a plate o' cole slaw

When I was a kid, there was a restaurant near our house called The Heritage Diner. My parents — especially my father — loved The Heritage Diner. My mother liked going there for two reasons. One - it meant she didn't have to cook. The second reason was she could order liver. My mother loved liver, but no one else in the house did (despite the fact that my father was a butcher by trade). My parents were old-school carnivores, with some sort of meat dish featured in practically every Pincus family dinner. Steak, roast beef, London broil, beef stew... but liver... that's where three-fourths of the Pincuses drew the line. So a trip to The Heritage Diner fulfilled my mom's craving for liver. After my mom died, I believe my father ate every meal — breakfast, lunch and dinner every single day! —  at The Heritage Diner. However, I don't believe he ever got the liver.

I liked going the The Heritage Diner, too. I marveled at the big display of desserts that greeted diners as they entered the establishment. I was fascinated my the enormity of the menu. I was given free reign to order whatever I like from the Heritage Diner's vast selection. There were burgers, hot turkey sandwiches covered with bright yellow gravy, even omelets were available in the evening hours and "breakfast for dinner" was always a welcome treat. On Sundays, the already -huge menu was bolstered with a typewritten sheet listing several dozen additional entrees to make choosing "what's for dinner" even more difficult. Each entry on the supplemental menu included soup or salad and dessert along with two — count 'em two — vegetables from a list of about fifteen or so choices. My go-to dinner (if I didn't feel like having a hamburger) was a massive slab of breaded fried flounder. Served on a large oval plate with smoky red trim, the hunk of fried fish was so large that it covered the entire platter, the edges flopping over the sides. Sometimes a second, slightly smaller piece of fish would come out on the plate, as though the first piece wasn't big enough. As part of my order, I was required to state which two vegetables from the list of the evening's offerings I'd like. I was not the most ravenous eater when it came to vegetables. I read the list of vegetables over and over, turning my nose up at things like "Harvard beets" and "French cut string beans." Those were things my mom ate at home and I turned my nose up at them there, too, so I was certainly not going to order them in a restaurant. I was cautioned about ordering two kinds of potatoes, as I narrowed my choices down to French fries and a baked potato. I was also not permitted to get corn and French fires. Something about "two starches" that — to this day — I still don't quite get. Well, I knew I wasn't going to get spinach or peas, so I settled on the final item on the list to share my plate with my fries... and that was cole slaw. I already knew that I wasn't going to actually eat the cole slaw. Sure, it came in a tiny plastic ramekin containing less than two forkfuls worth of shredded cabbage, mayonnaise, celery seed, carrots and vinegar. I knew that as soon as the waitress brought my dinner plate, that little cup of cole slaw would be pushed onto my mom's plate before it hit the table.

As I got older and became a more adventurous eater, I began to like cole slaw. I discovered that if it was added to a corned beef sandwich and slathered with Russian dressing, it made a sandwich that was unmatched and positively delicious. If the corned beef was substituted with turkey, it created an equally-delicious assemblage. I would sometimes order fried fish and eat all the accompanying cole slaw first.

Somewhere around 2006, I became a vegetarian. I stopped eating red meat and poultry. However, I did not eliminate fish from my diet (after all, fish are just asking for it) so, I continue to order and enjoy cole slaw with fried flounder — which is still a favorite of mine. I will sometimes finish my dinnermate's cole slaw, just because I know that most people don't really like it. 

There is a writer whose blog I have been reading for years. His regular job is writer and producer of the Garfield cartoon, but he has been a comic book writer for years. He also hates cole slaw and doesn't hide his hatred. In 1978, he wrote a story that appeared in the Hanna Barbera TV Stars issue Number 2. The story, illustrated with drawings by Jack Manning and featuring characters from a short-lived NBC cartoon called "C.B. Bears," was entitled "The Great Cole Slaw Conspiracy." He wrote the story to — and I quote — "educate children on the evils of cole slaw." He explained, in a blog post, that his editor shared his dislike for cole slaw and the story was given an enthusiastic "green light." He also regularly reminds readers of his blog how much he hates cole slaw and wishes for its removal from existence — in case you had forgotten. I continue to read his blog, but I bristle when he derides cole slaw. (Sort of how you cringe when I insult Ringo,)

On October 28, 2009, while the rest of Philadelphia was glued to their televisions to watch the Phillies in a return trip to the World Series, my son and I went to see off-the-wall comedian Emo Philips at a little comedy club. With Game One of the World Series as competition, the entire audience was comprised of just four people. Emo, in top form, sat on the edge of the tiny stage and delivered his hilarious routine while leaning forward with his elbows resting on the surface of our stage-side table. After the show, Emo came out and mingled with the audience... if you can call talking with four people "mingling." I asked him if he would sign our admission ticket. He obliged, taking the ticket from my hand and — without prompting or any sort of suggestion on my part — wrote "To Josh, King of Cole Slaw! Emo"

Even Emo knew.

Maybe one day, I'll tell you about my love of Cream of Wheat. But, not today.

www.jopshpincusiscrying.com

i've got a lovely bunch of coconuts

I was a picky eater when I was a kid. My father would often accuse me of only limiting my food intake to pizza. (To be honest, he wasn't that far off.) My mother would regularly accompany meals with all sorts of vegetables. With the exception of corn and potatoes, I would not eat the vegetables my mother tried to push on me. Potatoes, in any form, were just mere steps away from French fries... and I loved French fries. Corn... well, corn was corn and as that young man in the latest You Tube viral video has confirmed "It's corn!" But, those others....? Yeesh! I wouldn't touch 'em with a ten-foot fork. No amount of butter or salt or anything would get me to like string beans.

