dance for me

Halloween is a-coming! Time to decorate your house with ghosts and cobwebs (unless that is your everyday décor). Time to purchase giant bags of candy — some to even give out to groups of trick-or-treaters that will come a-knocking at your front door on October 31. You'll probably buy another bag of candy — the good stuff — that you'll eat before the days of the month reach double digits. The Reeses cups are too good to give out. The freeloading neighborhood kids will have to be content with Tootsie Rolls and Dum-Dums lollipops. If they don't like it.... well, you get what you pay for. (I believe that Halloween can be used as a teaching moment.)

When I was a kid, Halloween was a marathon of candy collecting. I lived in a big neighborhood with lots and lots of houses. Word would quickly spread through the groups of costumed children prowling the streets about a house that was handing out full-size Hershey bars. An apple received in good faith from some out-of-touch, childless old person would invariably be quickly returned via an impromptu Sandy Koufax imitation. Some years, I would stop back at my house to drop off my accumulated haul and to pick up a fresh pillow case that served as my collection bag. I could get enough candy to last nearly 'til Thanksgiving, with only a few unwanted Mary Janes and Bit O' Honey gracing the bottom of the bag.

When I grew up, got married and moved into my own house in the Philadelphia suburbs, Halloween was always active, but never as jam-packed or as busy as the Halloweens of my youth. When my son was little, we would only walk as far as the end of out block. He was usually too anxious to return to our house and see all the other kids' costumes. He figured that he could get candy from his parents anytime he wanted — and he was right.

Just after we moved in to our house and for several years following, we would recognize some of the kids who would come trick-or-treating at our house. And there was this one girl...  

Groups of kids would make their way up our front walk via a narrow paved path that stretches from the sidewalk to our front porch. Their parents, or the elected adult tasked with guiding them around for the evening, would wait on the sidewalk during the candy transaction taking place on our porch. Every year, a particular mom and dad would proudly present their precocious daughter for our entertainment pleasure. They'd help her climb the stairs to the "performance" area of our porch and prod her to amuse us with a little, choreographed dance routine, the result of countless hours of  afterschool and weekend practice. Decked out in a sequined and sparkly, but unrecognizable costume and a pair of shiny black tap shoes, this little girl would "5-6-7-8" her way into local Halloween immortality. Her parents would stand alongside of one of the stone support columns of our porch while this diminutive Shirley Temple wannabe kicked and tapped and buck-&-winged for a good three minutes. A good long three minutes. After the big finish and a loud round of applause from mom and dad, she'd stick her plastic pumpkin out for some sugar-spiked, chocolate-covered compensation. We'd oblige. The little girl would courtesy, just the way she was taught in dancing school, pirouette and descend the steps to the front walkway. Mrs. Pincus and I would, of course, scratch our heads and wonder what in the world we just witnessed.

This was an annual performance... until it wasn't.

In the over thirty years we have lived in our house, the amount of trick-or-treaters has slowly diminished. Kids grew up. Families moved away and the residents of the neighborhood got older. Some years, no more than five costumed kids have come begging for sweets.

I like to think that our yearly entertainer is probably knocking 'em dead on Broadway. For candy.

Or, perhaps, she's writing a letter to Dad-dy....

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

i want candy

Halloween is coming. I like Halloween. Yeah, there are not many holidays that I like, but I do like Halloween. When my son was little (he's 36), I loved thinking up costume ideas and then creating and assembling said costumes on Halloween night. I liked taking him around the neighborhood and then returning to our house to greet trick or treaters, see their far-less-imaginative costumes and reward them with candy for their efforts. My wife and I would decorate our house with elaborate accoutrements we had accumulated over the years, a collection that rivaled some family's Christmas decorations. As the years went on, though, and my son grew up and moved to his own house, Halloween has become less exciting. We don't decorate as much. (Some years, not at all.) We get fewer and fewer takers for free candy. Those that do venture out are finished knocking on doors and ringing door bells by the time the sun has set. The fun of Halloween has waned.

Mrs. Pincus and I got married in the summer of 1984. We moved into a two-story townhouse in Northeast Philadelphia just after our honeymoon. This is where we celebrated our first Halloween as a married couple. We had noticed a lot of young kids at the apartment complex where were lived and figured that — come Halloween — we had better stock up with plenty of giveaways.

