dig a little deeper

When my son was little, I would read to him every night before bedtime. I was a big fan of introducing him to classic children's stories and even those that were geared toward those a bit beyond his age group. But, — and this is not a brag — he was way more "on the ball" than a lot of his peers. I read Roald Dahl's lesser known works, as well as the original, non-Disney-fied, versions of the Winnie-the-Pooh stories. I also read the original Tales of Uncle Remus that white author Joel Chandler Harris collected and compiled in 1881. These are the stories upon which Disney based its notorious 1946 animated/live action musical amalgam Song of the South. However, in the version we had, the stories were ultra-sanitized versions of the post-Civil War folk tales. For most of the stories I read to my son, I made up and "performed" a number of funny voices for each character in the books. He loved those books and we read them often throughout his early years. Were they problematic? In hindsight, I suppose they were. 

If you are a regular reader of this stupid blog (and why would you be?), you know that I am an avid Disney fan. I have written about various trips to Disney theme parks and other Disney related anecdotes. I went to Walt Disney World for the first time with my friends just after I graduated from high school. We had such a good time that we returned again the next summer. (Actually, we were so drunk during our first trip, we went back to see what we missed the first time.) My wife and I went on our honeymoon in 1984. We went back again in '85 and ventured back one more time at the end of 1986, when Mrs. Pincus was pregnant with our son. After he was born, we put our Disney trips "on hold" for a while. Once we could no longer convince my son that The Disney Store in a nearby mall was "Disney World," we had no choice but to plan a family vacation to the central Florida resort... which we did in the summer of 1995. My son was so familiar with all things Disney that he was more prepared to experience the magic of Disney than any other guest — child or adult. Of course, everything was new to him, but there were plenty of attractions that had popped up since my wife and I were there almost a decade before. One of those was the elaborate "E-Ticket" experience called "Splash Mountain."

Splash Mountain has an interesting genesis. It started life as part of a massive project that never made it past the planning stages. When Walt Disney World opened in 1971, Imagineers (the guys who conceive and design the rides) decided not to build an east-coast version of the Pirates of the Caribbean ride, so popular in California's Disneyland. They didn't think a pirate-themed ride would interest Floridians, since so much "pirate lore" exists in and around Florida. Instead, they planned a sprawling experience that featured a cowboy-and-Indian themed boat ride (to pacify the "Pirates" fans) and a wild Western-themed roller coaster through a prairie town. The ride, christened "Thunder Mesa," was troublesome from the start. While still on the drawing board, its size and proposed technology was a logistic nightmare. It also promised to send its budget far beyond original limits. When guests started asking: "Hey! Where are the pirates?," Disney rethought their decision and scrapped the "Thunder Mesa" project. They turned to Imagineer Tony Baxter, who was brainstorming an attraction to fill out Disneyland's fairly sparse Critter Country. He came up with a variation of the standard "flume ride," so popular in other amusement parks. Tony's vision was to incorporate some of the Audio-Animatronic figures from the recently-shuttered America Sings and theme the whole thing to the film Song of the South. Although the Oscar-winning song from the film, "Zip-A-Dee-Doo-Dah," was a Disney staple, Song of the South was a strange choice on which to base a ride in the 1980s. It was not particularly popular and had only been re-released four times to lukewarm reception since its initial run in 1946. By the time construction on Splash Mountain began, Song of the South had completed what would be its final theatrical release three years earlier, amid growing controversy over the depiction of racial stereotypes. Nevertheless, Splash Mountain opened in Disneyland in 1989 and its Florida counterpart followed in 1992. From the very beginning, the ride was one of the most popular in its respective park. The Florida version clocks in a nearly 12 minutes as it takes guests on a whirlwind — and often wet — journey through the world of the villainous Brer Fox in his pursuit of the happy-go-lucky, mischievous Brer Rabbit. Hulking hapless Brer Bear, along with a cheerful menagerie of anthropomorphic swamp critters, entertain riders with a selection of tunes woven around the main "Zip-A-Dee-Doo-Dah" theme. At the ride's conclusion, riders often discuss their unfamiliarity with the songs and the characters, as the overwhelming majority of Disney guests have never seen Song of the South. Yet, for nearly thirty years, Splash Mountain boasts long lines and wait times upwards of an hour on any given day.

The first time I rode Splash Mountain, I loved it. It was both exciting and charming. I remember wishing that the ride moved a bit slower, because I think I missed a lot of the subtleties scattered throughout individual tableaus as the story unfolded. I even felt the same excitement the first time I conquered the smaller. leaner, slightly altered Disneyland version of the attraction. However, after riding both versions, I was uncomfortable in spending the rest of my day in damp clothes. Oh yes... you may get wet. Getting wet should only be the biggest issue with the ride. The hard truth is, just like the film that is its basis, Splash Mountain is fraught with derogatory imagery and mocking dialects that really have no business being glorified in a family-friendly theme park.

