root beer rag

One summer afternoon, we were participating in a blockwide yard sale. The rather quirky kid who lived across the street bounded over to our house and asked if we liked root beer floats. Apparently, he had just discovered the concoction. I, of course, beamed, explaining that I loved root beer floats, but I hadn't had one in quite some time. He offered to make root beer floats for Mrs Pincus and me, but he was just missing a few ingredients. He said he needed vanilla ice cream. And he needed some large glass mugs. Oh... and he had to get some root beer. He disappeared back to his house and we didn't see him for the rest of the day.

I love root beer. I always have. It was such a great alternative to Coca-Cola. With its distinctive sharp "bite" and its creamy, foamy head, it was unlike any other soda. And with a big scoop of vanilla ice cream plopped on top.... boy, oh boy... nothing could compare. Root beer floats were always a favorite of mine. Perhaps it was just me carrying on a Philadelphia tradition (the combination drink/dessert was invented right here in the City of Brotherly Love). Perhaps it was just that it tasted so good! Whatever the reason... I loved 'em.

I have been eating Honey Nut Cheerios for breakfast nearly every morning of my adult life. However, I follow several "new product" accounts on Instagram to keep apprised of new cereals that may appear on grocery store shelves. Although I have no intention of buying any of these new flavors or flavor combinations of cereal or flavor variations of old favorites, I like to see what the test kitchens at Kellogg's or General Mills have up their sleeves. Banana Milkshake Frosted Flakes or Orange Creamsicle Cap'n Crunch are amusing in theory, but I don't think I would start my day with either one. Early this year, I saw that the popular Cinnamon Toast Crunch would soon assault the shelves of Walmart with an exclusive flavor. After such variations as Cinnamon Churro Crunch, Dulce de Leche Crunch and the holiday themed Sugar Cookie Crunch, the innovative folks at General Mills were introducing Cinnamon Toast Crunch - Root Beer Float for a limited run. I was intrigued... and, to my surprise.... I gave actual consideration to buying and trying it.

Last week, I popped into Walmart for a few needed grocery items — bread, ketchup, coffee creamer. I wandered down the cereal aisle. I casually surveyed the shelves, sort-of looking for Cinnamon Toast Crunch - Root Beer Float. I saw several unappealing variations of Cheerios, a mystery flavor of Cap'n Crunch, a Stranger Things themed box of cereal... but no Cinnamon Toast Crunch - Root Beer Float. At least not yet. When I got to the end and turned towards the next aisle, I saw that the end cap was fully stocked with Cinnamon Toast Crunch - Root Beer Float. I looked... I considered... and I grabbed a box.

When I got home, started to put my purchases away in their designated areas of my kitchen. I put the box of Cinnamon Toast Crunch - Root Beer Float in the cabinet with the other cereals. Seven year-old Josh would have ripped the lid off of that box and shoved a fistful of the new cereal into his mouth. But 64 year-old Josh is an adult with self control. My first taste of Cinnamon Toast Crunch - Root Beer Float would wait until tomorrow morning and my regular breakfast time. I will admit, though... I was excited.

My alarm went off. I woke up and began to get ready for work. I washed, brushed my teeth and combed what little hair I have left on my head. I got dressed and descended the stairs to the kitchen to prepare my breakfast. I flicked on the Keuring and set a coffee mug beneath its spout. I set out a bowl (my special "milk splash" bowl for this auspicious occasion) and reached into the cereal cabinet for the star of this morning's breakfast show — my newly purchased box of  Cinnamon Toast Crunch - Root Beer Float.

I ran a finger under the top flap, breaking the glued seal. I gripped the top of the inner bag and gave it a pull to separate the factory crimp. I expected to be instantly hit with the unmistakable aroma of root beer and vanilla ice cream — or at the very least, a factory approximation of that familiar scent. Instead, there was... nothing. No real smell at all. I poured some cereal into the bowl. It looked like the Cinnamon Toast Crunch my son ate as a kid... which looked like the Cinnamon Toast Crunch I ate as a kid. I added some milk, grabbed my coffee and readied myself for my first (hopefully) tantalizing taste of Cinnamon Toast Crunch - Root Beer Float.

Root beer floats have a very unique flavor. Sharp. Spicy. Creamy. Rich... all in an equal blend of those components that make a root beer float a root beer float. You know what Cinnamon Toast Crunch - Root Beer Float doesn't taste remotely like? A root beer float.

My first disappointing mouthful of Cinnamon Toast Crunch - Root Beer Float exhibited none of the expected characteristics. Not a one. I shoved another spoonful into my mouth and assessed the flavor. I really concentrated on what I was tasting. A third serving really helped me come to a conclusion on the taste. It tasted like Cinnamon Toast Crunch. Regular old Cinnamon Toast Crunch... with absolutely no aspect of root beer, vanilla ice cream or even a glass mug or paper straw. I tasted only cinnamon and it crunched.

I am almost finished the box of Cinnamon Toast Crunch - Root Beer Float. I have had it for breakfast every morning starting with the day after I bought the box. I will continue to eat it every morning until the box is empty. I do not expect the flavor to change.

I look forward to eating Honey Nut Cheerios again. I know they won't try to deceive me.

FOOTNOTE: I bought a package of Maple French Toast bagels at Aldi. Guess what they don't taste anything like....?

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

here we are now, entertain us

I like to watch movies. I like to watch movies with my wife and I like to watch movies alone. Sometimes, I have to do both of those because I don't always share the same tastes in movies with my wife. Recently, I have watched a few recent releases that — in a million years — Mrs. Pincus would not have sat through. One was a fairly graphic horror movie. I know from past experience that Mrs. P has little tolerance for horror movies. I still remember her watching Creepshow through fingers protectively threaded across her eyes and asking how much longer will this go on. The recent movie I watched would have had her exiting the room after the opening scene. I watched another recent release that would not have held her interest at all. It was a very slow build-up until the story started to come together. So, I have — more or less — become the official movie screener for the Pincus household. I will chose a movie for the two of us to watch, based on whether or not Mrs. P will like it. I will happily admit that I'm not always right.