Northeast Philadelphia is fertile ground for strip shopping centers. There were several right near our house. During the summer, we saw a new concept store open up in one of the nearby strip centers. It was a store called Barrel Grocer and they sold their various wares in bulk. The store was outfitted with aisles and aisles of barrels from which shoppers could fill a bag with bulk flour or nuts or Hershey Kisses, weigh the selected amount and (theoretically) save big. It was a novel idea, but I don't think the savings were nearly worth the effort. Supermarket prices were still cheaper and their established system was really more convenient. But, Barrel Grocer was a fun place to shop. While strolling among the barrels one day, I thought of a funny idea and I laughed to myself. I presented it to Mrs. P and she was totally on board. I decided that, instead of giving out candy for Halloween, we should give out packets of ketchup and mustard and jelly, like you would get at a fast food restaurant. These were all readily available in bulk at Barrel Grocer. I thought: "Would kids complain?" Probably not, and especially not if they can't see what we're putting in their trick-or-treat bags. Then we thought of these kids coming home at the end of the night, dumping their bags on the kitchen table and spotting ketchup and jelly packet among their Snickers bars and Reese's cups. Mom and Dad would scratch their heads, look at each other, then silently mouth: "Who the fuck gave out ketchup and mustard packs?" The answer, of course, would be "WE" the fuck did and we laughed again at the mental picture.

But instead of dismissing a funny idea, we went ahead with our plan. We filled a bunch of bags with ketchup packets and mustard packets and jelly packets (two different flavors) and even honey packets. We brought our twisty-secured plastic bags up the the cashier, laughing all the way. We laughed on our drive home. We laughed as we lined the bags up on our small kitchen counter and waited for Halloween.

Halloween 1984 arrived with pleasant weather. It was nice enough that we were able to leave our front door open as we watched the parade of kids make their way up and down the little walkways that led to each individual apartment. When the various faux witches and ghosts and clowns and superhero du jour approached with various configurations of bags extended at arms length, we were ready. As each costumed child exclaimed "Trick or treat" in their excited and shrill little voices, I reached deep into an opaque brown paper grocery bag that handily concealed what The Pincuses were giving away. I extracted a fistful of condiment packets and, under the cloak of the descending darkness, reached deep into the depth of the trick-or-treat bags to deposit our "treat." The children narrowed their little eyes and craned their little necks to catch a telling glimpse of what sort of unknown treat this guy (me) was giving out. A few kids poked around in their bags as they shuffled off. Others flat out asked us what we were giving, to which we evasively replied: "It's a surprise."

Mrs. Pincus and I (mostly me) had a hard time containing our laughter with each innocent trick-or-treater. As the night went on, however, I remember a pair of costumed kiddies pointedly ask "What was that?" as they got a fleeting peep at one of the packets being dropped in their bag. Mrs. Pincus, who as we have already established is waaaay nicer that I am, just answered. "It's jelly" and stepped back slightly, awaiting a reaction. The two kids looked at each other, looked down at their bags and looked at my wife. Then they turned on their heels and enthusiastically shrieked "WE GOT JELLY!!!!," as they skipped off towards their parents who were waiting at the end of the walkway. It was priceless.

I'm sure we ruined Halloween for a lot of children that night. But two — in particular — had jelly with their breakfast on the morning of November 1st and were excited about it.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

doing alright

In 1982, two great things happened. I met the woman who would eventually become the illustrious Mrs. Pincus, and Chipwich — the beloved chocolate chip cookie ice cream sandwich — was introduced to the world via vending carts on city streets.

I loved Chipwiches, from the very moment I purchased and gobbled one down. They were ingenious and I often wondered why no one thought up the concept prior to 1978. After all, ice cream had been around since the 17th century and, when Ruth Wakefield pulled that first batch of chocolate chip cookies out of her oven at the Toll House, why wasn't her immediate inclination to put a scoop of ice cream between two of 'em? Nevertheless, Richard LaMotta of Chappaqua, NY, inspired by his love of dunking chocolate chip cookies in milk, devised the Chipwich. His rag-tag squad of street vendors — clad in khakis and pith helmets — sold their frozen wares out daily... even at a then pricey $1.00 each. One of those vendors, with his retro-cool cart, stocked with Chipwiches, was a regular fixture on Philadelphia's famed South Street, a frequent haunt of the future Mrs. P and myself in our early, carefree dating days. Just into our official "adulthood," our lives were filled with movies and music and the pursuit of fun — all of which were readily available on South Street. And our pursuit always had room for a Chipwich.