Just this week, in the wake of a long overdue awakening to racial injustice, racial inequality and old-fashioned prejudice, Disney has announced plans to re-theme Splash Mountain — ditching the racially-insensitive characters from Song of the South. The curently-unnamed attraction will feature characters and a story line from Disney's 49th animated full-length feature The Princess and the Frog, a 2009 release that was (mostly) praised for spotlighting Disney's first (and so far, only) African-American princess. Disney made the announcement on various social media and news outlets. Being the greatest marketers on the planet, Disney made no mention of reasons for the change and made no mention of the characters from the current Splash Mountain ride. The press release was purely forward-thinking, excitedly written and enthusiastic in its descriptive vision.

Disney has made numerous changes to their theme parks over the years. Some rides were changed or removed so quickly, you probably forgot they ever existed (The Tomorrowland Phantom Boats, a Disneyland "Opening Day" attraction, wasn't around to see its one year anniversary.) But die-hard Disney fans get very protective and very defensive when it comes to their most beloved rides at their theme park. And a ride being changed based on hurtful racial issues — acknowledged or not — does not sit well with a contingency of spoiled-rotten, uninformed, oblivious, insensitive, elitist, privileged white people that, unfortunately, make up a good chunk of Disney's fan base. 

I first saw the announcement on the official Disney Parks Blog, where the new, reimagined ride was lovingly described. It was accompanied by an artist's rendering, approximating a still-unrealized scene from the ride. The timeline for construction was vague, as Disney parks are currently closed due to the global COVID-19 pandemic, with tentative opening dates still "iffy" as new cases spring up every day. Disney's goal in making this announcement was two-fold. First, it needed to address the "elephant in the room," righting a wrong that should have been addressed years ago, but also to inject a bit of optimism into its current stagnating situation. The company hoped to evoke visions of bright, shiny new enticements on the sketchy horizon. The news was met with reaction, both favorable and disappointed. The favorable ones offered praise and excitement. The disappointed reactions were vicious, filled with selfish complaints, racist sentiment and indifference to the fact that more that just you visit Disney theme parks. Some cite their own love of the ride as a valid reason not to change it. Others dismiss any notion of offensiveness because it doesn't offend them. What these narrow-minded, self-appointed defenders of Disney forget is what Walt Disney, the man himself, said: "Disneyland will never be completed. It will continue to grow as long as there is imagination left in the world." He also said: "Times and conditions change so rapidly that we must keep our aim constantly focused on the future."

They also forget the current philosophy of the Disney Company — and that's the "cha-CHING!" of a cash register.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

every cop is a criminal and all the sinners saints

I really try to steer away from politics and controversial issues, but I will make an exception. The current climate of racial tension has weighed heavily on me. I know, I know, I'm an old white guy. I'm very aware of the fact that I have enjoyed "white privilege" my entire life. There are people who I know that have been the victim of systemic racism their entire lives. I understand that as best as I can, but I am still in the process of getting the education I didn't know I needed.

My dad

This country seems to be getting a long-overdue education as well. White people, who have made the rules and policies for years and years, are slowly discovering that their rules and policies suck. Some progress has been made over the past week. Some. Statues of revered Civil War luminaries and known slave owners have been toppled and even dumped in lakes in cities across the country. In my own city of Philadelphia, the reviled statue of racist mayor Frank Rizzo was spirited away under cover of night after protesters defaced it and demanded its removal. (My father, who passed away in 1993, was a huge fan of Frank Rizzo. He shared Rizzo's narrow-minded view of minorities and relished his public display of bias. My father was smitten when he saw the blustery Rizzo on a TV news report, attending a formal function with a night stick jammed into his cummerbund like a sword. If my dad was still alive today, I would most likely, not be on speaking terms with him.) It was a long time coming. Too long, as matter of fact. And there's still a long way to go.

The story I will relate here has stayed with me for years, but only now, do I understand that, under different circumstances, it would have resulted in a much different outcome.

In the early 80s, I was a student at a Philadelphia art school. My parents made it very clear to me that If I chose to further my education, I was on my own. They were not going to supplement any sort of tuition in any sort of way. So, to earn money, I worked at my cousin's health food restaurant, the same one where I met the woman who is now my wife (the esteemed Mrs. Pincus). Three evenings a week, I dished out food from behind the cafeteria-style set-up and made friendly chit-chat with the customers. At the end of the night, I'd lock the front door and, along with a co-worker, break down the steam table and cold foods, storing stuff that could be put out the next day for lunch and discarding the unsalvageable. Tony, my co-worker, would retire to the second-floor kitchen to wash the pots and utensils, to the accompaniment of some of the greatest music I ever heard. (Tony introduced me to the awesome sounds of The Sugar Hill Gang and Grandmaster Flash.) I would stay in the first-floor dining room, where I would stack the chairs on the tables, fill up a wheeled bucket with hot water and some kind of industrial cleaning agent, and mop the floor as quickly as I could, doing the shittiest job possible. (Hey, I wanted to get home!)

Over the few years that I worked at the restaurant, I got to know several of the neighborhood regulars, including the policeman whose "beat" was the two blocks that included our address. Every Wednesday, Thursday and Friday evening, the officer would pop in to the restaurant to say "Hello" or sometimes just give a friendly wave, as he made his way up Spring Garden Street. He'd patrol the north side, headed west, then, I suppose, he'd reverse at some point and return on the opposite side of the street. Sometimes, I'd only see him once a night. Sometimes, twice.