Recently, I suggested a made-for-television movie called A Carol for Another Christmas. It was originally broadcast in 1964 on ABC. It was only shown once until it resurfaced a few years ago on the  Turner Classic Movies network. I thought it was a good choice for us to watch. It was written by Rod Serling and Mrs. P is a long time fan of Twilight Zone. It featured well-known actors like Sterling Hayden, Ben Gazzara, Eve Marie Saint, Peter Sellers, Robert Shaw and Pat Hingle. So, we settled in to watch. It turned out to be a long-winded, smack-you-over-the-head, message-filled piece of anti-nuclear propaganda that was produced, in part, by the United Nations. It was a tedious, repetitive, preachy, self-righteous 84-minutes that seemed twice as long. As we watched, I could sense that Mrs. P was getting "antsy." Fifteen minutes in, her full attention was given to her cellphone. That evening's entertainment choice was a bust on my part. I vowed to be more discerning in future suggestions.

Last night, we interrupted our usual evening's viewing of cartoons (our cable provider recently began carrying MeTV Toons, a 24-hour network devoted to the cartoons of our youth) to watch a movie. I selected a movie that I remember watching years ago. I asked my wife if she had ever seen it. She was unsure. So, we watched.

The movie in question was a 1968 theatrical release called The Night They Raided Minsky's. It was an early production from the pre-All in the Family partnership of Norman Lear and Bud Yorkin. The film had a very interesting and chaotic journey to the big screen, even before a film frame of celluloid was shot. It was based on a 1960 novel about the bygone days of burlesque in New York City. Tony Curtis was originally cast in the lead, but friction over the script caused him to walk. A young Alan Alda was considered as a replacement, but he was locked into a role on Broadway. Jason Robards was tagged just a few weeks before shooting was to begin. Mickey Rooney, then Joel Grey, were pursued for the second lead, but other bookings prevented them from taking the role. British comedian Norman Wisdom was cast despite being relatively unknown to American audiences. Joey Faye, Eddie Lawrence, Dexter Maitland and Bert Lahr — all former burlesque performers — rounded out the cast. Lahr, however, was practically on his deathbed, have been diagnosed with terminal cancer just prior to production. The cast was supplemented by solid performances from Denholm Elliot, Joseph Wiseman, Harry Andrews, Forrest Tucker and Elliot Gould in his motion picture debut. At the forefront was the adorably waif-like Britt Ekland as the object of everyone's affection. William Friedkin, fresh off his directorial debut at the helm of Sonny & Cher's 1967 hippie indulgence Good Times (and several years away from The French Connection and The Exorcist) was tapped to direct. Friedkin, who shot forty hours of footage for the project, had a vision for the final product that differed from Lear's, Yorkin's and the "powers that be" at United Artists. After working — unsuccessfully — with respected film editor Ralph Rosenblum, Friedkin moved on to another project. He called The Night They Raided Minsky's "the biggest piece of crap he was ever involved with." Rosenblum took a full year to recut and reimagine the movie with no input from the director. He introduced period stock footage. He reshot some scenes with a body double substituting for Bert Lahr, who had died during production. Rosenblum's version — which Friedkin had nothing to do with — was released to surprisingly positive reviews. It boasted the biggest budget for a film shot in New York City at the time. Its paper-thin plot, continuity errors and seedy look are all forgivable, as The Night They Raided Minsky's offered a frozen snapshot of a bygone and nearly forgotten period of entertainment history. The film — a complete work of fiction — was a love letter to the bawdy side of vaudeville and — according to the opening narration — the origin of the strip tease.

Mrs. P and I watched The Night They Raided Minsky's. It was uneven. It was creepy. It was funny. It was enjoyable. The cast was stellar, if somewhat slightly above the sitcom-level script. The full-length classic burlesque skits that were showcased was like watching a documentary, sometimes overshadowing the main plot of the movie... whatever it was. There was a love triangle of sorts. There was a shifty plot to humiliate a staunch moral advocate. There was an overbearing gangster. There was an angry Amish patriarch searching for his wayward daughter. There was a lot going on and sometimes the story was interrupted for the sake of a barrage of risque jokes. Despite the spot-on performances from Norman Wisdom, Joseph Wiseman, Jason Robards and Britt Ekland, the true stars of The Night They Raided Minsky's were the ladies who formed the disinterested, going-through-the-motions chorus of the burlesque stage. Everything came to a head in a very raucous climax and a very sit-com-y ending. 

Ninety-eight minutes later, Mrs. P and I were entertained. And I don't think she looked at the clock once.

Well, maybe once.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

I met Britt Elkand in 2016. She was very sweet.

break of dawn: reprise

Two years ago, I posted a story about my friend Dawn, a girl I knew in my youth. Dawn and I were very close friends, but we drifted apart and eventually lost touch with each other around 1979. I encourage you to read that story (HERE'S the link) before continuing with this one. It'll only take a few minutes and it will give this story better understanding. Go ahead. I'll wait....

Wow. That was quick. Are you sure you read it? 'Cause you'll appreciate this post more if you did.

Well, the story of Dawn garnered 48 comments — from people I don't know — when I reposted it on a private Facebook group concerned with growing up in Northeast Philadelphia. I received many comments from people who had a similar experience and lost touch with a close friend — or, in some cases, a first love. Several folks asked for a follow-up report, in case I chose to further continue my on-again-off-again pursuit for Dawn. Interestingly, mixed in with the comments were a few leads on how I could track Dawn down after all these years. People my age on Facebook certainly have presented themselves as "yentas."  