On a sunny Saturday afternoon, (future) Mrs. P and I strolled up South Street. As we approached our favorite Chipwich vendor — a typical 80s kid with multiple earrings and bleached blond-and-pink hair trying to make a buck — I spotted a new addition to his mobile establishment. Suspended from the metal ribs of his Chipwich-logoed umbrella was a hand-written sign that read "Rock and Roll Trivia." My curiosity was instantly piqued. I fancied myself an aficionado of trivia, especially in topics with which I was very familiar and rock & roll were two of them. Plus, at a Chipwich cart, I could only imagine what the prize would be. I was game. And hungry. I asked our intrepid vendor "What's this?" as I poked an extended finger in the direction of his sign. He smiled and laid down the simple rules of his probably-unauthorized contest. "I'll ask you three questions about your favorite band. If you can answer all three right... dude... you get a free Chipwich. Simple as that! Wanna play?"

He had me at "free Chipwich."

"I get to pick the band, right?," I confirmed. He assured me that was the case. Without even any consideration, I chose Queen, a band I had loved since I heard "Killer Queen" wafting from my AM radio back when I was in 8th grade. The Chipwich vendor smiled and rubbed his palms together in a close approximation of a cartoon villain. I could almost visualize the wheels spinning in his head as he formed the first of my three questions.

"What was Brian May's first guitar made of?," he asked, and stared at me as he waited for — and anticipated — a wrong answer.

If you are a regular reader of this blog, you know that my feelings for Queen's guitarist have changed considerably since the passing of Freddie Mercury in 1991. With the flamboyant frontman out of the way, May has morphed from a silent maestro of the six-string into an outspoken, self-appointed and self-important mouthpiece of a (in my opinion) now-defunct band whose musical output is at the licensing beck-and-call of Brian May's monetarily-driven whims. But, in 1982, I was still on "Team Brian" and he was okay in my book. I made it my top priority to know everything there was to know about Queen — its germination, its members, its songs, everything! And — goddamn! — if I didn't know what Brian May's first guitar was made of!

I looked the Chipwich vendor right in the eye, puffed out my chest and proudly said, "Brian May built his first guitar from some wood from a fireplace mantle and parts of an old chair."

The Chipwich vendor's jaw dropped. "What?," he exclaimed, "No one knows that!" He reached into the frigid bowels of his cart and extracted a cellophane-sheathed Chipwich, its wrapper flecked with sparkly bits of ice. "I'm just gonna give you the Chipwich, man. I'm not even gonna bother with any more questions. No one knows that guitar one!"

I began to unwrap the frozen, chocolate chip-appointed spoils of my victory. As I reached for a napkin from the conveniently placed chrome dispenser, I casually asked the Chipwich vendor, "Just out of curiosity, what was the second question going to be?" The Chipwich vendor grabbed a rag and wiped up a few errant drips of ice that were now liquefied on the hot chrome lid of his cart. "I was going to ask 'How many synthesizers were played on Roger Taylor's first solo album?'" 

There was a long-running statement/inside joke included in the credits of every Queen album release. At the end of a long list of studio personnel and an enumeration of the various musical instruments and recording techniques employed by the band, they were adamant about letting the world know that not a single synthesizer was used to achieve any of the unusual sounds the listener heard. Sometimes varying in its wording — no synthesizers, nobody played synthesizer, no synths!  — the sentiment was always the same. Drummer Roger Taylor, the first member of Queen to release a solo album, included the smart-alecky line "P.P.S. 157 synthesizers" at the end of the liner notes of his "Fun In Space" debut in 1981. At the time, however, I did not own this album. Ergo, I did not know the answer to the second question.

I finished that Chipwich as fast as I could.

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

something stupid

Philadelphia is famous for a lot of things. At the top of that list is, without a doubt, the Liberty Bell. Then there's.... um.... ah..... did I say the Liberty Bell already? Well, Philadelphia is also known for its indigenous foods, like cheese steaks, soft pretzels, hoagies and — the City of Brotherly Love's best kept secret — water ice (or as we enunciation-challenged Philadelphians pronounce it: "wooder ice").