One Friday night, on a particularly humid summer evening, I was just finishing up the mopping. I opened the usually locked door to relieve the stuffiness as I completed the strenuous final task of my closing ritual. When I finished, I dragged the bucket towards the back door, carefully controlling the random splashes of dirty water. My destination was the parking lot behind the restaurant, where I would kick over the heavy bucket, spilling its contents along the cement gutter that ran around the perimeter of the lot. The bucket was awkward and required a few kicks until it landed on its side, releasing a flood of brown mop water. When it was completely empty, I grabbed the handle and guided it back through the back door and into the restaurant...

...where I was met by our police officer, with his gun drawn and his arms and legs locked in the "I mean business" Weaver shooting stance.

I froze. I'm surprised I didn't crap my pants. When the policeman recognized me, he relaxed his arms and slowly holstered his gun. He wiped his arm across his forehead and said, "I saw your front door wide open."

"I-I-I was dumping the mop bucket out back.," I somehow managed to stammer. 

I confirmed that everything was okay. He bid me a "good night." He descended the front steps and continued down the street. I watched from the door way for a while, as his figure disappeared and reappeared in the distance between street lights. And I caught my breath.

I'm sure, later that night, I told my parents or my girlfriend about the incident and we got a quick laugh. But, now that I reflect on it thirty-seven years later, I have come to the painful conclusion that — if I had been black — I would not be typing this story right now.

I'd be dead.

And that's wrong.

#blacklivesmatter

This link, highlighting black-owned business, was sent to me by a reader. Perhaps it will be a resource that you can use. I have not researched any of the businesses that are mentioned, I am merely posting this as a request. I do not endorse nor am I connected to any of these businesses. Thanks, JPiC

https://www.websiteplanet.com/blog/support-black-owned-businesses/

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

a hundred million miracles

I love watching old movie musicals. I can sit and watch most of them over and over again... and, for some, I have. I've lost count at around a zillion on viewings of Singing in the Rain. Same goes for Oklahoma! and Annie Get Your Gun (although I still wince at Betty Hutton's shrieking style of singing). If I am going to be honest, I have never been able to stay awake through the entire 153 minutes of West Side Story. 

I used to look forward to the annual Fourth of July showing of Yankee Doodle Dandy on Turner Classic Movies, but I haven't watched it in a while because I have a difficult time with the "blackface" scene. Sure, the TCM host will introduce the film with a solemn, almost apologetic, disclaimer, stating that it is "historical" and "a product of its time." As much as I love the movie, I would prefer that it never see the light of day again (along with Holiday Inn, Babes on Broadway and The Littlest Rebel for the same reason.).

Juanita Hall

Recently, I watched a musical that I had never seen before. It's Flower Drum Song, the 1961 Rogers & Hammerstein take on Asian culture, specifically Chinese traditions. In its initial release, as well as its broadcast on TCM, the film was touted as being the first Hollywood film with a majority Asian cast. Yes, there had been plenty of films with Asian themes, but all of the lead roles were played by white actors in heavy, so-called "yellowface," make-up, including all of the "Charlie Chan" and "Mr. Moto" detective series and the cringe-worthy Dragon Seed, a chronicle of the Second Sino-Japanese war starring (gulp!) Katherine Hepburn, Walter Huston and Agnes Moorehead. Flower Drum Song did, indeed, showcase an Asian cast for its story about a traditional Chinese arranged marriage and the "Americanization" of the culture. However, of its four main leads — James Shigeta, Miyoshi Umeki, Jack Soo and Nancy Kwan — only Kwan is of Chinese ancestry. While an "all Asian cast" was commendable, there was absolutely no regard for which specific Asian nationality the actors represented. The role of wise "Madame Liang," originated on Broadway by African-American actress Juanita Hall, was planned for Chinese-American actress Anna May Wong (possibly to make up for her been passed over for the lead in The Good Earth in favor of white actress Luise Rainer). Wong died suddenly before production began and the part was reprised by Hall. The rest of the supporting cast were Asian, but of a wide variety of Asian races.

Miyoshi Umeki and James Shigeta

The songs in Flower Drum Song are typical Rogers & Hammerstein fare. Where the songs in Oklahoma! focused on using every Western, cowboy and prairie reference the celebrated songwriting pair could muster, the songs in Flower Drum Song were fraught with condescending — and downright racist — lyrics that proliferated stereotypes, presenting its subjects as quaint, little curiosities as though in a circus sideshow. Don't get me wrong. The cast was terrific and the musical numbers — while uncomfortable on the surface — were executed beautifully. Nancy Kwan was stunning in her solo performance of the blatantly sexist and subservient "I Enjoy Being a Girl," although her modest singing voice was dubbed by the white B.J. Baker, who "sang" for "Wilma Flintstone" in The Flintstones. (My wife pointed out how this song seemed eerily similar to "How Lovely to Be a Woman," as sung by Ann-Margret in Bye Bye Birdie.) It was particularly difficult to watch her deliver the self-mocking lyrics of "Grant Avenue." Jack Soo was endlessly endearing as the hot-shot Chinatown club owner. His rendition of "Don't Marry Me" was delightful, despite the song's obligatory racist jabs. Miyoshi Umeki displayed a beautiful singing voice that was sadly hidden in her secondary role as "Mrs Livingston" on the hip 60s sitcom The Courtship of Eddie's Father. And poor, hunky James Shigeta. He was once told by a Hollywood agent that if he wasn't Asian, he would be a huge star.