Well, seeing as I had a lot of time on my hands — what with zero employment prospects and a worldwide pandemic. I decided to conduct a little bit more of my investigation. A couple of Google searches led me to LinkedIn, the business networking website. I had been semi-active on LinkedIn for years and I, very quickly, was able to locate Dawn under her married name. I sent a request to "Join Her Network" and sat back to wait. Actually, I had forgotten all about it, despite a few persistent members of the Facebook group contacting me to see if I heard anything.

Nearly a month after I sent my request, I got a LinkedIn notification of acceptance from a name that I didn't recognize. I jogged my memory and realized it was Dawn. I sent a simple reply through LinkedIn's messaging service, not too pushy and not overanxious. I merely said "Hi Dawn! How have you been?" Almost 15 minutes later, Dawn replied. Look... I understand that few people spend as much time online as I do, but I thought that 15 minutes was a lengthy period to get a response from someone I hadn't seen in 40 years. Especially someone with whom I was so close. I don't want to read anything into this... so I won't. Dawn said: "Hi Josh! Doing good... can't complain... how's about u?" 

You didn't think I'd really
post her photo, did you?

I thought this was sort of odd. I didn't detect a shred of excitement. It was as though we converse regularly and had been doing so for years. (Damn! There I go again! Looking for some hidden meaning.) We messaged for a bit - our respective replies at intervals of 30 to 40 minutes apart. I sent her the link to the story I wrote about her and our relationship. After a time where, I assume, she read the story, she made a comparison to a show she watches on Netflix. I dispensed with chit-chat and fired the first salvo. I asked if she was married and if she had children. She told me that she has been married for 22 years with no children. Now, we were getting somewhere! Without waiting to be asked, I told her that Mrs. Pincus and I just celebrated 36 years of marriage and our son just turned 33. Dawn's reaction was: "Holy cow!! That is awesome Josh! Wow...." I thought that was sweet and very reminiscent of the Dawn I remembered. I sent her a link to my illustration blog with a bit of background explanation. I didn't hear a reply until the next morning. That reply was simply: "Pretty cool." In a subsequent message, I explained to Dawn that I had some pressing personal matters that I had to address, but I want to catch up. I was so happy that we re-connected and I want to hear about what she's been doing and where her life has led her. 

Her reply was one I never expected. 

She said: "As you know each marriage has its own intricacies and complexities that perhaps outsiders wouldn't understand. While it would be fun to chat and catch up on the last 40 yrs, my husband and I have a marriage that neither one of us really has separate friends of the opposite sex. I just wouldn't feel comfortable catching up.. our marriage is based on respect and I wouldn't do what I wouldn't want done to me. It is nothing at all against you.. as I said, these 22 yrs are working well for each of us and I wouldn't do anything to jeopardize it. And again, it's nothing at all against you Josh. You are a good person and I have nothing but fond memories of our friendship." I read and reread this several times, just to make sure I understood it. And I understood it alright. I thought back and it hit me that maybe this was the reason that none of my friends went on a second date with Dawn. 

I shared my correspondence with Dawn with my wife every step of the way. That's because my wife and I have a marriage that is actually based on mutual respect and trust. What Dawn describes sounded like something very different from the definition of "trust" that is familiar to me. When I read the final sentiment from Dawn, the always reliable, always sharp Mrs. P smiled and said "Bye, Felicia!" 

I have a friend who is a singer-songwriter. He wrote a song called "The Notion." The song is about how the idea of someone is sometimes better that the actual someone. It's a pretty astute observation. I think my memories — as fond as they are — of Dawn have been skewed and clouded by time. Perhaps I wasn't really aware of the real reason we parted ways so many years ago. So, this tale has come to an ending, just maybe not the ending you expected. 

Well.... that makes two of us.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

scary monsters... and super creeps

Halloween is approaching. It's the time for tricks and treats. Well, because of the worldwide COVID-19 pandemic, most communities across the country are figuring out creative — and safe — alternatives to the traditional, door-to-door, decidedly anti-social distancing trick-or treating. Watching scary movies is a good way to get into the Halloween spirit (pun intended!).

I love scary movies. I have loved scary movies since I was a kid when I would park myself in front of the television on a Saturday afternoon for a marathon broadcast of  horror films that were made decades before I was born. Local Philadelphia UHF station Channel 17 showed "Mad Theater" back-to-back with "Horror Theater," both hosted by the pseudo-frightening, always campy "Dr. Shock." The good doctor would entertain his mostly pre-pubescent home audience with magic tricks and hokey skits during breaks in the film. I even got to meet Dr. Shock when he made an appearance at a carnival in my neighborhood. It was a thrill... if I remember correctly. It was on Dr. Shock's show that I had my first exposure to Bela Lugosi's Dracula, Boris Karloff's Frankenstein and Lon Chaney Jr.'s The Wolf Man, along with a creepy parade of monsters and witches and zombies and ghouls and all kinds of things that go bump in the night. The only problem was.... they didn't scare me. I was drawn to these characters. I was fascinated by them. I marveled at them. I just wasn't scared by them... and that's what I was looking for. And so began my life-long quest for "the big scare"... the movie that would finally give me that scare I craved.

I have seen hundreds of horror movies, from the classics of the 30s to the low-budget thrillers of the 50s and 60s, to the blood-saturated gorefests from Britain's Hammer Studios in the 70s to the cookie-cutter slasher films of the 80s. Recently, I have watched movies that have been recommended by self-proclaimed aficionados... all to great disappointment. 

