a restaurant.

I take the same route to work every morning. I wind my way through northeast Philadelphia towards the Tacony-Palmyra Bridge and eventually to the mostly industrial burg of Pennsauken, New Jersey. Every morning, at around 6:30, I pass a small strip center on Levick Street. Wedged between a Chinese restaurant whose curtains are always drawn and whose neon "OPEN" sign is always lit even when they are not open and a Little Caesar's which I will never set foot in again is an intriguing little restaurant. Well, intriguing to me, anyway. Every morning, when I pass by this place, I find myself craning my neck to get a closer assessment. The place is marked by a large backlit sign (that is never lit) that reads "Breakfast & Lunch" with a small subhead that guarantees "Homemade Style" along with the phone number. Beneath the sign, the grease-streaked windows display several pieces of paper taped to the inside. I can only assume that these papers delineate some important information for those who are close enough to read their contents. Perhaps the day's specials or a change in business hours or maybe a plea for qualified and experienced restaurant help. Whatever they may say, from my position behind the steering wheel of my car and doing approximately 40 miles per hour, I am not privy to that information. I can, however, see that there is never — never! — a single customer inside the place. Never. I can make out a few figures moving around at the back of the interior, behind what is most likely a service counter. I can make out an array of tables and chairs but they are all always empty. I can see a large cooler with a PEPSI logo glowing at the top, but there are no customers helping themselves to sodas nor employees taking some drinks out to fill an order... at least never during the four or five seconds that elapses as I drive past.

First of all, I am intrigued by the sign. I wonder what was the discussion that led to the decision to call the place "Breakfast & Lunch?" Did the owner make a list of possible names, scratching out the ones that were too obscure? Was "Petit-Déjeuner et Déjeuner" not used because the majority of the neighborhood residents did not speak French? Was "Elevenses" passed on because the Tolkien reference would have been lost on the working-class folks who make the immediate area their home? Perhaps "Breakfast & Lunch" was the just best option in the owner's short list. After all, that is what they serve... sort of like the General Putnam Motel Diner featured in the film My Cousin Vinny.

I am also intrigued by the general description of the cuisine, as described by the subheading on the sign. "Homemade Style" is not exactly enticing. "Homemade" is, but not homemade style. Does this imply that the food is not homemade, but, instead, mimics the type of food that one would expect to be homemade. Is your food homemade? Well, it's homemade style! When we rip open this 300 pound bag of hash brown potatoes that were frozen in some processing plant last month, they will be prepared in the style of homemade food. Same goes for when we rehydrate these powdered eggs. Or maybe it's more along the lines of when you see a "kosher style" designation at a delicatessen, yet you find bacon among the breakfast side orders or Swiss cheese melted on your corned beef in the ever-popular, but decidedly trayfe, Reuben sandwich. Well... maybe "homemade style" isn't as "cut and dried." "Homemade style" sounds... sounds... I don't know.... weird. It's a bit too noncommittal and very suspect.

Two doors away from Breakfast & Lunch is a DMV location where people regularly line up hours before the official opening time. You would think that Breakfast & Lunch would do some kind of business from the folks waiting for state-issued identification. But, no... the queue stays just outside the doors of the DMV office and no one gives a glance in the direction of Breakfast & Lunch

I decided to see if Breakfast & Lunch has an internet presence. Sure enough, they do!  It seems that food from Breakfast & Lunch is readily available via Door Dash, Uber Eats and various other independent delivery services. My search also revealed that the place also goes by the name "B L Kitchen." This alternate moniker is emblazoned on the laminated menus from which a customer could select a meal... if there were indeed any customers.

And then there is Yelp! — the internet's great equalizer. The Yelp! reviews of Breakfast & Lunch are required reading. Evidentially, they do have customers. Regular customers! I suppose they patronize the business at other times besides 6:30 AM and 6:30 and five seconds. The Yelp! reviews feature a lot of photographs of very generic looking platters of standard breakfast food. Eggs, just plain eggs. Toast accompanied by a little plastic container of commercially-packed jelly. The amateurly-written sentiment ranges from high praise and sworn loyalty to vivid descriptions of disgusting and traumatic experiences endured by unsuspecting customers just looking for a couple of scrambled eggs and some coffee. There are repeated complaints of wrong orders, undercooked or overcooked food, not to mention dirty silverware, dirty plates, dirty tables and dirty floors. Other reviews stated that while the food was okay, the staff was rude, obnoxious, slow, unresponsive, unknowledgeable and — in one case — stoned. Sprinkled among the viscous and disparaging reports are glowing accounts of ambrosial pancakes and heavenly sausages with just the right amount of seasoning and condiments. These are immediately followed by a tirade about ketchup packets being pulled from a customer's take-out order and a manager scolding the waitstaff for putting so many packets in a customer's order in the first place.