I watched Flower Drum Song to the very end. It was very uneven. Lively and engaging in spots and monotonous in others. I was glad I finally got to see it, but because of the hurtful and exploitative treatment of its cast, I probably will not watch future showings. (And there will be future showings.) I was sad to learn that the next Hollywood movie featuring an "all Asian cast" was The Joy Luck Club, released 32 years after Flower Drum Song. 

Hollywood still has a lot to learn.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

baker street

See those bagels? Look good, huh? Well, they were. Very good, as a matter of fact. And my wife baked them from scratch. Here's how they came to be.

Ten weeks into this worldwide coronavirus quarantine, we are running out of things to do. We watched all the television shows. We watched all the movies. We went on all the walks. Every day. Every single day until the days began to run into each other, one indistinguishable from the next. 

In between these mundane and repetitious time killers, Mrs. P and I spend a good amount of time on social media... even when there is not a pandemic going on. Under the current circumstances, we find ourselves staring at small screens and large screens for long periods of time. I post my drawings and, lately, a succession of screenshots from old televisions shows featuring a well-known actor or actress in a very early role. (I figured I should put my excessive TV watching to some constructive use... if you call that constructive.) Mrs. Pincus checks Facebook to keep in touch, catch up and commiserate with friends. A few days ago (it may have been a week ago... or maybe a month), Mrs. P came across a simple recipe for bagels. At this point, it appears that everyone is baking some sort of bread or bread-type concoction. I see the pictures on Instagram. There are beautiful, rustic masterpieces of oven-browned works of art. Some have intricate designs etched into the outer crust. Others are deftly braided and glistening with an egg-washed shine. Then there are some that can only be identified as "bread" by the accompanying caption. 

Mrs. Pincus is an accomplished baker, turning out bakery-caliber specialties that have brought her regular praise at our annual "Night before Thanksgiving" dessert party. She mostly concentrates on baked goods of the sweet and dessert-y variety. The closest she comes to anything remotely bready is her renowned kamish broit, which is sort of a cookie biscotti... but not really. Kamish broit is sometimes called mandel broit or mandel loaf and it is a traditional Ashenaszi dessert with origins among Ukrainian peasants. Aside from flour, sugar, eggs and oil, additional ingredients can include almonds, walnuts or candied fruit. Mrs. Pincus loads hers with semisweet chocolate chips and they have been known to cause riots if there is not enough to go around.

Mrs. Pincus often gathers recipes that pique her interest, hoping to eventually make some a permanent addition to her repertoire. Baking bread has never interested her. She couldn't be bothered with yeast and proofing and rising and kneading and resting and all those other steps. (Yeah, I took the self-guided tour at the Boudin Sourdough Bakery attraction in Disney's California Adventure, so I know those terms have something to do with bread baking.) The bagel recipe, however, seemed to pride itself on being comprised of just five simple ingredients — flour, salt, baking power, Greek yogurt and eggs. Actually, since the eggs are just used for a topical egg wash, the number of actual "mixed-in" ingredients are reduced to four. All of the traditional methods associated with the age-old process of bagel-making are dispensed with! No yeast! No mixers with a dough hook attachment! No boiling! Mrs. Pincus was game.

Sunday afternoon, we gathered in the kitchen. Mrs. P allowed me to assist, an appointment that I took very seriously. In the two days in November that Mrs. P works tirelessly to crank out an overflowing table full of tempting desserts, no one is permitted in the  kitchen, lest they interrupt — or worse, get trampled — amid the baking ballet that my spouse has perfected.

I collected a canister of flour, a can of baking powder and a box of coarse salt from the cabinet. Mrs. Pincus extracted two eggs and a recently-purchased-just-for-the-occasion container of plain Greek yogurt from the refrigerator. She added a small pouch of sesame seeds and a shaker of "everything bagel" seasoning to our last grocery order. We were ready. A cup of flour was measured. Two teaspoons of baking powder were added. Three-quarters of a teaspoon of the coarse salt followed into the bowl. In a separate measuring cup, Mrs. P spooned a heaping spatula of Greek yogurt, adding small amounts until the level reached the "one cup" marking on the glass. While Mrs. Pincus blended these unlikely bread ingredients, I got my first on-the-job-training in cracking an egg. Following verbal instructions from my wife, I gingerly held the egg with the tips of my fingers and began awkwardly tapping it on the edge of the sink until a crack spread across its surface. I carefully pulled the crack wider until the yolk and cloudy albumen dropped into a waiting glass bowl. Then, with a fork, I whipped the yellow and white contents together and waited further instruction.