In fairness, I enjoyed the initial entry of a number of horror "franchises." Films like "A Nightmare on Elm Street," "Friday the 13th," "Halloween" and even the venerable "Texas Chainsaw Massacre," in my opinion were all entertaining, but — Jesus! — do we really need eleven sequels that essential tell the exact same story over and over again? I think not.

The current crop of horror movies are either more concerned with giving the viewer a front row seat to an autopsy or offering a flimsy, nonsensical plot as an excuse to splash gratuitous nudity across the screen. I know that I am in the overwhelming minority, based on the disciple-like attendees I have seen packing the aisles at horror movie conventions. (Yeah, I used to go to them when I collected celebrity autographs.)

I watched the Netflix series Stranger Things based purely on the buzz it received among friends and on the internet. I was not entertained. Yeah, yeah... I got all the references and jokes. I just didn't think they were as clever as the writers thought they were. I actually watched all three seasons of the series, hoping I would "get into it" as it progressed. I did not. I found myself constantly checking my watch and wondering how much longer it would go on. The acting was good. No complaints there. I felt the story was limp and took too long to tell. And when it was finally told, I didn't care. And I certainly wasn't scared.

Glutton for punishment that I am, I am currently in the throes of the HBO series Lovecraft Country. I was intrigued by the dichotomy of the subject matter — an examination of the oppression of African-Americans coupled with the supernatural. I am not a fan of science fiction, comic books, suspension of belief or stories that end with the cop-out of deus ex machina. I hate that. It's as though the writers just couldn't be bothered with thinking up an ending. I have watched Lovecraft Country and did not enjoy it. Oh, I watched the whole thing — all ten grueling episodes, just to see how everything wrapped up, but the storytelling is clunky and sprawling and disjointed. And I felt it's beneath the talents of the compelling cast. Yes, I realize that I am probably not the target audience. I knew that going into it, I already have a disinclination for the genre. But I gave it a shot anyway. I shouldn't have. I want to reiterate that the production and acting of this limited series was terrific, but with the exception of a few scenes, I did not find it scary. Just long-winded.

Yesterday, I watched a movie called Trick 'r Treat. Again, this film has maintained a cult following and a lot of praise since its awkward release in 2007. It is an anthology story comprised of several stand-alone tales linked by a single character that appears in each one. I have enjoyed this format in films in the past. I found Creepshow, Twilight Zone: The Movie and even a few of the 70s examples featuring Peter Cushing (like Dr. Terror's House of Horrors) to be entertaining. They didn't scare me, but I liked them. Trick 'r Treat was awful. It was doing its very best to look cool for the cool kids. It was run-of-the-mill, uninspired, unnecessarily gory and not nearly as clever as it thought it was. As far as scary....? Uh.... nope.

Look, monsters aren't scary. Guys with big knives aren't scary. Aliens aren't scary. Ghosts aren't scary. Gallons and gallons of blood and entrails aren't scary. Messy, yes.... but not scary.

Please. I'm not asking for a whole lot. I just want to be scared. I want a movie to scare me. I want to see a movie so goddamn clever and so goddamn frightening that I wont forget it for years to come. Honestly, I have seen only two horror movies that have come very close to legitimately scaring me. Psycho, the original 1960 Hitchcock tour-de-force and Jonathan Demme's Oscar-winning thriller The Silence of the Lambs. Both films were beautifully shot and impeccably executed. Both of these films featured a despicable villain that was not — by outward appearances — a monster. Both films elicited nerve-wracking suspense and both films — thanks to great performances and thoughtful directing — made the viewer root for the bad guy. That is scary.

Halloween will be here soon. We are all stuck in the house with a lot of free time. What's a guy gotta do to get scared around here?

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

see the man with the stagefright

* * * * * * WARNING * * * * * *
This blog post contains personal opinions. My personal opinions, as a matter of fact. You may not agree with them and that's okay. Just understand that I am very opinionated and I have resigned myself to the fact that my opinions are in the overwhelming minority. Perhaps this disclaimer should begin every one of my blog posts...

I dislike Broadway musicals. I like some movie musicals — Singing in the Rain, Oklahoma!, The Music Man and any number of gala spectacles from the Golden Age of Hollywood. But there is something about musical productions on the live stage that just rubs me the wrong way.

When I was in sixth grade, my mother took me to a matinee performance of Hair!, the hippie culture musical that was as popular as it was controversial. I had the soundtrack album and I used to play it endlessly. I knew every word to every song, even if I didn't understand what a lot of them meant. (I'm sure my mom was a bit on edge to hear her ten-year old singing "Sodomy.") I remember my mom being scolded by a group of protestors outside of the theater for bringing an impressionable youngster to this "smut" as one angry woman with a picket sign deemed it. My mom, in typical "Josh Pincus's mom" fashion, stood her ground, telling that lady to "mind her own business" (in so many words) as we marched through the theater doors. I remember liking the show, but I can't remember too many details aside from the infamous nude scene occurred at an unexpected time and under the camouflage of bright strobe lights.

In later years, I saw Grease! (eh! it was okay), Beatlemania (it was an incredible simulation, he said sarcastically) and The Phantom of the Opera (I hated it). After that, I have pretty much avoided the theater. It's weird because I love going to concerts and seeing live music performed. But there's just something about musical theater....

That said...

Back in 2013, network television began the experiment of bringing live Broadway musicals to the small screen. Although, I don't like Broadway musicals, I do love me some television. So, I watched one of the first ones that was broadcast. This was an over-hyped production of The Sound of Music starring Carrie Underwood. I am not familiar with Ms. Underwood's career, aside from knowing that she was a winner on American Idol, a show that despite having never seen, I have already formed an opinion about.... and it is not a favorable one. I was familiar, however, with the film version of The Sound of Music, but not the stage version, which this particular production would mimic. It was, at best, uneven. Carrie Underwood appeared overwhelmed and not up to the role's demands. Broadway powerhouse Audra McDonald, as "Mother Abess," overshadowed her fellow cast members with her stellar vocals. The rest of the production was highly forgettable (remember... my opinion).