And then there are the roaches. A number of reviews — too many for my comfort — describe troupes of roaches on tables, on walls, on counters, near food preparation areas, and, of course, in the bathrooms. That was all I needed to see.

I have no intentions of ever stopping at Breakfast & Lunch. I will never let my curiosity get the best of me. I will continue to pass Breakfast & Lunch a little before sunrise and again on my return commute hours after its 3:00 PM posted closing time. Even before reading Yelp! reviews, the place just looked.... uninviting from the outside. It is just one of those places. If you live in the Philadelphia area, patronizing Breakfast & Lunch is totally up to you. You won't see me there.... or anyone else, as far as I can tell. 

Although, this guy sure seems to like it... whoever he is.

originally posted on Yelp!

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

wide open spaces

Every summer, Mrs. Pincus and a couple thousand other folks converge on Camden, New Jersey for a three-day music festival put on by my favorite Philadelphia radio station. The XPoNetial Music Festival — now in its twenty-fifth year — brings bands from all different genres to two stages for a celebration of fun, food, camaraderie and positivity. At least that's what it attempts to do.

The show is outdoors — rain or shine. Most years, the weather has been spectacular. A few times, performances have been cut short because of rain. One year, recently, schedules were shuffled around (with some acts being canceled completely) because the festival was scheduled the same weekend as a hurricane. This year, thankfully, the weather was wonderful. Bright sunshine, cool breezes coming off the nearby Delaware River and moderate temperatures never inching past the low 80s. Of course, an outdoor show is much more laid back. Attendees are free to stretch out and make themselves comfortable. Sure there are crowds right up in front of the stage, but for the most part, people keep a comfortable space between each other. Blankets are used to mark off territory and keep things orderly. But, there's always that one guy...

On Saturday afternoon — Day Two of the festival — brought a variety of musicians to the two stages. Early in the afternoon, local singer Owen Stewart brought a full entourage to the River Stage to play songs from his debut album. From our regular vantage point — at the very top of the hill of Wiggins Park's natural amphitheater — we could barely make out the number of band members, let alone any recognizable faces. They played and we listened and, like most other people, we engaged in conversation with our fellow concert-goers.

Later in the day, Swiss-born Sophie Allison — who goes by the stage name "Soccer Mommy" — took the River Stage with her band. I have heard a few songs by Soccer Mommy on the radio, but I don't recall anything special about them. A few songs into her set, I found myself losing interest. I began absentmindedly scanning the crowd and finding my attention drawn elsewhere. Just then, I spotted a friend of mine sitting just a few feet away. He is a local guitarist and has played in a bunch of bands in the area. He is also a fellow graphic artist. Although we are connected on several social media platforms, I have not seen him in person since the last time one of his bands played the XPN Festival in 2022. I scooted over to where he was sitting to say "hello." He smiled when he saw me and introduced me to his blanket-mates, who happened to be his parents. We talked a little about his upcoming solo musical project and the current status of his current band. Then I asked him how his design career was progressing. Before he got a chance to answer that one guy (from the second paragraph) who was sitting in front of my friend, turned around and tapped my forearm. "Hey," he began in an angry growl, "If you two wanna talk, take it somewhere else!" The last part of his demand was bathed in a particularly venomous tone.

I stopped talking. My friend stopped talking. We exchanged puzzled looks. I whispered that it was good to see him and I sheepishly slunk back to my blanket. I thought to myself: "Wow! That guy must be Soccer Mommy's biggest fan!" and I kind of felt bad that I was impeding on his moment. I glanced over to where I once was, expecting to see that one guy grooving to the monotonous sounds of Soccer Mommy, now that the air was rid of the distracting cacophony of my rude voice. Surprisingly, that one guy was gone. It took me less than ten seconds to get back to my staked-out, blanketed territory and that one guy didn't even stick around to the end of the song I was interrupting.

As afternoon turned to evening, I spotted that one guy over by the smaller Marina Stage. He was standing by the side of the stage while venerable folk-rock mainstay Richard Thompson was addressing the crowd between songs. During Richard's stage banter, that one guy was screaming incoherently, trying to raise his voice above that of the electronically-amplified Richard Thompson. As the next song began, that one guy turned on his heel and headed in the opposite direction.

Throughout the rest of Saturday and many times over the course of Sunday, I spotted that one guy in various places on the festival grounds. Every time I saw him, he was alone... and yelling. 

I hope he had a good time.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

just another story

I love movies. Love 'em, I tells ya! I have favorites, just like you. Those movies that I'll watch over and over again. There are others that I am happy to have seen, but don't feel the need for a second viewing. Then there are those that I could have gone the rest of my life without seeing and things would have been just fine.