By now, the four ingredients in the mixing bowl had melded miraculously — and against all explanation — into a dead ringer for bread dough. Mrs. Pincus rolled a chunk of dough — by hand — into a rope and then attached each end to form a circle. She repeated this several more times until a greased baking sheet was evenly arranged with nine bagels awaiting their time in our oven. I brushed the top of each one with the beaten egg and then sprinkled them with bagel toppings — six with "everything" seasoning and three with sesame seeds only. 

After a twenty-five turn in the oven, Mrs. P donned a quilted mitt and withdrew a pan of golden bagels. They were beautiful little examples of baked nirvana (the blissful state, not the band.... unless your idea of bliss is Kurt Cobain's mournful growl, then, by all means....). She placed the baking sheet on our kitchen counter for the recommending cooling time. As the temperature dissipated, we marveled at the little round, sesame and poppy-topped comestibles. When a suitable cooling period has passed, my wife broke one of the bagels in half and handed me a piece. I popped it in my mouth. It was absolutely delicious! I am not just saying that because my wife baked it. It was sincerely delicious! It was on a level of any commercially-produced bagel I had ever eaten. Seriously! While we enjoyed outr first taste of their magical bready goodness, my wife quickly mixed up another batch and and placed them in the oven. I called my son to tell him how good they were. My wife put five on a plate to bring to her parents. Plans were already in the works for the next time these bagels would be made. We saved the remaining bagels to accompany our dinner over the next few nights.

After dinner, we settled in front of another screen — the television — to find something to watch for the evening. As per usual, we settled on something that would not need our undivided attention. Mrs. P scanned Facebook, proudly posting pictures of the bagels that she had baked, explaining that they only required five ingredients. Well, the internet being what it is, its never ending mission to outdo anything you may have just read, someone else posted a recipe that only uses two ingredients! How can this be possible? We were doubtful that bagels could be made with five ingredients considering that none of those ingredients were yeast! But, come on, two ingredients? This is nuts! Mrs. Pincus clicked the link and read on. Within a second or two, she emitted a disappointed exhale. It seemed the two ingredients are plain Greek yogurt and self-rising flour. And what exactly is self-rising flour? Why, it's flour that already contains salt and baking powder! Oh, the internet!

Anyway, here's the recipe that we followed. And, no, this has not become a baking blog.

Five Ingredient Bagels

Ingredients

1 cup (5 oz) unbleached all-purpose flour (whole wheat or gluten-free mix can be used)

2 teaspoons baking powder

3/4 teaspoon coarse salt (kosher salt)

1 cup non-fat Greek yogurt (not regular yogurt, but non-dairy Greek yogurt can be substituted)

1 egg white, beaten (a whole egg can be used)

optional toppings:

everything bagel seasoning, sesame seeds, poppy seeds, dried garlic flakes, dried onion flakes

Instructions

Preheat oven to 375°F. Place parchment paper on a baking sheet. Spray parchment with oil to avoid sticking. In a medium bowl, combine the flour, baking powder and salt and whisk well. Add the yogurt and mix with a fork or spatula until well combined, it will look like small crumbles. Lightly dust flour on a work surface and remove dough from the bowl, knead the dough a few times until dough is tacky, but not sticky, about 15 turns (it should not leave dough on your hand when you pull away). Divide into 4 equal balls. Roll each ball into 3/4-inch thick ropes and join the ends to form bagels. (or you can make a ball and poke a hole in the center then stretch it slightly) Top with egg wash and sprinkle both sides with seasoning of your choice. Bake on the top rack of the oven for 25 minutes. Let cool at least 15 minutes before cutting.  (We made smaller bagels and got nine out of this recipe.)

I guess we'll be churning our own butter next.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

face the face

Eight years ago, a friend of mine made a pitch for me to join Facebook. (I wrote about that HERE.) Instead of creating a hub to connect with all things in my past — most of which I spent the past thirty-plus years trying to avoid — I compromised and created a "fan page" on the ubiquitous social media platform. I used it as an additional outlet for my illustrations and my celebrity death obsession. I make daily celebrity death anniversary posts and regular links to my drawings on various subjects... but mostly deaths.... and the deaths of celebrities. (See a trend here?)

Last week, my Facebook Fan page got a bit wonky, to use a technical term. Suddenly, I was unable to access it at all. I began to make my daily postings on Twitter until I could figure out was the issue was.  I felt like I was feeling around in the dark, as Facebook is set up to be less than intuitive. After a couple of days of poking around, I found that I needed to activate a personal Facebook page in order to continue maintaining my Facebook Fan page. So, I did.... reluctantly. Very reluctantly. Once I activated my personal page, I was able to get to my Fan page again. With a few annoying adjustments, it is almost the same as it was prior to Facebook's unnecessary meddling. In an effort to head off any future, unannounced changes at Facebook, I began to accumulate "friends" on Facebook in case I have to make the full switch to "personal" Facebook. I began with those who currently "like" my Fan page. Then, I branched out to people who are "friends" with Mrs. Pincus. By this time, Facebook's algorithms kicked in. I was getting suggestions by the dozens, most of whom I did not know or those with whom I shared a single friend. I asked my wife: "Who's this?" She'd answer: "Oh, that's someone I knew from camp" or "That's that woman from synagogue." "I rode the bus with him in third grade." or "He's a friend of a guy who's a listener of the radio station our son works for." The more I questioned, the longer the explanations got. 