As I got older, my eating habits changed. Considerably. I ate salad, something I would customarily slide over to my mother's side of the table when dining in a restaurant. I ate broccoli, granted it had to be mixed in a spicy sauce and served with a plate full of other chopped up ingredients within the cozy and mysterious confines of a Chinese restaurant. I still pick sliced tomatoes off of a hoagie, but I will happily consume the lettuce and onion, an act unheard of when I was a child. My wife often marvels at my evolved eating habits, commenting, "Your mother would be so proud of you!" I'm pretty sure she would.

Almost a decade ago, I wrote a pretty disparaging piece about raisins and my dislike of them. I was convinced that there was a universal conspiracy to get people to eat raisins. Not to necessarily like raisins, just to eat them. I observed that raisins were covertly snuck into various foods in a effort to get them eaten. They had to be hidden in bread and noodle casseroles and cakes. The name of a particular dish could not include the actual word "raisin," for fear no one would eat it. So, things like "cinnamon rolls" were never identified as "raisin cinnamon roils." "Coffee cake" was similarly ambiguous about all of its components. Even for the tiniest amount of raisins, they'll say: "You can't even taste the raisins!" It's like the people who say: "I know it's a Jim Carrey movie, but you'll like it." It's still has Jim Carrey in it! Only "raisin bread" appears ballsy enough to put its most reviled ingredient first in its name. Obviously, that was for those other people. You know, the ones proliferating the whole "raisin agenda." But, I hereby rescind my stance on raisins. I like them. I eat them. I concede that they are not among my favorite foods, but I no longer gag when I discover one in a bite of baked good, nor to I make a little pile of them on the side of my plate when politely eating something that contains them.

However, there is one food I will never ever ever happily eat. They say " never say never." Well, I'm saying never. And I'm talking about you, coconut. Coconut is horrible! Just horrible. I know, I know. All you coconut lovers will disagree with me. Look, I've had coconut. I believe I am still chewing coconut I ate when I was nine. It is a taste and mouth sensation on the same level as root canal. No, I take that back. I've had several root canal procedures. Eating coconut is worse. I have become so highly sensitive to coconut that I can tell if someone said the word "coconut" while they were preparing a dish I am eating. When I was a kid and would return from a night of Halloween trick-or-treating, I would pull out all of the coconut based candy from my bag and try to make trades with my brother (he actually liked coconut - eeech!) If a trade could not be agreed upon — fuck it! — I'd just give him the goddamn coconut rather that have it mixed in with my nominal candy haul. When I took my son out for Halloween, I taught him to say "trick or treat" and "nothing with coconut." When he got a little older and developed an actual fondness for coconut (whose kid are you?), my days of ransacking his Halloween spoils had ended.

Not a cow.

A few years ago, based on the advice of a doctor, I began eating breakfast on a daily basis. This was a meal that I skipped for most of my adult life. But after a series of vasovagal syncopes, my doctor recommended that I eat breakfast every morning to combat the feeling of hunger during the day, thereby preventing future fainting episodes. So, every morning, before I leave for work, I pour myself a bowl of cereal and a cup of coffee. Nothing extravagant and no actual cooking is involved. I always make sure there is milk in the house, a regular requirement that lapsed after my son moved out on his own. One day, a year or so ago, my son suggested that I switch to almond milk, citing its health benefits. He explained that dairy-based milk is passé. I was hesitant at first, but, once I tasted almond milk, I was hooked. The "unsweetened" variety has no discernable taste and, I believe, is lower in calories than the stuff that comes from mistreated cows. So almond milk it is... and has been for some time now.

Last week, after seeing that the current supply of almond milk was running low, I added it to our running shopping list. During the day, Mrs Pincus went to the supermarket and purchased everything on said list. The next morning, I began my daily ritual of turning on the Keurig, getting a bowl from the kitchen cabinet, getting cereal from a different kitchen cabinet and grabbing the carton of almond milk from the refrigerator. I grabbed the newly purchased almond milk, removed the safety seal and poured an amount over the waiting Honey Nut Cheerios in my bowl — just like I've done on countless mornings. I picked up the bowl and mug and headed upstairs for some classic TV reruns before I left for work. I plopped myself down on the sofa, flicked on the TV and put the first heaping spoonful of cereal in my mouth.

Something was..... off.

I looked in the bowl. Was the cereal stale? Had something gotten into it? Was this the same cereal I had yesterday... because it tasted okay then. Was the milk bad? Was it past its printed expiration date? I sniffed the bowl. I'm not sure was result I was expecting. I sure looked okay. I tasted it again. Yep. Still tasted... off.  I went downstairs to the kitchen to check the carton of almond milk. I bounded down the stairs. I opened refrigerator, removed the new carton of almond milk and examined the label. just under the word "almond" was the phrase "coconut blend." It was mocking me. I could vaguely hear that phrase laughing at me with the maniacal fervor of Cesar Romero's "Joker" from the classic Batman TV series. "HA! HA! HA! YOU CONSUMED COCONUT, YOU UNSUSPECTING FOOL!," it said, as I pictured Romero's lavender-gloved hands clapping with glee and his pancaked face grinning with malevolent accomplishment. And like a dejected Batman, whose arch-villain had just gotten the best of me, I silently fumed. I went back upstairs to — reluctantly — finish my breakfast.

That vile almond-coconut milk blend lasted about ten days. I was determined to use it up. Throwing it away would have been childish. I toughed it out. I hated it. Every minute of it. But I poured it over my cereal every day until the carton was empty. Every day, its repulsive taste of coconut ruined my cereal, filled my mouth and laughed like the Joker. But I was going to show coconut that I was the better man. And when the final drop of almond-coconut milk blend fell from the plastic spout into my bowl, I had won. It didn't kill me. It made me stronger.

And a little nauseous.

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