I tend to shy away from big Hollywood blockbusters that are overhyped and loved by the masses because the masses have been told to love them. I have never seen any of the films in the Matrix franchise. Same goes for the Fast and Furious and Mission: Impossible series. I saw the first three Star Wars movies (Chapters 4, 5 and 6, for those of you keeping score), but that's it. And — to be honest — I didn't really like those three. To tell the truth, I don't care much for science fiction or movies based on popular comic books. I have, however, seen several entries in the Superman canon, only because my wife is a long-time fan of The Man of Steel. And, against my better judgement, I have seen a few of the Batman films, having grown up on the campy 60s TVB series. After 1989's Batman starring Michael Keaton, I kind of lost interest. Christopher Nolan's resurrection with Christian Bale did nothing for me.

I have always loved the horror genre. In my youth, I was a fan of the classics from Universal Studios, including the original Frankenstein, Dracula and The Wolfman. The subsequent reboots of those titles... not so much. I don't like the whole slasher trend and even more so, the so-called "torture porn" and "body horror" films that seem more like endurance tests than forms of entertainment.

As far as films go, I like a good story first and foremost. It seems, sadly, that Hollywood is more interested in blowing stuff up than a well-conceived story. Convoluted premises and totally implausible scenarios are frustrating to me. Also, movies that are "lovingly shot" and move along at the pace of paint drying do not bring me enjoyment.

Recently, I stumbled upon two — two! — films that I thoroughly enjoyed. These films shared similar attributes. They each featured an ensemble cast that deftly brought the story and their characters to life. They felt like real people, living real lives. They offered a thoughtful peek into the lives of people that you and I could know. — just regular people experiencing regular situations in their regular lives. No explosions. No evil plots to take over the world. No diabolical schemes driven by revenge. No outlandishly intricate action that the perpetrators execute precisely the first time, achieving impossible results. No. None of that. As a matter of fact, if you ask me what these two movies are about, I'm not sure I could answer. They were just a small glimpse of the lives of people. Just people.

The first film is My First Mister, a 2001 release that served as the directorial debut (and, so far, only directorial effort) of actress Christine Lahti. It is a small movie that had limited release in its initial run. It stars Albert Brooks — this time just as an actor and not portraying a character in his own script — and Leelee Sobieski, a talented young actress, who has since left the acting business to focus on her family and budding art career. The two main characters are skillfully supported by the likes of Carol Kane, Michael McKean, John Goodman and Mary Kay Place. Brooks plays an irascible menswear salesman who strikes up an unlikely friendship with Sobieski's angst-filled goth teen. But, My First Mister is so much more than that. It's a study of humans — their actions, reactions and interactions. It's a sweet, sad, funny, poignant way to spend an hour and a half. The insightful script was written by Jill Franklyn, best known for penning the "Yada Yada" episode of Seinfeld and the single season black comedy Gravity. The performances were spot on, as was the sharply accurate dialog. 

The second movie is The Station Agent, a 2003 film, marking another directorial debut, this one for actor/screenwriter Tom McCarthy (no, not the announcer for the Philadelphia Phillies). A dozen years later, McCarthy would win an Oscar for his screenplay for Spotlight, which he also directed and which won the 2016 Academy Award for Best Picture. What brought me to The Station Agent was McCarthy also co-wrote the screenplay for the Disney animated feature Up. The Station Agent, like My First Mister, is a little, unpretentious film that offers a candid peek into the lives of ordinary people and their ordinary lives. An early entry into his huge and celebrated body of work, the film stars Peter Dinklage as a quiet man who just wants to be left alone. His co-star, the versatile Bobby Cannavale, is a gregarious hot dog vendor who doesn't want to leave poor Peter alone. Filling out this unexpected trio is Patricia Clarkson as a mentally-preoccupied artist dealing with her own internal and external issues. Michelle Williams, John Slattery and the delightfully deadpan Raven Goodwin offer suitably realistic supporting characters. The story unfolds slowly and purposely, allowing the actors to fully flesh out their respective roles and create believable, relatable and emotion-filled people, not just actors reading line that were written for them to recite. It's funny and sad, joyful and nerve-wracking, sweet and touching. The plot of The Staiton Agent is ancillary. The real focus is the characters and how they are brought to life and how they evolve, thanks to the talents of three (and more) adept and very well-cast actors. (Screenwriter/director McCarthy noted that he wrote the characters with Dinklage, Cannavale and Clarkson in mind.)

I don't recommend movies. I don't know your particular taste in movies. I don't know if you'll like a particular film. I do know that I liked — really liked — My First Mister and The Station Agent. You might, too. But, you might not. There are no explosions or car chases or monsters or space ships. Just some solid acting and solid writing. 