As I "connected" with more people, I began looking at the various posts to see what I was missing. Turns out, I wasn't missing anything. Facebook is a mess! A whiny, complain-y, self-absorbed, entitled mess, filled with narrow-minded, selfish opinions and an unyielding lack of compassion. Oh, and recipes.

Against my better judgement, I continued down this abyss until I hit an area that I really wanted to avoid — my past.

In the fall of 1980, I enrolled in a four-year art school in Philadelphia. This was over a year after I had graduated from high school and that "what should I do with my life?" portion of my youth seemed to be going unanswered. Eighteen months in the retail business made me realize the retail business was what I didn't want to do. I decided to expand on my childhood talent and pursue a career in the wonderful, magical and rewarding world of art. (After 35 years in the field, I have come to learn it is none of those things.)

The school that I chose offered no academic courses. That was the appeal for me, as I struggled with those subjects in high school. The curriculum was purely art and all aspects thereof. Due to its size (small), they only accepted 80 freshmen per year, most of whom would drop out before the fourth year. My class of 80 was whittled down to 43 graduates. I still cannot figure out how I lasted to the end, but I did. I was often frustrated and intimidated by the talent of my peers. I didn't think I would amount to anything, let alone make a living at being an artist. (Spoiler alert: I did.)

There were two classmates I remember. One was Zack. Zack was an asshole. He was a sullen, angry hulk who smoked like a chimney and belittled every single thing he saw — every person, every piece of artwork, everything. He was dismissive about every teacher, most of his classmates and the entire school as a whole. He wore the same torn flannel shirt everyday — frayed with the sleeves cut off. His hair was out-of-date long and his beard was unruly and in desperate need of a trim... and shampooing. Zack had few friends and didn't really want those.

Then there was Ray. Ray was a talented guy with a pleasant, easy manner. He had illustration skills way beyond his years. He also had an ego to match... maybe even surpassing his talents. I remember Ray standing up during a class and loudly announcing that he — and I quote — "had no competition." He didn't care that he was offending his classmates. He acted as though he was doing everyone a favor by identifying his superior talents and letting everyone know they were free to seek a career in another field. But Ray wasn't an asshole. He was personable and friendly — except when it came to his artwork. Sure, he had a very, very high opinion of himself, but he didn't appear to be mean.

After I graduated from art school — just like high school — I remained in regular touch with none of my classmates. None. (Actually, a few high school and art school classmates were at my wedding, just a few months after art school graduation, but within a year or two, I had completely lost touch with all of them.) Then, in 2009 — a full twenty-five years after I had finished art school — an informal and decidedly unofficial reunion was thrown together at a bar in Philadelphia, one that had been frequented by many a student on a regular basis. I actually found out about it by accident, although I don't remember the specifics. Anyway, I went... with a bit of trepidation. (I wrote about that HERE.) I was surprised, but I had a great time. I reconnected with a bunch of people that I had not seen in a quarter of a century. That was an entire lifetime ago.

In the close-packed crowd, I spotted and unfamiliar figure. A somewhat lean fellow with a shaved head. He extended a hand to shake. I sheepishly admitted that I could not place him. He smiled and revealed himself to be Zack. He was friendly and happy and — more important — he apologized for what an asshole he was in art school. He said he had done a lot of self-assessment and deeply regretted the way he behaved as a younger man. I laughed and we reminisced briefly. Soon, I ran into Ray. Ray was the same personable guy I remembered, although his enormous ego seemed to had deflated over the years. The bragging and chest-thumping I had anticipated didn't manifest. I don't even recall what Ray said he did for a living.

Flash forward to just a few days ago. I was sitting on the sofa, scrolling through my new personal Facebook page. I perused the lists of "suggested friends," dismissing the ones that didn't look familiar. I stumbled across a comment left on a post originally  made by a close art school friend. The post was political in nature and I saw that Ray had commented. Ray's comment expressed an angry, venomous, accusatory, racist right-wing opinion that caught me off-guard. I read it and re-read it until its full, uneducated, uninformed, narrow-minded, blind-follower sentiment was fully comprehended. I stopped myself before I hit the "Friend Request" button that I almost clicked just upon seeing his name. This is this the exact reason that I steered clear of Facebook for all these years. I wasn't interested in hearing, seeing or finding out things that I was perfectly fine never ever knowing. And, it turns out, Facebook is the place to find that stuff out.

However, I found Zack. We're friends now.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

world of a king

I am no fan of Stephen King. 