In spite of lukewarm reviews, NBC stuck it out and, a year later almost to the day, presented Peter Pan Live! — a shit show if there ever was one. Allison Williams, in the title role, appeared uncomfortable, displaying a "deer-in-the-headlights" expression for the duration of the show. She was featured alongside a slightly out-of-it Christopher Walken, who seemed to have lost interest midway into the second act.

These two misguided presentations were followed by even more attempts from NBC, (Hairspray! and The Wiz) standing firm as though they were going to continue with this until they got it right (and so far, they haven't). Fox, feeling they had a better handle on things, joined in with Grease! (jumping on the "titles that include an exclamation point" bandwagon), A Christmas Story and The Passion (a musical tale of Jesus's last days, which no one recalls watching).

I actually watched Fox's take on The Rocky Horror Picture Show, touted as an "event," a week before Halloween in 2016. I loved The Rocky Horror Picture Show when I was in high school, having seen well over one hundred audience-participatory showings. This ill-conceived presentation was doomed from the start. Of course, it would suffer from endless comparisons to the now-beloved low-budget (if somewhat dated) original film. The television version played out like Rocky Horror karaoke. The ensemble was obviously talented, albeit miscast (remember... my opinion). Their delivery of the songs, while certainly strong and loud, was soulless, passionless and — more importantly — lacking any attachment to the source material. The casting of Laverne Cox as "Dr. Frank N Furter," was an obvious grab for attention, but, in my opinion, it missed the mark (remember... my opinion). No disrespect to Ms. Cox. She is indeed a powerful presence with a dynamic voice, but having this character played by a woman misses a joke that is important to the campy nature of the plot (remember... my opinion).

Ever the glutton for punishment, I settled down last night to watch yet another one of these "live musicals for television." This time, the mighty marketing department at Disney threw its magical hat in the ring, as they presented The Little Mermaid as an amalgam of the original animated film and new sequences featuring a politically-aware, racially-diverse cast parading around on a freeform stage before an interactive live audience. The production itself was, for the most part, beautiful. It was chock full of the type of theme park "magic" that makes Disney Disney. However, those who have experienced the "Voyage of the Little Mermaid" attraction at Disney's Hollywood Studios in Florida may have felt a twinge of déjà vu. The staging was very reminiscent of that show. Very reminiscent. On the plus side, the cast was very talented. "Ariel" was portrayed (on stage) by 18-year old Auliʻi Cravalho, who previously voiced the titular character in Moana. She was a formidable successor to the now-adult Jodi Benson who voiced the character in the original 1989 animated feature. Ms. Cravalho possesses the voice, appearance and persona that fits perfectly into the cookie-cutter mold of the current trend in Disney Princesses. Graham Phillips, looking fresh from the set of any Hallmark Channel Christmas movie, fit nicely into the part of hunky "Prince Eric." Single-named Jamaican singer Shaggy seemed unfamiliar with the role of stuffy crustacean chaperone "Sebastian." However, he turned in acceptable recitations of "Under The Sea" and "Kiss The Girl," employing his signature growl in each. (Subsequent reviews chided him for not wearing the "claws" of his animated counterpart.) Evil sea witch "Ursula" was played to the villainous hilt by Queen Latifah. From the moment she hit the stage, decked out in a white fright wig and patent leather tentacles, she was determined to steal this show right out from under everyone involved. TV staple John Stamos, as the real-life incarnation of cartoonish "Chef Louie," was determined to upstage even Queen Latifah's over-the-top performance. At times, the entire production seemed like filler between an onslaught of promos for "Disney +," the entertainment giant's new streaming service that launches in a week.

However, there was something missing.

The staging was clever and innovative. The cast was talented. The story was classic. And everything was dripping in Disney magic. Yet something was missing.

Soul.

Passion.

Sound familiar?

The Little Mermaid Live! suffered from the same thing as The Rocky Horror Picture Show Live! It was dead. Lifeless. Cold. Emotionless. It was Little Mermaid karaoke. They were singing the songs. Singing the words to the correct music, but it was... as the kids say... "meh." (Remember... my opinion). Twenty minutes into the first act, I caught Mrs. Pincus — a true lover of lavish musicals — fiddling with her phone, the unmistakable electronic "beeps" betraying her lack of attention.

"I lost interest." she stated after I nudged her to look at a particularly inventive effect. Those three words spoke volumes.

Shared opinion.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

keep telling that same dumb joke 'til we both think it's funny

I have always loved watching stand-up comics. I remember how cool it was staying up late to see Don Rickles or Buddy Hackett of The Tonight Show. Watching them deliver a few minutes of anecdotal shtick and spotting Johnny Carson in the shadows, bent over his desk in hysterics, always made me laugh. I enjoyed The Ed Sullivan Show and his knack for mixing up-and-coming comedians with the respected names of the field. George Burns and Jack Benny shared a stage with George Carlin and Richard Pryor. Even though the humor was from opposite ends of the spectrum, it was all funny.

When I got older, I was able to go to see comedians in local clubs. My favorite was "The Comedy Works," a cramped, narrow room two flights above a Middle Eastern restaurant (aptly name "The Middle East") in the historic district of Philadelphia. For under ten bucks, you could see an emcee, three warm-up comics and a headliner of some note. At different times over several years, I saw Bob Saget, Jackie "The Joke Man" Martling and Tom Wilson (a year or two before he went on to play "Biff" in the the Back to the Future trilogy). One night in the early 80s, the billed headliner was Richard Jeni, fresh from a few appearances on The Tonight Show. Before Richard took the stage, a young man performed... and he had the entire place rolling in the aisles with laughter. He was so funny that everyone missed parts of his routine because they were unable to be heard over the laughter. When poor Richard Jeni began his act, no one was paying attention. Everyone was still laughing and talking about the young man who had preceded Mr. Jeni. The young man was named Eddie Murphy.