This curiously-named hometown favorite, for those unfamiliar with the frozen concoction, falls somewhere between a sno-cone and a Slurpee. But not quite. It is usually eaten with a spoon, or as true Philadelphians know, a pretzel. Most of Philadelphia's numerous neighborhoods have a single-location vendor that sells water ice to its loyal citizens. Each neighborhood is fiercely proud, even snobbishly partial, to its own purveyor of the icy summer treat. While water ice (sometimes called "Italian ice," but never in Philadelphia) dates back to the nineteenth century, Bob Tumolo, a former firefighter opened up a small water ice stand called "Rita's" (named after his wife) in the Philadelphia suburb of Bensalem in the summer of 1984. Soon, his product's popularity allowed him to open three more locations and, eventually, he began franchising his business. Today, Bob's vision boasts over 600 locations, spreading the one-time Philadelphia exclusive to a nationwide audience. Despite its current corporate status, Rita's is still pretty popular among local residents. 

My wife numbers herself among those in Rita's customer base. A longtime water ice aficionado (and purist), she will only order "chocolate" when given the choices available on Rita's extensive menu, in spite of such tempting flavors as "tangerine," "kiwi strawberry" and "cotton candy." She subscribes to Rita's "special offers" via their smartphone app and receives coupons and discounts throughout the summer months. Recently, Mrs. P was emailed a coupon for a free regular-size water ice in celebration of... well, something like the first day of spring or the end of winter of some other made-up occasion. Bottom line: free water ice awaited. 

Simple enough.

We drove over to our neighborhood Rita's and I hopped out of the car with the printed coupon in my hand. I descended the few steps to the line of order windows and a smiling young lady appeared in one of the open frames.

"Hi!," she welcomed, "Can I help you?" Friendly enough. I presented my coupon and said, "I'd like a regular size chocolate with a lid on the cup, please." The coupon itself was short on words, just the necessary verbiage to instruct the employee that this piece of paper was to be exchanged for a regular-size water ice in a flavor of the customer's choosing. As a matter of fact, the phrase "Free Regular Ice" were the largest words on the thing, dwarfing the remaining line — "in the available flavor of your choice" — by several dozen point sizes. The counter girl read the coupon, smiled again and asked, "What size? Regular or large?"

I slowly replied, "Regular, please." I gestured towards the coupon in her hand. "I believe the coupon is good for a regular size." She looked at the coupon in her hand. "Oh. Right." She wandered off to the large freezer that houses the supply of water ice to fill my simple order.

Soon, she returned. She placed the chocolate ice-filled cup on the counter, its contents held neatly in place with a plastic lid snapped tightly to the waxed paper rim. "Would you like a lid?," the young lady asked. I looked at the lid firmly attached to the cup. She looked at the lid firmly attached to the cup. "Oh. Right.," she said, with no inflection, "I mean would you like a spoon?"

"No thank you." I said. I grabbed the frozen cup and headed for the car.

A week or so later, Mrs. P got another coupon for a free regular-sized water ice, this time for her birthday. We followed the exact same routine. When we arrived at Rita's, the same counter girl was waiting.

Lid? 

"Hi!," she welcomed, "Can I help you?" I presented my coupon and said, "I'd like a regular size chocolate with a lid on the cup, please." Just as she had asked before, she asked again: "What size? Regular or large?" I replied, just like I did before: "Regular, please." I gestured towards the coupon that I had just handed to her. "I believe the coupon is good for a regular size." She looked at the coupon, this one as simply worded as the previous one. "Oh. Right." She wandered off to fill my order. When she returned, the cup displayed a large, rounded mound of chocolate water ice rising nearly a full inch above the rim. The counter girl jammed a long, plastic spoon into the surface of the ice, sinking it deep into its cold center. The chances of getting my requested lid on this thing were slim. I didn't even bother to ask. "Would you like a spoon?," she asked before interrupting herself  with an "oh" when it registered in her brain that she had already provided a spoon. She offered a monotone "Thank you" and disappeared back into the employee work area. 

When I returned to the car, my wife was obviously about to ask about the lid. I stopped her with a stream of disgusted muttering under my breath. "No lid!," I spat, "A spoon that I didn't ask for, but no lid." Mrs. P laughed, shrugged her shoulders and took a big lick of water ice.

I guess that's the important part.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com