I have read a bunch of his books, though admittedly, not the really long ones. I read Carrie and The Shining and Gerald's Game and.... oh, I don't really remember all of them. What I do remember is that I was disappointed by almost every one of them. Stephen King is a terrific writer of the middles of stories. They are compelling and inventive. The writing is decidedly descriptive. One can almost picture the events unfolding on a movie screen.... which, I believe, is King's intention. The "meat" of King's tales are truly engrossing. However, he has a hard time wrapping things up and arriving at a satisfying ending — especially after such epic plot lines. After investing quite a bit of time reading King's indulgent, often intricate, novels, I have felt cheated by the so-called "pay-off" of most of them. (The one exception is Thinner, his 1984 book released under the "Richard Bachman" pseudonym.) 

My literary relationship with Stephen King ended when I completed The Regulators, which I read after finishing Desperation, its companion piece meant to be read at the same time. When I turned the final page of The Regulators, I closed the book, dropped it to the floor and sighed. It was then that I decided to never waste my time reading a Stephen King book ever again. That book should have ended at several different points, but it stretched on unnecessarily for countless pages of mystical back-story nonsense. I could wait to be through with it.... and with Stephen King. I decided right then and there, never to entertain another Stephen King-penned volume again. (Don't start recommending this book or that book... because I am not going to read them. I'm just not!)

Funny thing.... I enjoy some movies that are based on Stephen King books. I love The Shawshank Redemption (based on Rita Hayworth and The Shawshank Redemption, one of four novellas included in the 1982 collection Different Seasons), although the ending of the movie is way more satisfying as compared to the ambiguous conclusion of the original story. Stand By Me is another of my favorite Stephen King book-based films. (It, too, is based on The Body, a selection from Different Seasons.) Again, there are differences between the book and the movie. And, again, the film is more concise in its message. The majority of Stephen King movies are just as disappoint as their source material. (I won't include The Shining in this comparison, because they, essentially, tell two completely unrelated stories.)

Just this week I was scanning the offerings under the "horror" category on Netflix. After scrolling past countless, blood-splatters posters for obscure slasher films (I love horror movies. I hate slasher movies), I stumbled across a film called Horns starring Daniel Radcliffe. I like Daniel Radcliffe. My wife and I just binge-watched the TBS ensemble anthology comedy series Miracle Workers. The show was hilarious (Season two was better that season one) and Daniel Radcliffe was a delight. The synopsis for Horns looked intriguing, so I watched. It was tedious. It was a non-linear, overly — and unnecessarily — atmospheric mess. Radcliffe and the supporting cast (familiar screen faces like Kathleen Quinlan, Heather Graham, James Remar) were all good. Too good for the script. They all looked as though they were trying their best, but were being dragged down by the heavy-handed premise. At just a hair under two hours, I felt like I had invested an entire day into this disjointed adventure that couldn't decide what exactly it wanted to be.

Horns, I later discovered, was based on a highly-touted novel by one Joe Hill. Joe Hill — it turns out — is the nom de plume of Joseph Hillström King, the eldest son and middle child of Stephen King. And let me tell you... the poison apple doesn't fall far from the tree. I should have known immediately, as the entire set-up of Horns smacked of a Stephen King story. There was the close knit group of misfit friends depicted in flashback sequences. There was the camaraderie that can only be experienced in a small New England town. There were dark secrets of youth that smolder and eventually manifest to weigh heavy on the lives of the now-adult friends. There was an awful lot of slow-motion and unexplained, other-worldly manifestations. And there was plenty of gratuitous gore. It was the kids of It and the kids from The Body and the quirky formulaic townspeople of Derry, Maine all rolled together in Daddy's signature style. Did Joe rummage through the wastepaper basket by his father's desk looking for castoffs to crib for his own career?

Eh... what difference does it make. I was sucked in. But, as The Who once warned — I won't get fooled again.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

celluloid heroes

I have been watching Turner Classic Movies pretty much since its inception in 1994. On April 14 of that year, Turner Classic Movies (TCM) broadcast the 1939 epic Gone with the Wind as a fitting debut into the world of classic cinema. From that point forward, the cable channel has shown thousands of Hollywood's beloved films, as well as numerous examples of forgotten features. Of course, there are films that enjoy regular showings, based on perennial popularity and fan feedback. Stand-bys like Casablanca, Some Like It Hot and Citizen Kane are shown often. Very often. Popular actors are seen in some of their popular and less-than-popular films, offering viewers an interesting glimpse into the high and lows of a particular performer's career.

What is intriguing about TCM is how many young fans are regular watchers. Considering the overwhelming majority of the films they show are from before 1955, you'd think there would be exclusive appeal to those who are more than a few years into collecting Social Security. But that, apparently, is not true. There are an awful lot of fans that are many years my junior. (I am almost 59.) They are passionate about films that were produced when their grandparents were kids. They are enamored by actors who passed away decades before they entered kindergarten. 

As it gained popularity, TCM began to branch out. In 2010, the first annual TCM Film Festival was presented in Hollywood. The four-day event was hosted by Grauman's Chinese Theater and Grauman's Egyptian Theater, where some of the most-beloved of Hollywood's films were screened for attendees as though it was a religious service. The event drew more and more folks with each subsequent year. During each year's festivities, attendees were interviewed. They were usually dressed in some period clothing that reflected their favorite era of cinema. Twenty-somethings sporting styles that predated their parents presented an interesting, if not anachronistic picture. These fans gushed with delight as they spoke about movies — all movies — like they were their children. Not just the famous movies, but many obscure films starring long-forgotten actors. Actually,  it seemed like they loved every movie, as long as TCM deemed it "classic".... or at least "old."