The Comedy Works also featured an "Open Mic" Night. At these mid-week, marathon shows, patrons paid just a few dollars to sit and watch a combination of club regulars trying out new material and amateurs taking a stab at a possible career path. I went to "Open Mic" nights often with my friends. Most nights were pretty uneven with average Joes delivering poorly written, unfunny material. Their few minutes in the spotlight seemed like hours and their embarrassment was palpable. Then a pro would take to the stage and bring the meager audience back to life before the next human anchor would drag the waning crowd down again. After attending a few "Open Mic" Nights, I was persuaded by my friends (my drunk friends) to make an onstage attempt at stand-up comedy with words of encouragement like, "You're funnier than these assholes!" Not one to balk at a challenge..... who am I kidding? I balk at a lot of challenges. But, in this case, I answered the call. Over the course of five months, I observed everything that went on around me and wrote down everything, hoping something would be funny. When the big night came, I stocked the audience with friends and family. The show started at 9. I went on at midnight. By this point, the audience was hammered. I could have read the Yellow Pages aloud and got laughs. Honestly, I did not bomb, but I never made a return engagement, labeling my one-and-only foray into the world of stand-up as "Mission Accomplished" (and not in the George W. Bush sense).

I love watching comedians on TV, but lately I have been disappointed by the recent crop of comics. It seems to me that a great many are just not funny. Or ones that were funny are no longer funny. My biggest complaint is the way comedians are presented. There's an audience filled with people sitting and waiting for a funny person to come on stage and be funny. It is implied "This is a comedian, therefore, he is funny and you must laugh because that is what you do when you see a comedian." Then, they proceed to go on for an hour and offer five, non-consecutive minutes of funny material. But, if you watch the reaction shots, the audience is hysterical for the duration.

In the last few years, I've been to comedy clubs in Philadelphia, where I saw one funny headliner and a gang of lame warm-up acts. Ben Bailey, the host of the TV game show "Cash Cab," was very funny, but the supporting acts elicited crickets from the audience. Emo Phillips (admittedly an acquired taste) was great, but the opening comics were awful.

I have seen recent stand-up specials by Jim Gaffigan, a comedian I once thought was really original and very funny. He is no longer funny and his "I'm fat" shtick is repetitive and not amusing. I have seen Patton Oswalt, whose last special started and ended with a bang but the forty-minutes in the middle were totally forgettable. I watched Demetri Martin, who I thought was very funny — but not for as long as his special's entire running time. I saw Norm MacDonald, who I thought was surprisingly good, but I can't remember any part of his act. I saw T.J. Miller, who I loved on HBO's "Silicon Valley," but I couldn't make it past the first five minutes of his painfully manic and unfunny performance. Recently, Mrs. Pincus and I watched Ellen DeGeneres's new Netflix special — her first in sixteen years. I always liked Ellen's irreverent routines on Johnny Carson's show and previous specials, but this one was disappointing. It was very uneven and her overarching premise of "now I'm rich" wore thin after a while.

Other comedian's specials have been recommended to me, but I have to admit, I am a little gun-shy. I don't want to invest an hour of my time watching a comedian who is not funny. They have one job —to make me laugh. Instead, many have become preachy and introspective and unnecessarily philosophical. You wouldn't go to a dentist and sit in the chair to have your shoes shined, would you? (Wait, the way some people fear dentists, perhaps that is a poor analogy.) I guess I'll have to scroll endlessly through the selections on Netflix, HBO and other entertainment offerings to find that elusive comic that will just simply make me laugh.

Or maybe I'll just watch the old-timers on YouTube. Although, they're sometimes not even as funny as I remember.

Hmmm.... maybe it's me. 

Now that's funny!

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

vote for me and I'll set you free

Please forgive the rambling nature of this post. I mean more rambling than usual. I wrote this mostly for my own relief, as a carthasis after what I can only describe as a harrowing night. — JPiC

I voted in ten presidential elections and only picked the winner twice. But, honestly, a change in president has only affected my life — my personal life — once. Sure, there have been taxes and inflation, but those things would have occurred no matter who became president. You see, in 1981 under the Carter administration, I was enrolled in a four-year art school on a full, government grant for my first year. Therefore, in the first election in which I was eligible to vote, I cast my ballot for Mr. Carter for purely selfish reasons. He got trounced by Ronald Reagan, who proceeded to take the funds set aside for my art career and use them to purchase a bomb to blow up the Commie that was hiding under America's bed. With no support or encouragement from my parents, at 20 years old, I wandered into a bank and arranged for a student loan to cover my tuition for the next school year. I repeated the procedure a few more times until I graduated. I incurred a debt that I paid off, in monthly installments, over the course of ten years. So, aside from writing a check every month for $81.00, someone new in The White House really hasn't caused any upheaval in my life.

I admit I was a bit wary when Bill Clinton was elected president in 1992. After all, he was a young, cool guy who wore Blues Brothers shades and played the saxophone on late-night television. He was undeniably different from the forty-one stuffy men that preceded him. Those guys — the Reagans and the Nixons and the Eisenhowers — were my Dad's candidates. They were stiff, rehearsed, humorless guys whose dour visages would look right at home in the center of a piece of currency. But, Bill Clinton had a mischievous smile and a ton of charisma. He was both relaxed and commanding and, with a booming economy, he made the country feel comfortable. However, it was after Clinton's second-term win — when he defeated Bob Dole — that, I believe, things started to go to shit. Bob Dole was the ultimate sore loser. It was uncomfortable to watch Dole's "He's not my president!" behavior. But, again, it really didn't affect my day-to-day life. I still went to work. I was more concerned with the well-being of my family and, as always, just figured politics and the country would take care of itself... as selfish as that may seem.