I liked them. You? You're on your own.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

the hottest spot north of havana

Just this week my son told me he was going to a show at a newish venue in Philadelphia called Nikki Lopez. I say "newish" because Nikki Lopez opened in the former location of South Street stalwart, the infamous JC Dobb's. JC Dobb's was a little hole-in-the-wall bar that featured the live music of a number of popular Philly bands as well as early career performances by bands like Nirvana, Pearl Jam and Rage Against the Machine. Dobb's opened and closed several times since its "official" closing in the mid-90s. Allegations of sexual assault by some of the venue's employees forced the current owner to put the place up for sale in 2023.

Early in 2025, JC Dobb's emerged again, this time under the name Nikki Lopez. Along with drinks and the promise of hot dogs, Nikki Lopez presents the same caliber of bands that Dobb's featured in its heyday— updated to fit into current trends in 21st century live indie music. The show my son went to fit square into that category.

On his way to Nikki Lopez, my son called to tell me that Copabanana, another staple on the South Street of my formative years, had closed. For good.

That made me sad, although I had not been to Copa (as it was affectionately known) for years. And by years, I mean way too many to count.

I have such fond memories of Copabanana. When I first met the future Mrs. Pincus, she lived in a small apartment just a few walkable blocks from South Street. We went to Copa often for a quick dinner and a taste of  their signature Spanish fries. Those were incredible. They were a simple combination of French fries, mixed with fried onions and fried green peppers. I could have sat at a table in Copa and eaten basket after greasy basket of their Spanish fries. I used to work at a popular ice cream shop on South Street. After work — sometimes around midnight — I'd stop at Copa and get an order of Spanish fries for Mrs. P and I to share, despite the late hour..

The atmosphere at Copa was always a little... shall we say.... shady. There was always some hoodlum-looking character catching a quick cigarette outside the kitchen door. He was the last person you'd want to be preparing your food. Once navigating the dark and foreboding bar — fully stocked with one unsavory individual after another — the dining room wasn't much better. The interior was a maze of close tables and winding passageways that, in another life, may have been a carnival fun house. The carpets were worn and sometimes damp. The air conditioning blew hot air and the in-house sound system broadcast more crackles than actual music. But it was funky and cool and it was the place to go on South Street. Their extensive menu offered burgers and sides and even a selection of vegetarian-friendly options long before that was "a thing."

More recently, from the confines of my safe suburban home, I would often keep up with local news concerning Copa. On a regular basis, stories would circulate about rent increases in the South Street neighborhood and Copa would face the possibility of closure. The stories and reports would dissipate and Copa would remain open... until the next story would make the local papers or appear as a footnote on the local news.

According to some superficial investigation, the current owner of Copabanana started a GoFundMe campaign in 2023 to help "save" the struggling restaurant from its financial burden. A proposed goal of $250,000, funds of which would be split between saving the restaurant and supplementing the health needs of its home-bound owner, had only garnered $165. 

I stumbled across a Reddit page on which both former employees and former patrons voiced their unbridled and uncensored opinions of the "beloved" bar and restaurant. Some called the place "disgusting." Others, including a user who claimed to have been a long-tenured waitress, labeled Copa "a shithole." Some wondered why the drug dealers who frequented the bar couldn't lend a financial hand. Another creative user posted a "musical" comment bookended with musical notes as "♬ Her name was Lola / She was a crackhead ♬," alluding to the similarly-titled Barry Manilow hit of from the 70s, while simultaneously noting the clientele. There were tender memories of fist fights, drunken regulars, surly and aggressive bartenders and that memorable damp carpet.

Still, there was something very comforting in knowing that Copa still existed, knowing I could still go there anytime I wished... although I had zero intentions of going.  But, I can still picture — with great clarity — the South Street landscape of the early 1980s. The TLA Cinema, Zipperhead, Paper Moon, Frank's Pizza, Keep In Touch, Skinz and yes, even Hilary's Ice Cream where I worked. And, of course, Copa — right there on the corner of 4th and South. Its purple walls and lime green trim standing like a guiding lighthouse for the punks and the weekend wannabe punks.

I remember when another legendary Philadelphia eatery closed its doors, the treasured Automat Horn & Hardart's. In the wake of changing trends in the restaurant industry, Horn & Hardart's, with over 100 locations, announced its closure in 1991. Folks, all sharing misty memories of the chain's glory days, flooded the corporate office with phone calls, expressing sadness and outrage. "How can you close?," the callers would demand. The corporate answer was a sardonic "When was the last time you ate at a Horn & Hardart's?"

I'll miss Copa, although I don't remember the last time I had their Spanish fries. They sure were good.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com