I love movies and I love interesting tidbits about movies, but I wouldn't classify myself as a "film buff." There are a lot of famous movies that I haven't seen and there are a lot of famous movies that I have seen but don't like. And while I'm "true confessing," there are some very beloved actors that I don't care for at all. A majority of TCM devotees treat all movies from the so-called "Golden Age of Hollywood" as indisputably perfect and required viewing for everyone. And everyone must love each and every one of them.

Recently, I watched three movies on TCM. I came to these movies in different ways, including indirect recommendations and "why have I never seen this?" All three star famous actors, but not necessarily their most famous role. The first was The Hatchet Man, a 1932 pre-Hays Code film. The Hatchet Man is a cringe-worthy seventy-five minutes that shows Hollywood at its racist and demeaning best. It stars Edward G. Robinson, fresh from his star-making turn in the gangster tale Little Caesar. The cast also features 19-year-old Loretta Young and a slew of English actors. The problem is that The Hatchet Man is a story about the Chinese community in San Francisco. While there are plenty of Asian extras roaming the streets, all of the principal roles are played by non-Asian actors in exaggerated make-up and costuming, spouting lines peppered with alleged "ancient Chinese philosophies" in preposterous broken English. The film also features the uncredited Toshia Mori (who is Japanese) as Robinson's Chinese secretary. She is the lone Asian in the cast with a speaking part, albeit a small one. Unfortunately, she is the target of a remark that is both racist and misogynistic in the same sentence. The interesting, sometimes brutal, story sadly takes a backseat to the blatant bigotry. Hollywood viewed Asian culture as a mystic novelty, an attitude it was unable to shake until.... well.... never. I found this film difficult to watch. While the acting was good, the story was thin and clunky in its telling.

A few days later, I watched the 1949 classic film noir The Third Man. I had heard great things about this movie and I wondered why it took me so long to see it. The Third Man consistently shows up on many critic's "greatest" lists, topping the British Film Institute's list of the "Greatest British Film of All Time." That is a pretty big deal. The film stars craggy Joseph Cotton as an American writer who arrives in post-war Vienna to meet his friend, the mysterious Harry Lime. While ringing the bell at Lime's apartment, he is informed that his friend is dead. This unfolds in the first five minutes. A jarring set-up that lays the foundation for what promises to be a wild ride. It is not. It is standard cloak and dagger that has been parodied a zillion times. The action is packed with knowing glances, shadowy figures, two-timing allies and abrupt, unexplained and unnatural changes in personalities. Plus there's a surprise that you can see coming a mile away. Director Carol Reed was obviously influenced by German expressionists, as the cinematography copies The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari as though it was shot with a piece of carbon paper behind it. The "look" of the film seemed more important than the story. At the film's conclusion, I honestly felt cheated.

Finally, I watched Ace in the Hole, a 1951 gritty Kirk Douglas vehicle that was Billy Wilder's first foray as writer, producer and director. This film was a mess in its initial release. At the last minute, the studio changed the title to The Big Carnival without consulting Wilder. The advertising poster is very misleading in its depiction of Kirk Douglas being trapped and in danger. He is not. That is apparent almost immediately,  so that's not a spoiler. Just after its release, Wilder was sued by a screenwriter for plagiarism. All that.... and it bombed at the box office. The story is a none-too-flattering account of media sensationalism and manipulative greed. Douglas is slimy and arrogant and he chews up every last bit of scenery. Co-star Jan Sterling is a stereotypical Hollywood "dame," a one-dimensional, underdeveloped character just there for the men to bounce lines (and slaps) off of. The rest of the cast are stock characters — the unflinching newspaper publisher, the bright-eyed eager photographer, the dim-witted common people. Six years after this movie, screenwriter Budd Schulberg would pen A Face in the Crowd. It is a much better, much darker, much more subtle presentation of essentially the same concept. I actually fell asleep a few times while watching Ace in the Hole, but I found I really missed nothing. That speaks volumes in the way of film editing.

When I talk to people about movies, I am enthusiastic about the ones I like. But, I will recommended films only if I think a particular person will like a particular movie. I don't say "You'll like this!" just because I like it.. However, some TCM fans and those who fancy themselves "film buffs" seem to like every movie they see... even if they don't really like them. They just think they're supposed to like them. I won't criticize you if you don't like a film that I like. That doesn't mean the movie is bad. It just means that we don't share the same opinion on every movie. With that thought fresh in our minds...

Although I won't make any friends with this admission, I will continue my confession. Two of the films I alluded to earlier — Casablanca and Some Like It Hot — are not my favorites. I have watched them both and I don't like either one. I am not a fan of Marilyn Monroe or any of James Dean's movies either.

Oh and I've never seen any sequel to Rocky or The Godfather. Can we still be friends?

www.joshpincusiscrying.com