I watched eight years of a George W. Bush presidency that evoked the good ol' backward-thinking Republican ways of my narrow-minded father and my narrower-minded grandmother. I saw the beginnings of a military conflict that was right out of the pages of George Orwell's 1984 — a battle against an unclear adversary that still rages on to this day. But, again, since a military draft had not been reinstated (besides, there was a huge amount of young men anxious to serve) and, since I was too old and my son was too young for military service, this, too, did not really affect my life on a personal level.

When Barack Obama became president, I truly believed that we had finally broken though and shaken off the clutches of the "old guard." By "old guard," of course I mean the government run by my father's old-white-guy Republican party. I figured that since, finally!, the President of the United States was a guy my own age (President Obama is exactly one week, to the day, older than I am), I was now part of the majority in the country and the president, as it had always been, was a reflection of the majority.

On Tuesday night — Election Night — I watched, in disbelief, as the progressive, visionary America that I saw blossom over the past eight years crumbled under a venomous blanket of hate, bigotry, xenophobia and unfounded fear. There was regular evidence that racism and hatred was alive and well in our country, but I was shocked that it has been allowed to be brought to the forefront by a bullying, prejudiced, uninformed, misogynist con artist. Like the Piper Piper of Hamelin, he played the right notes and stirred up the vermin that was hidden under the rocks and in the dirt. They followed his lead and they heard what they wanted to hear, ignoring the parts they didn't understand or didn't want to examine more closely. Say what you will about Mr. Trump, but the guy knows marketing. He successfully peddled his brand — a smoke-and-mirrors brand of gold-covered shit — and the right people bought it and happily ate it up.

And now the piper will be the next president, undoing everything that was accomplished over the past decade. I am thoroughly disappointed in my country.

Once again, the outcome of a presidential election may not affect me personally, but it will affect a great many people in this country — people of color, Latinos, Muslims, members of the LGBTQ community, women, immigrants, the disabled. Over the past eight years, I have met and become close to people that fall into those categories and it makes me sad for them. So, I take it back. This presidential election has affected me. In my effort to become less selfish, the results of this election makes me feel sorrow, anguish and fear on behalf of some people that I love.

Plus, it makes me embarrassed in front of the rest of the world.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

the second time around

Remember that story I wrote about our wonderful — almost magical — experience at Movie Tavern?

Well, we went back.

Prior to our last (actually, our first) visit to Movie Tavern, the brilliantly-conceived melding of movie theater, restaurant and bar, my wife had signed up for their "special perks" club. Periodically, the marketing team at Movie Tavern would send emails telling about upcoming films, special events and other information to entice us to come back — and come back often. So, taking advantage of a "Free Ticket on Your Birthday" offer, Mrs. P and I returned to Movie Tavern on a Saturday night, I can honestly say that we were excited to go back, having really enjoyed our first encounter,

Keeping with Movie Tavern's policy of seating one half hour before showtime, we arrived at 7 PM for an 8:30 PM showing of Disney's live-action remake of The Jungle Book, a film that had already been out for about a month. With other bigger and more-hyped movies opening the same weekend, we never expected to be told that the auditorium showing The Jungle Book didn't have two seats together. Disappointed, we opted, instead for a 9:20 performance of the new George Clooney-Julia Roberts thriller Money Monster, a film we knew nothing about. But we didn't care. We were happily anticipating an enjoyable evening that duplicated our previous pleasure at Movie Tavern. But now we had an hour to kill.

We scanned the suburban strip center of which Movie Tavern is the centerpiece. Most of the surrounding stores were closed at this hour on a Saturday. So we strolled down to a supermarket at the far end of the parking lot to buy a few non-perishables that I remembered I had scribbled on a shopping list I, of course, left at home. We slowly walked the supermarket aisles behind a nearly empty cart and ate up as much time as we could. We made our purchases and slowly headed back to the theater. I dropped our groceries off in our car and met my wife in the Movie Tavern lobby. 

Time crept by, but soon we queued up at the ticket-taker podium. We were informed that the theater was "not quite ready" and would be called "around 9 or ten of." I checked the clock on my phone. It was ten minutes to nine right now. A little after 9 PM, the announcement was made and we filed into Theater 8.

We scanned the menu and, with an over abundance of offerings for carnivores, we decided on the "2 for $30" special, which was one appetizer, two entrees and two fresh-baked cookies, all vegetarian-friendly. We closed our menus and settled into our reclining seats, watching servers busily scurrying about the theater. A young man passed by us, smiled and said "Hi guys! I'll be with you in a minute. " He disappeared down the entrance hallway. When he returned, he passed us by. Instead, he headed to the row in front of us. He took orders from every one in that row and, again, passed us by as he exited. He did smile at us again, though.

My wife and I exchanged glances that expressed our mutual disappointment. Finally, "Dave," as he introduced himself, came to take our order. Mrs. Pincus started off my saying, "We're gonna make this simple. We're gonna get the '2 foe $30' deal. We'd like the spinach artichoke dip and two portobello mushroom sandwiches." 

Dave furrowed his brow and pointed to the menu. "I believe you get two entrees." 

Mrs. P and I looked at each other and then back to Dave. "Yes," I said, "two portobello sandwiches." 

"Oh. Right.," said Dave. 

Curious about another item I spotted on the menu, I added, "I'd like an order of the fried pickles appetizer."

Dave frowned. "Uh," he stammered, "you only get one appetizer."

"Yes, I understand," I countered, "but, I'd like an additional appetizer. I'll pay for it. I brought money."

Dave smiled and entered my additional selection on his order pad and set off to, I imagine, the kitchen. "Well, this is a little different from the last time we were here." My wife and I uttered the same observed sentiment almost simultaneously.

The lights dimmed and the trailers for upcoming movies began. A few minutes into the preview of a new Ben Affleck film that I will never see, a different server approached us with a plate of two freshly-baked cookies. 

"Cookies?," he asked in a whisper, "You ordered cookies?"

Again, in the dark, my wife and I traded dumbfounded looks. "Well, not before our dinner.," she whispered back her reply,  "Why would these come out before our entire meal?"

He looked at us as though we were the first people to ever want dinner before dessert. What was wrong with us? He offered to bring them back to the kitchen and return with fresh cookies after we finished our main course. Still, he shook his head as though there was something wrong with our request.

Our appetizers arrived as the feature began. A minute later, another set of appetizers arrived. In hushed tones, we explained that we already had our appetizers. The server shook his head and disappeared into the darkness. Twenty or so minutes later, our sandwiches arrived. And a second set of sandwiches arrived moments later.

When the film was over, our server dropped a leatherette portfolio containing our bill on one of the swing-out tabletops connected to our seat. When the lights came on, Mrs. P scanned the printout and frowned. "Well, This is wrong.," she said in disgust.

The lengthy check included our "2 for $30" special and an additional fried pickle appetizer. Below that were two spinach dips, two more pickle orders and two additional mushroom sandwiches. This brought the total to more than double what it should have been. We summoned Dave over and, after several explanations, he finally understood our complaint. (Yes, it took a few reviews of the situation.) He took the bill and promised a return with an adjustment. As we waited for a corrected bill, we were visited by a young lady in managerial dress, complete with a walkie-talkie in her back pocket and an official-looking earpiece firmly in position. She listened to our tale of woe detailing our extreme disappointment as compared to our first visit to Movie Tavern. With sorrowful eyes and concerned expression, she offered apologies. She told a convoluted story about the ins-and-outs of their computerized ordering system. I was not interested in how their business is run and the shortcomings there of. This seems to be a pacifying tactic that corporations love to employ, not realizing that the customer honestly does not give a shit. We signed the corrected receipt and Mrs. P said, "We enjoyed ourselves so much last time. However, if this had been our first experience with Movie Tavern, we probably would not come back." The manager apologized again, very corporately, However, she did not offer any additional incentive or compensation. Not that we were looking for that, but it would have made for good customer relations. 

Will we return to Movie Tavern? Probably. But, not as anxiously.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

you get your kicks from just driving me down

Goddamn you, Bruce Springsteen. You broke my heart.

Yeah, yeah, I know I was a bit skeptical when my brother, upon returning from that intimate show at the Widener University Field House in 1975, gushed about your incredible marathon performance. Sure, my brother called you "Springstein," but he was thoroughly taken by your energy and exuberance. Later, when my brother brought home a copy of Born to Run, I still wasn't sold.

But I was intrigued and I listened again. This time something suddenly clicked... and I was hooked.

I bought Greetings from Asbury Park, NJ and The Wild, The Innocent and The E Street Shuffle and I was blown away. There were lyrics that rose above the bubble gum pop I was accustomed to. There was music that transcended the basic guitar and drums of other current bands. You sang with heartfelt compassion, speaking as a voice of the "everyman." Your jubilation was exhibited in rockers like "Rosalita," evoking vivid visions of street gangs and young love. The gentle poetry of "Sandy" was both chilling and earnest. I revisited Born to Run with a new outlook. I rediscovered epics like "Jungleland" as mini-masterpieces of combined story and melody. I had become a rabid and loyal fan.

I saw your show at Philadelphia's Spectrum with my friend Sam the night that John Lennon was murdered. Sam and I had slept out all night for tickets. We were unaware of the terrible event unfolding outside The Dakota in New York City. You were giving your all onstage for the fist-pumping faithful... and you had them in the palm of your hand. You had a difficult time performing the next evening after finding out about the death of one of your heroes and inspirations. But you went on, even paid tribute with "Twist and Shout" as the evening's encore.

Then came Born in the USA and nothing would ever be the same.You were rocketed to super-stardom. The album yielded an unprecedented seven singles. But gone were the gritty, introspective compositions. Instead, you presented a boastful, flag-waving bravado that departed from everything I had come to love about you and your music. The next victim of the "New and Improved Bruce," was the spontaneity. Everything seemed calculated and rehearsed, gearing toward the biggest possible commercial impact, the most "bang for the buck." I saw two, non-consecutive shows on the Born in the USA tour. They were stiff, over-rehearsed and identical, right down to the stories and dramatic pauses — all performed as though it was a play.

And then you did the unthinkable! You brought your wife into the band! Didn't you learn anything from Paul McCartney or your idol, John Lennon?

Then came Lucky Town and Human Touch, the forgettable simultaneous releases, followed by twenty years of some of the sorriest shit I have ever heard put to record. Uninspired, cookie-cutter compositions all carefully groomed to fit to the rockstar character that "Bruce Springsteen" had become. You're telling me that the same guy who wrote the tender "Incident on 57th Street" also wrote the novelty bullshit "57 Channels and Nothin' On"? You were believing your own press and fancying yourself the elder statesman of American rock music.You became a brand, like McDonald's or Coca-Cola. You became what you rebelled against. And you were quite convincing to your blind followers.

And now, you dare release the dreadful High Hopes, a throwaway compilation of covers and outtakes featuring phoned-in guitar work by an out-of-place Tom Morello and exploitative appearances by the late Clarence Clemons and Danny Federici. This is easily your laziest effort to date.

Bruce, Bruce, Bruce.... I gave you six years of unwavering adoration and how to you repay such loyalty? You shit all over it on your way to the bank.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com